Page 55 of The Isles of the Gods
Leander snorts. “Well, not Wollesley. He had a miserabletime at school, and even if I didn’t participate, we both know I could have stopped it.” He climbs up to sit beside me in the stern, stretching with a wince. “I can’t help but think—two days ago, he thought he’d escaped his fate. He thought he was on his way to the Bibliotek, where all his bookish dreams would come true. One day ago, he thought he’d been taken off course with a boy he didn’t much like back at school. That he was delayed, that he’d miss the start of his semester. Survivable, still. And now here he is. He saved us from discovery. He’s sailed your boat through the night, en route to a hostile port, and when he wakes up, he’ll probably do something else extraordinary.”
“What do you think makes him like that?” I ask, studying Keegan’s angular features, the pale skin already turning pink in the sun. “He looks like someone who should fall to pieces if you leave him out in the rain. What is it that makes him strong?”
“I wish I knew,” says Leander, almost wistful. “Maybe he’s just someone who likes to be doing something. Who likes to be trying.”
“What’s the alternative?” I ask.
“Doing nothing,” he says softly. “I’m good at that.”
But neither of us can afford to do nothing right now. Not just because we need to keep theLittle Lizabettaafloat—our tiny white speck of safety in the vast, choppy ocean—but because neither of us can afford to think too hard about how we came to be aboard her.
We’re both quiet, me keeping my eyes on the sail and correcting our course with each new wave, him crunching on his apple.
“Copper for your thoughts?” he asks eventually.
“I thought you threw our last one to the fire spirits.”
He tilts his head and studies me, letting the silence draw out as he takes another bite of his apple. They’re not much of a meal, but Keegan didn’t have a lot to choose from below—and even less when he discounted stuff that wouldn’t survive being dragged through the water.
“I’m thinking about the apples,” I say eventually, the ache welling up behind my eyes again.
“The apples?”
“I keep thinking about how when we threw all our ballast overboard, someone left these belowdecks, along with a couple of water barrels, in case we somehow survived. That no matter how brave my crew were when they stood up in front of that girl, no matter how sure it seemed they were going to die, one of them had hope. One of them clung to this tiny chance that they’d find a way out of this. It’s so much worse, knowing they didn’t want to die, and they weren’t ready.”
“Nobody was supposed to pay for this with their lives,” he whispers, hoarse. “The progress fleet—those were my friends on those boats. I grew up with them. Iinvitedhalf of them; they thought they were going on a trip with me. They’d have laughed when they realized I wasn’t aboard. But they…they were my friends.”
“I know,” I say quietly, picturing the girl in the silver-sea dress dancing on the deck as Leander and I watched from among the packing crates and flowers. She was so full of life, full of joy, even if I begrudged her that happiness then. Now I’m desperately grateful she had it.
“If I’d thought for a moment they were in danger, I never would have—”
“I know.” What did he say her name was?Violet.
“And your crew. Your ship was a cargo ship.”
“I know,” I murmur.
And then we’re quiet again, the waves rushing in to fill the silence.
“I learned Kyri’s name, and Rensa’s,” he says eventually. “And the other girl, Abri. What were the men called?”
“Jonlon,” I whisper. “And Conor. They crewed for my father since I was a baby.”
“I’m so, so sorry they died, Selly,” he says softly. “I’d do anything to change it.”
It feels impossible this boy beside me could ever be the reason something like that happened.
But my world has become so much larger than it ever was before, and my view has changed as surely as if I’d climbed up to the crow’s nest.
I know how the continent looks on a map. I’ve traced out long routes across the Crescent Sea from one port to another with my finger on the paper, sailed them aboard my father’s fleet. I’ve seen maps and charts of what’s beyond, and when I was almost too small to remember, I even made a trip down to the southern islands aboard theLizabettaherself.
But my world has always been confined to the deck of my ship, or a quick trip ashore for a few hours in a foreign port. I know the smell of timber and salt and tar, not the stink of backstabbing and blood.
Suddenly, far too late, I’m understanding why Rensa tried so hard to teach me about looking beyond myself. About seeing the size of the world. Because I tried staying in my own small part of it, and it didn’t work at all.
But if I can see the ripples that will travel out into the world as a result of theLizabetta’s loss, that’s not the only thing my new view takes in.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say quietly, my fingers tightening around the makeshift tiller, my gloves stiff.
