Page 41 of The Worst of Them

SWORDS AND SMILES

Clutching the dagger to her chest under her blanket, Cecily shut her eyes and drifted into her little home.

The house was different tonight. She didn’t immediately know why, but then she saw it—here, where the sun had never once set…it was evening. The last bit of light cut through the gossamer curtains in her parlor, turning the lavender walls and white furniture to gold, and she didn’t fear the coming night.

She wandered to the bedroom she’d invented for herself ages ago, though she had never spent any time there, more content to leave a part of herself aware of the world beyond. But when she entered the room and slid the lock into place behind her, she found the bed already turned down, the pillows fluffed, and a lantern burning cheerfully on a small table. A fire crackled quietly in the hearth, spilling gentle warmth into the room.

Comfort washed over her. She threw herself into the soft bed and pulled the thick blankets to her chin. The house was quiet, the doors locked, the footman guarding the entrance, and Jack’s knife sat next to the lantern, within easy reach if she needed it.

All was well—so marvelously content. So she blew out the light, safe and assured, then closed her eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.

Cecily.

A beautiful voice turned her name into the loveliest sound she’d ever heard.

Wake up.

She gave a contented sigh and burrowed deeper into her pillows. Her bed was so warm and cozy. She would be happy to stay there forever.

Ashes.

Her eyes opened. A lantern hovered above her head, illuminating the scabbed wound on Jack’s face as he bent over her. She stared into his eyes, the sound of his voice fading with the dream.

“Ashes,” he whispered again.

The ship creaked, reminding her of where she was. For a moment, she forgot how she was supposed to feel about Jack, as seeing his face in the lantern light didn’t immediately tempt her toward hatred.

Perhaps it was only because she hadn’t slept so well in months.

Shoving the knife into her pocket, she followed him to the main deck beneath an overcast sky, closing her coat against the wind. She grabbed the bucket and headed for the first drum, missing her warm bed and its pile of pillows.

When she opened the little door, ashes trailed across the boards, toward the captain’s quarters. As she watched them go, she could almost feel the way Copson had leaned close to apologize to her after the battle. He’d surprised her again, proving himself to be more than the pirate the stories said he was.

He was that pirate, certainly, though she couldn’t determine why he bothered to be anything else.

“The captain…” she began to say, then let the breeze steal the thought and whisk it to sea as she reconsidered bringing him up.

Jack replied anyway. “What about him?”

She sat back on her haunches. She wasn’t owed answers about the captain, but her curiosity simmered as Jack waited for her to go on, any animosity held at bay by their truce.

“He told me he was sorry,” she finally said. “For my father’s death.”

Her heart twinged as those words nudged the bruise left from the previous day. Sorrow yawned within her, and she was mindful not to tumble headfirst into it.

“He’s not a devil,” Jack said, “contrary to what he lets people believe. And he’s good to loyal crew.”

Her lips pursed as she considered the pile of ashes. “Does saving Hester qualify me as loyal?”

“You had every opportunity to turn on us yesterday, but you didn’t.” He lifted a shoulder. “Only you can say if you’re loyal, and only we can say if we believe you.”

“Would you believe me if I said I was?” she asked, giving no indication of where her loyalty lay.

She scooped the rest of the ash into the bucket, but before she could reach for the handle, Jack lifted it away. He strode away to dump the contents into the water, then returned. She rose and took the empty pail from his hand.

“The truce still stands,” he said, his eyes dropping to where the knife was hidden in her pocket. “I’d believe you for now, but I think your loyalty will be a means to an end—to something or someone else you want more.”

Her mind flew to the courtyard of her little home. The front door was shut, the footman behind it. But Jack was right; she was only loyal to herself, even if he knew nothing of her intentions.