Page 144 of The Worst of Them

She took the knife back. “I don’t go to the galley.”

His slate-gray eyes caught on the mindless flick of her hand as she tried to shake away the feeling of blood leaking from beneath her glove. With a grumble, she wiped it on her pants instead.

“Stede made a choice, Cecily. He knew what he was doing.”

Her throat tightened. She’d missed the cook so much these days when everything felt so dire. His absence hurt like a wound, a fractured bit of her heart that would require time to heal—time she resented both for its inevitability and its slowness. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see the way he looked at her in his last moments, the image clear as the day it had happened, and the pain somehow worse. She wished more than anything that he was still here, and that there was way to find a some other reality where he’d never died in the first place.

But all she could do was wait and grieve and bear the pain while it lasted.

“I know that,” she said, turning for the steps. “But it doesn’t make me hate it any less.”

The next day, she didn’t plan to bring Copson any food. She was surprised, however, when he came to her. She sat behind the foremast, filing another scale when he appeared. His eyes narrowed beneath his hat.

“Your hands are red,” he said.

Gloves made it harder to hold the scales, so she’d opted to go without them. This morning’s insult was particularly harsh, as he knew her hands would look red to her regardless of the cold.

“I hadn’t noticed,” she replied, monotone.

The captain held out a metal hilt made of coiled bronze. She took it from him and studied the metalwork. It was made well and would work quite nicely for what she needed.

“Hm,” she said, and he accepted it as the thanks it was. His hand disappeared into his coat and emerged with a pair of knit, fingerless gloves. He dropped them into her lap.

“Don’t get clumsy,” he said. “It annoys me when my sailors lose fingers.”

As he walked off, she picked up the warm gloves and slipped them over her hands.

As a week became two, any lingering levity had entirely disappeared. Cecily grew quieter. The captain grew sullen. The crew lived in near silence.

Jack, however, was raging as Cecily wandered out into the frosty early morning.

“You have to kill Fiero,” he was saying from the helm, his low voice rife with fury. “Kill him or Jonah will kill us.”

Mornings were usually quiet as the day crew took over, looking as tired, haggard, and cold as those already out on deck. They silently relieved the others and sent them to bed with a familial kindness Cecily hadn’t seen among them until recently, as they understood that the night crew weathered far more terror than those who sailed during the day.

Jack’s crew were the ones who saw the ghost ship trailing them like a red beacon. They sailed during the witching hour through water dark as nightmares and dread, and said nothing of their fear, even though it was obvious in the wrinkles around their eyes and the firm set of their blue lips.

As of this morning, however, it seemed Jack couldn’t take it anymore.

“You know I can’t do that,” Copson said.

“You save him for a gamble,” Jack argued. “Killing him may sate Jonah just as well.”

Cecily moved toward one of the drums, mindful of patches of ice that hadn’t yet been scraped away.

Night lingered to the west, and against the darkness was the bright, glowing spot of red. The Neptune was close enough to see its sails and rigging with the naked eye.

“And if it doesn’t, we’ll all die,” Copson said. “If I can get any number of my crew to safety before Jonah gets to us, you best be damn sure I’ll move heaven and earth to make that happen.”

Jack released a frustrated growl. “You damn us all.” He swept from the quarterdeck and headed for the door.

Cecily started after him, but Copson called her name.

“Let him go,” the captain said. “He’ll be no kinder to you.”

She stared after Jack, longing to follow. They’d barely spoken except for brief exchanges between shifts, both of them exhausted and frightened by all they’d endured. If she could only see some light in his eyes, it would be better—or so she thought. There would be no light in his eyes, or hers, or anyone else’s.

Feeling lost, Cecily climbed up to the captain. “I miss him,” she said.