Page 47 of Saint
He should have been right. The only problem either of us had was each other. That was how we’d always done things and that way of life had kept us both alive. But something about it didn’t feel true anymore.
18ISOLDE
“Isolde.”
My name drifted in the darkness, soft and close, but the sound was muddled by something else. The slosh of water. The slip of wind in the passageway. I turned my face into the damp fabric of the hammock, pulling a deep breath into my chest.
“Isolde.”
I opened my eyes and Saint’s silhouette hovered over me in the dark crew’s cabin. For a moment, his voice filled the air, the murky threads of thought spinning in my mind.
“Storm,” he said. “We need you on the deck.”
I blinked, finding my feet beneath me as I sat up, and tried to shake the lingering sleep from my mind. I was still between worlds, wondering if I’d heard him right. Wondering if he was even really there, close enough to reach out and touch.
“Are we headed to port, then?” I asked.
“No,” he answered, waiting for me to stand.
I did, arms lifting around me to keep my balance as the floor shifted under my boots and I realized the ship was tilting against a swell. Across the small room, the door hit the wall before it righted again.
But if we weren’t headed to port, then we were going to ride it out.
I blinked again, waiting for some kind of explanation, but Saint didn’t offer one. He kicked the trunk in the corner, checking to see that it was secured before he caught the door with his hand and held it open for me. “Come on.”
It was only when I stepped into the passageway that I smelled the rain. The sweet, earth-churned scent lit in my nose, climbing down into my lungs. With it, the flash of light coming from the deck, the movement of the ship, it all came into focus, waking me up.
I followed Saint’s shape in the dark and the ship rocked again as the wind barreled into the portside. I caught myself with both hands pressed to the walls before I reached the ladder. Behind us, the doors to the cargo hold and the supply room were shut and locked, and before I’d even made it out of the hull, I could hear Nash cursing.
I turned my face from the wind and rain as I pulled myself up, ducking beneath the overhang where Saint was waiting. His clothes were already wet through, his skin pale in the darkness.
“We still have time!” Nash shouted from the bow, givingthe coil of rope in his hands a firm yank. “We can make it to shore!”
“No, we can’t” was Saint’s only answer.
A trail of fresh blood dripped from his wrist, almost wiped clean by the spray of seawater in the air. At some point since I’d gone to bed, the wound in his hand had torn back open. Looking at the sea now, I wasn’t sure how I’d even managed to stay asleep belowdecks. But the darkest of the sky wasn’t behind us, or even overhead. This was just the beginning of the storm, and it was an angry one.
My eyes fixed on the feeble sails at the top of the masts. Every time the lightning flashed, it illuminated the tattered labyrinth of seams. My stomach dropped at the sight. But beside Saint, Clove was showing no trace of concern. He looked at ease, like the helmsman.
“Nash is right,” I said. “We should head for shore.”
Another flash of lightning lit one side of Saint’s expressionless face. He’d already given his answer. He wouldn’t give it again.
I looked between him and Clove, searching for any hint of fear in their eyes. But this was what the helmsman of theRivenand his navigator were known for. There was no telling how many storms they’d sailed through to earn their reputations. And they had no intention of turning toward land.
“All right.” I met Saint’s gaze. “What do you need me to do?”
For a moment, I thought I could see the smallest tug of a smile on his lips. Maybe even a look of approval in his eyes.
“Into the wind, Clove,” he said.
Clove nodded, unlocking the helm and turning the wheel until the air was sweeping from bow to stern. It whipped around me, the rain hitting the glass of the helmsman’s quarters’ windows like tiny stones.
“Storm sails.” Saint was talking to me now.
I moved for the main mast without question and climbed just high enough to reach the small, stowed sails tacked below the open ones. They’d give us more control in the unpredictable winds and keep us from veering too far off course. But once they were open, they’d be almost impossible to get closed again.
Saint came up the other side of the mast, reefing the sheets as I untied the storm sail and hooked one arm into the rigging, letting myself swing out into the air as it filled. There was a short jolt in the frame of the ship as the triangular sail took shape, and I was relieved to see it was in better repair than the ones we’d been sailing with.
