Page 56 of A Prince Among Pirates
I turn once more to the sailors, only to find one of them staring in my direction. Panic races through my veins, but I close my mouth and straighten my back. He sees me—our gazes meet—but his attention drifts away without recognition. He nudges one of his comrades and points to another booth farther down in the market. The other sailor leans back to see what he’s pointing at, then nods with a laugh.
It isn’t them.
I let myself exhale once more and close my eyes. My heart is still racing, my chest tight. “I’m sorry,” I say to Tristan. “I thought…”
Tristan pats my shoulder. “I know.”
I nod and swallow down my anxiety. Of all the ships I could have chosen the morning I decided to run away, I’m glad it was the one with Tristan on board. I smile at him, and this seems tobe enough for him to stop worrying. He nods towards Trevor, who is waiting for us a few booths down.
With one last glance towards the French sailors, I follow Tristan as we catch up.
The smell of smoke and burned sugar is the next thing to catch my attention as we walk, and soon I am stopping again, stepping over to a stand with vivid bolts of silk stacked in baskets. Beside them, a man in a creamy-yellow turban and a blue silk tunic—and bronze skin, like mine—sits on a woven rug. His legs are crossed, and in front of him sits a painted glass vessel that reminds me of an urn or a vase. Using two fingers, he holds the wooden tip of a hose against his lips. He puffs a few times, then sits back to release a stream of smoke into the air. The burned-sugar smell is stronger now.
Fascinated, I step closer and watch a moment longer, before he sees me staring and lowers the pipe from his mouth. He says something to me, but I cannot understand him. Then he takes in the cut of my clothes and frowns. “You are English?” he asks, his accent thick, but not so thick that I cannot understand him.
“Yes,” I say. And because for some reason I feel the need to defend myself, I follow this with, “But my mother was Turkish.” I nearly addlike you, but I think he gets the point, because he smiles at me and waves me over.
The twins have stopped and are watching me now, but I am too intrigued to mind. The man motions for me to sit, and I do, though it’s a struggle to cross my legs as he does in my fitted silk trousers. Sitting this close, I can see that his eyes arelined in black, making his lashes seem thick and heavy.
“I’m not Muslim,” I say, concerned I’ll make some egregious cultural misstep in my ignorance, but he waves a hand and holds the pipe out to me anyway. I take it, both curious and afraid of offending him. He points to his lips, and I bring the pipe to my mouth, inhaling. Instantly I realize I’ve made an error. I start to choke, clouds of smoke bursting out of my mouth and nose as I do.
The man laughs and shakes his head. He takes back the pipe and waits for me to catch my breath before demonstrating.
I watch closely as he touches the tip of the pipe to his lower lip. He inhales deeply and slowly, as if filling his belly, then tilts his head back and releases a stream of white smoke into the air around him. “Like this,” he says, smoke billowing around his words.
I am hesitant to try again, but I do. I take the pipe and mimic what he showed me as best I can. I cough again, but not nearly as much as the first time. I am able to blow a stream of smoke into the air this time, even as my eyes water a little. The taste it leaves behind is something like smoked honey—not altogether unpleasant, but nothing like I imagined.
The man laughs again and pats me roughly on the back. “Very good, son of my sister,” he says.
I am disarmed by the turn of phrase. I am sure he doesn’t literally mean his sister—how could he possibly know who my mother was? I wonder if it’s a term of endearment, or some kind of mistranslation, but I do not press him. “Thank you, sir,” I say,handing the pipe back. I get to my feet and bow to him as I might to someone higher than I in the peerage. I don’t know any other way to show him respect, or my gratitude.
He laughs as I turn to walk away with the twins, who appear baffled but don’t ask me about the strange interaction. It’s just as well, for I can feel the sting of tears in my eyes, and I know that my voice would give me away if I had to say a single word in this moment.
Billy’s excitement when I present him with the crate full of plantains is palpable. He embraces me, clapping me on the back a few times. “I knew you’d come through for me, Kit,” he says.
During our time at port, Billy remained on the ship with a few of the other men. I don’t ask why, but I can imagine it has something to do with men of his color being in great danger of capture by slavers on land. I’m pleased I could do this small thing for him. “I hope that’s enough. It took both Tristan and Trevor to carry it on board.”
Laughing, Billy lifts the crate with ease. “It’s more than enough. I’ll bring them down to the galley to ripen. When they are ready, we will share a meal of maduros, just like my mother made.”
After today’s adventure in trying new things, I am certainly eager to experience more unfamiliar foods. “I look forward to it,” I say to him in earnest. Then I glance around and find Rodriguez, who’s about to follow Billy belowdecks. “Rodriguez!” I call. “Could I beg a favor?”
Rodriguez lifts a brow, but he doesn’t continue down the stairs, so I offer my best charming smile and wave him over. He rolls his eyes but approaches with arms crossed. “What’ve you got up your sleeve this time?”
“I purchased a cask of sauce from a woman in the market,” I explain, waving Trevor over. “Trevor can show you where she is. Could you fetch the cask for me?”
“Fetchit for you?” he asks, raising a brow once more. “Why should I?”
“Don’t worry,” Trevor interrupts with a grin. “It’s worth yer while. And after, we can watch Cook give Mr. Kit a walloping for oversteppin’.”
I shoot Trevor a glare. “Is that your plan?”
Trevor just laughs and hurries back towards the gangplank. I turn back to Rodriguez, but he’s got a grin to match Trevor’s and is already following him across the deck.
“Great, thanks for that!” I call after them. When they ignore me, I lift my other parcel from where it sits on the deck by my feet and let myself into Captain Sharpe’s cabin. I saw him up by the figurehead when I came aboard, so I know he isn’t inside.
I stop short at the sight of my trunk sitting wide open at the foot of Sharpe’s bed. Did I leave it open like that? I set my parcel down and make my way over to it, staring into the mess of clothes. I recall rummaging about in search of my purse, but I cannot for the life of me remember if I closed and locked it when I was through.
I pull my purse from my pocket and search it. When I findno key, I search my waistcoat pockets but discover only the key to Sharpe’s desk drawer. Frowning, I reach for the lock on top of my trunk and find the key still inside. I must have been distracted when I grabbed my purse yesterday. Since my purse is safely in my hand, I know for sure that I wasn’t robbed—not that any of the men onthisship would rob me. I sigh and drop the purse back inside, keeping the key to Sharpe’s desk in my palm as I close the trunk, lock it, and deliberately slide the key into my waistcoat pocket.
