Page 21 of The Worst of Them

“Hm.” With a flick of his fingers, the crude weapon went flying over the side of the ship, into the sea.

“No!” Cecily lurched to her feet and threw herself toward the rail. As she did, Jack stepped away, but it was too late. The bone was gone.

She jerked her head toward him, her blood roaring for an entirely new reason. “You had no right. That was mine!”

The hours it had taken her to make it. The comfort she’d found in holding it, knowing it would hold everyone at a distance—gone in the space of a heartbeat.

“I had every right,” Jack said. “Besides, should you earn the right to carry a knife again, you can do better than that. It was too blunt, anyway.”

“I hope that cut hurt like hell.”

“Oh, it did.” He drew his finger down the length of the raw, red wound on his cheek. “Which only emboldened me to throw it away.”

“I don’t need a shiv to hurt you,” she said through her teeth.

“You’re awfully prickly for me not having done a thing to you. I understand your irritation yesterday, and I’ll admit shoving you across the gangplank was rather brutish.” A breeze pushed strands of tawny hair into his eyes. As he pushed them back, his piercing blue gaze commanded her attention. “Honestly, your demeanor makes me wonder about you. I’ve thought about you quite a bit, actually—though not by choice. I have better things to occupy my time.”

She turned away, glaring at the water as though it might return her shiv.

“And unfortunately I have to mind you,” Jack went on, “which doesn’t help the curiosity. You are a puzzle. A rather irritating one.”

She shot a dirty look over her shoulder. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not until you start.” He jerked his chin toward the main deck. “Follow me.”

Heaving a sigh, she followed him to one of the large warming drums from last night. Embers still glowed in a mesh bowl at the top.

“Copson told me to put you in the ashes,” he said, then gestured to the drum. “Ashes.”

She glanced at him. “What, you’re going to burn me?”

“Not unless you really irk me,” he mused. “No, the fire burns in the top and the ash falls into the bottom. There’s a door to clean them out.” He pointed to a latch near his boots. “Of course, everything is hot and the ash blows, so it’s done early to avoid disturbing the crew.” He glanced to the east, where the fog was brightest with the rising sun. Then he brought those hard eyes back to her and said with biting humor, “Looks like you haven’t got much time. Better get started.”

She scowled at him. “With what? Do you have tools for this, or am I to use my bare hands?”

“Ask me nicely, Cecily.”

Anger burned down her spine. “Please, Jack,” she spat, and then spoke each word as though it were a stab of the shiv she no longer had. “Do you have tools?”

Jack’s lips quirked. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“I despise you.”

“Likewise. I’ll be happy to provide you everything you need, so long as you stop being so damn frigid.”

She balled her hands into fists and huffed. Nice. She could be nice. She closed her eyes and imagined Hester in front of her. “Please may I have some tools,” she said in a rush, her voice lighter. When she opened her eyes, Jack was moving across the deck. He returned with a bucket, a small trowel, and a falsely pleasant smile.

In an overly kind tone, he said, “Thank you, Cecily.”

Cecily was no stranger to hard work or tending fires, and she doubted she’d mind this as much as Copson wanted her to. The only trouble would be the blowing ash—and the first mate watching. Kneeling before the first drum, she flicked the latch open. The wind promptly swirled inside, captured the hot ash, and blew it into her face. She clamped her eyes shut until it stopped pelting her skin.

Beyond the drum, Jack stood by the mainmast. He looked amused, or like he was plotting. Cecily eyed him warily as she began scooping ash into the bucket.

“What,” she said when she couldn’t take his stare any longer.

“You won’t sleep in the crew’s quarters,” he said.

“Not without a knife, which you aren’t inclined to let me have.” Besides the others’ evening-time proclivities, the crew’s quarters felt too open, too exposed. At least on the Sparrow, no one could reach her through the iron bars.