Page 61 of Rears & Vices

Vitaliy shrugged. “You are pleased?”

“Of course,” Everard said hastily. “It’s wonderful. Thank you. It’s just I’ve never owned such a thing before.” Or anything. “And—where are we to put it?”

Vitaliy drew back. “Put it?”

“You said you’d wanted it built… Where had you in mind?” Inspiration struck. A floating castle… “Aboard the ship? Oh—the greatcabin? The parlour? Large enough, surely. Gad, but do you think it might need some sort of gimbal?”

There was a long pause before Vitaliy replied, slowly, “Built… at whichever destination you chose.”

An equally long pause, as Everard’s pleased, sea-sparkle feeling faded, in favor of confusion. “Destination?” he asked. “Is there one in mind?”

In his mind, he hadn’t much thought beyond the load and unload in Haïti. If he had, he might have imagined a perpetual loop of the Indies, doing pirate things like hunting Spanish men-o’-war and Portuguese merchantmen, endless sun and sail.

Vitaliy, too, had two deep lines of confusion between his brows. He looked uncomfortable. “Wherever you like. We will meet with the Vuelte—she will go on to Philadelphia. Enemistad will call in Boston…”

He trailed off. Everard was silent.

“I have a house there,” Vitaliy said abruptly. “Philadelphia. Which is now yours, legally. Two stories, brick-built, in town… I don’t have slaves—if you stay ashore, the Crown is unlikely to reach you⁠—”

“I don’t want…” Everard’s reaction was visceral, gut-borne. Nausea. Not only did Everard generally not do well with long stretches on land, but… a house? Property?

“It would be simple to convert it to a printshop... hire help… You would be well needed,” Vitaliy finished. “Necessary, in fact. You could be wealthy, not even including what I will send you.”

At a loss, Everard stooped to retrieve the nails he’d scattered. He shouldn’t have been so hasty, should have counted and bagged them. The carpenter would not thank him for leaving them.

Needed. Necessary. Kept, kept, kept.

With anger-fueled strength, he heaved the crate cover back over the Stanhope, one-handed, before Vitaliy could attempt assistance. Everard could not, however, accurately hold a nail with his left thumb and knuckles—nor switch hands and grip the hammer well enough to pound straight.

He stood there for a moment, with the nails in two useless palms.

“I don’t want a house,” Everard said. “Or a printshop. Or”—he made a face—“wealth. I’ve already a ship—half a ship…” He trailed off, as Vitaliy looked mildly horrified. “Yes? Or was I completely mistaken?”

“No,” Vitaliy said quickly. “Yes, I mean… no. The Sévère is… I don’t own her. We don’t,” he corrected. “The crew owns her, piecemeal. They decide her leadership. But I would have too much stake in it if I were her owner. No crew would agree to keep me as her captain if I did, not when half are joiners late off greedy merchantman. I thought you knew this. Would know this.”

You should know better.

Everard truly didn’t know anything at all, did he?

He placed the nails atop the crate, a neat little pile of iron. He faced Vitaliy, who was stoic but for a hint of wariness.

“Then I thank you. But this”—Everard swallowed down more anger—“press is not a gift. It’s employment.”

Vitaliy stepped forward. “It is⁠—”

“Would you oblige me to print whatever I liked, or only certain truths? Advertisements? Cartoons?”

“I would not control⁠—”

“And what else might be included in this shore arrangement?” Everard whispered harshly. “Hmm? Shall I be shoved over to one side of the bed upon every instance of your being at port? A shore wife?”

Vitaliy sucked his pink, spice-swollen lower lip beneath the other, let it go even redder. His eyes had narrowed. “That is not what I had in mind, but your disdain is showing quite clear.”

“Oh, indeed? Perhaps you had need of one? It won’t be me.”

Now Vitaliy’s eyes widened. “You demean women⁠—”

“I’m not demeaning nothing, sir⁠—”