Page 52 of Saint
The Narrows
Every inch of the shoreline was drawn in a precise, detailed rendering. It wasn’t complete yet, but I’d never seen a map of the Narrows before. Not like this. Even the ones that Zola had given me were just crude charts with rough estimations and no attempt at accurate distance.
The hue of blue paint used for the sea darkened with what I assumed was depth, and the tangle of reefs set in its center was labeled Tempest Snare. I remembered it from the charts Zola had shown me. The graveyard of ships that the sea claimed for its own.
I eyed the inkpots in the tray to the left of the desk. The brushes and quills. The purse of fine sand used to dry the parchment. They were mapmakers’ tools.
Saint was making a map of the Narrows. This washiswork.
“I thought you Saltbloods were all manners and decorum.” His voice cut the silence, making my eyes snap up to the door.
I let the edge of the map go and it curled, rolling in on itself as I saw Saint standing in the passageway, watching me. As if that threshold were some kind of boundary between us.
“It’s rude to go through someone’s things without permission,” he said.
If that was all the reproach he would give me, I’d be lucky. But something in him had softened since we’d left Sowan. Like the edges of him had been worn down.
I gestured to the inkpots. “It’s good work. Very good.”
He reluctantly stepped inside, ducking beneath the beam overhead before coming around the desk. He took up the map, rolling it carefully.
“Where did you learn how to do that?”
“My father.”
The tenderness in his voice when he answered made me still, and though there wasn’t even the slightest hesitation on his lips, he didn’t look at me when he said it.
“He was a mapmaker?”
“A fisherman.”
He didn’t offer anything more, and I didn’t press. I’d never heard of a simple fisherman who had a skill like that.
He returned the map to its case, reaching over me to hang it back on the wall, and I found myself inhaling deeper the closer he was to me. I could feel the warmth of sunlight coming off of his skin and the memory of him last night inthe storm, holding onto me as the squall crashed down onto theRiven,resurfaced.
I let my gaze fall to his chest. His hands. The meager strip of cloth that was usually tied there was gone, but the blood that had seeped through his fingers was still dried over the knuckles.
“Why do you do it?” I asked. “The storms.”
He didn’t answer my question this time. Instead, he turned his attention to the desk, closing the ledger.
“I thought we were going to die last night,” I pressed.
“Well, we didn’t.”
“We could have.”
“Anyone could die at any time.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant that as a reason. It was just as likely that he had nothing to live for. I glanced again to the map case on the wall. The notice from the Trade Council that still sat on the desk. The ledger. For someone with a death wish, he sure had a lot of plans.
He fell quiet again. I was beginning to understand that silence was his preferred method of communication. He dealt in the unspoken moments. The quiet in-betweens. But there was something about the helmsman that reminded me of gemstone. Like even when he wasn’t speaking, I could still hear, or feel, something in the center of my chest.
“It’s smart, you know,” I said, eyes flitting to the ledger again. “Saving up the coin in small trades and paying a little at a time. Makes everyone believe you’re just scraping by.”
Saint nearly laughed, surprising me. “Wearescraping by.”
I stared at him, deciding whether I wanted him to know just how many pieces I’d fit together. “But this isn’t the ship that will bear that new trader’s crest, is it?”
