Page 38 of Saint
She caught Emilia’s gaze, amused. “I’m Tansy.” She gave Saint a look-over next. “Saint, you look half starved, as always.”
He didn’t answer, sinking down into one of the chairs at the end of the table. Bowls and plates made of a red clay were set out neatly before short glasses. At the center of the table were two bottles of rye. They looked like the same ones Saint carried on his ship.
The warmth of the fire touched my cold hands, making me curl my fingers into my palms. The house was a home in every sense of the word, but not like any I’d ever known. It was the kind I saw sketched into the pages of fairy tales my father used to read to me. Mice that lived in tiny cottages filled with firelight or fairies that dwelled in star-shaped hovels by the sea. The memory immediately made me swallow hard, a sting lighting behind my eyes.
Tansy made her way around the table, scooping heaping ladles of stew into the bowls, and I took the seat across from Saint. Emilia sat beside him, unbuttoning the collar of her shirt and pulling it open to the air. She was beautiful and rough, the sun baked into her skin and hair like a glaze.
She looked amused when she caught me staring at her. “Bread, Tansy.”
The girl scurried back into the small kitchen before returning with a floured loaf. As soon as she set it down, hands were reaching for it.
“And where’s Clove?” Perrie asked.
“Made a stop at the merchant’s house. He’ll be here.”
“The merchant’s house,” Emilia said, as if to herself. “Does that mean you’ve got that license you haven’t shut up about for the last year?”
“Not exactly.”
“Hmm.” She reached for her knife, dipping it into the plate of butter. “I see. Pretty risky trading in the merchant’s house without one, don’t you think?”
I watched the look that passed between them. I didn’t know what kind of person found fault with unsanctioned trade but didn’t blink an eye at pinning a man’s hand to a counter with a blade. This woman was a creature cut from the same cloth as Saint and Clove. Riddles with unspoken rules not easily solved.
“It’s coming.”
“I see.” Emilia didn’t look convinced. In fact, it almost seemed like she was intentionally provoking him.
Saint didn’t seem bothered by it. “Any day now.”
“You’ve been saying that for months. I have a warehouse full of rye I could sell to any of those bastard traders in Sowan. But I’m sitting on it for you.”
“Manners, Emilia,” Perrie chided.
She arched an eyebrow at me. “An uncle who thinks he’s my father,” she muttered.
Perrie only smiled wider.
She leveled her gaze at him before it drifted to me again. “And where did they find you?”
Tansy sat down beside me, hiking up her skirts to cross her legs. She looked delighted by the interrogation, a thin smile playing on her lips.
“Dern,” I answered, filling my spoon with the broth. I resisted the urge to sip it from the edge, instead putting the whole spoon in my mouth like the people in the tavern did.
Emilia frowned. “Dern, huh? How’d you come by that Saltblood accent then?”
“I’m from Bastian.” I answered the question she was really asking, which I should have done in the first place. She didn’t strike me as someone who accepted half truths.
“Trading at the merchant’s house, taking on Saltbloods…” Emilia’s eyes cut back to Saint. “You’ve been busy.”
“Any decent crew has a dredger,” he said, not looking at me.
“Oh, you’re adecentcrew now.” Emilia stifled a laugh.
Tansy, on the other hand, didn’t even try to hide it. But the sound was lost to a mouth full of stew, and Perrie followed.
It wasn’t what I’d expected when Saint said that he was stopping to meet the rye crofter. This wasn’t just business around this table. It was history. Friendship, even.
The knock of boots sounded on the steps outside and every face turned to the door before it opened to the night air. Clove appeared against the dark sky, blond hair swept to one side. His arm was cradled around the small frame of a curly-headed girl no bigger than five or six years old.
