Page 116 of The Violet Raven

Before I can retort, Finn sidles up beside me, one hand resting on the hilt of his weapon, the other pulling me in against his side. His voice is smooth but edged with quiet authority. “Answer her question, and mind yer tongue—before I decide ye’re better off without it.”

I don’t have to look at Finn to know how he’s staring at the man—it’s written in the tension coursing through his body, in the way his presence feels heavier, more certain, as if he’s just waiting for an excuse to make good on the threat.

The deckhand straightens sharply, the teasing edge vanishing as he swallows hard. “Aye, well,” he clears his throat, glancing between us, “Bán Sídhe,” he replies, his thick Irish accent making the words roll like a song. “Means ‘white fairy’.”

Another deckhand passing by snickers and calls out, “Naw, cap’n calls ’em banshees! Says they’re death bringers, he does. Thinks name alone’ll warn off wrong-doers. Superstitious feck, full o’ notions, that one.” His mirth lingers as he continues past us.

The first deckhand seizes the moment to scurry away, casting a nervous glance at us before disappearing below deck.

When I glance at Finn, his glare is sharp enough to slice through the rigging, his golden-brown eyes dark with warning. Every muscle in him is taut, like a man barely holding himself in check.

Without thinking, I reach for his hand and squeeze, just enough to steady him.

At first, he stays rigid, but after a moment, his fingers shift—slow, deliberate—curling around mine with certainty.

I glance back at everyone, expecting a quip or a sharp remark, but they’re all quiet. Casey’s fingers tap anxiously against the hilt of his dagger. Bran avoids my gaze entirely. Even Callan stands silent, his brow furrowed.

My voice cuts through the silence, steady but soft. “It’s just a name.”

“Hell’s own britches,” Bran grumbles under his breath, just as Casey groans. “Of course it is. Of course, it’s called a damn banshee.”

I raise an eyebrow at both of them, lips curving into a ghost of a smirk. “Well,” I say dryly, “guess it’s a fitting vessel for us, then.”

Bran groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “Couldn’t it have been something a little less… I don’t know—ominous? Nothing screams ‘we might not make it to our next destination’ quite like our ship being named after a screeching death spirit.”

“What would be more to your liking, pray tell?” I counter, tilting my head with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “The Buoyant Bosom? The Twin Treasures? The Corset Conqueror?”

Casey snorts so loudly I think he might choke. “HMS Plump Peaks? Oh, no—wait. The Glistening Gudgeon.” His grin is wide enough to split his face.

Finn interjects in his usual calm drawl, “The Lusty Lancer.”

That earns a laugh from me, but before I can respond, Callan clears his throat. He doesn’t look up, just mutters under his breath, “The Veined Voyager.”

The laughter dies instantly, and every head turns toward him.

Bran looks at Callan, then at the rest of us, and finally throws up his hands with a wide grin. “Well, hell. Callan wins out, but I have to give it to Triona for second place with The Corset Conqueror.”

Callan shrugs, completely unfazed. “Takes a keen mind to name a ship,” he says, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Bran claps him on the shoulder as they walk ahead. “Aye, mate. And you have a far filthier one than I’d expected.”

The rest of us follow, the tension from earlier easing slightly as we settle into the rhythm of the task. Whatever lies ahead, we have a ship, a direction, and each other—our path set, even if the destination feels uncertain.

22

Colliding Tides

Finn

Tuesday, 13 May 1823

Third Day Out at Sea

The late afternoon sun glints off the rolling waves, stretching golden across the ship’s deck. The scent of salt and tar lingers in the air, carried by the breeze that rattles the rigging and sends ropes slapping against the mast. The steady creak of wood beneath our feet is a quiet reminder of forward motion, of distance growing between us and everything we left behind.

Once we settled on the boat, we told Triona everything she had missed while unconscious—Marcus stepping in, and his failed attempt at helping. Colina’s betrayal that set everything in motion. Then, finally, about the men who came for us.

Each word felt like peeling back a scab, exposing wounds that had barely closed. It wasn’t easy. The telling made it real. But it was necessary.