Roslyn cries harder, but this time, she wraps her arms around Kearan, and he pulls her to his side, completely enveloping her in his arms.
“How did you know?” she asks.
“I was once a little boy away from home.”
She sniffles. “I miss him, but I also want to be here. How come I have to feel both things at the same time?”
“That’s just life. You can feel joy and pain at the same time, just like you can want to be here and be somewhere else at the same time. But it’s okay. You get to have your little adventure on the sea, and then we’ll get you headed back to your papa once we reach the Seventeen Isles.”
She rubs at her eyes. “That’s just it. I don’t want to leave. I wish Papa could be here with me on this adventure. I’ve never been sailing without him before. But he’s different now. He doesn’t know how to enjoy being with me on the open ocean anymore. And nobody understands that. Everyone thinks I almost lost my life when I was shot, but the truth is, I did lose it. No more pirating. No more adventures. No more sailing. I say I’m bored and angry, and that’s true. But even more true is the fact that I’m sad. I miss my life and my old papa.”
Most of Roslyn’s tears fade into Kearan’s clothing from where he still holds her.
“It’s okay to be sad,” he says. “And you don’t need to hide being sad ever. If it’s okay, I’d like to stay here while you be sad. You can squeeze me as tightly as you want and get my shirt as wet as you want. I won’t go anywhere.”
She nods against his chest as more tears fall, and I find myself backing away.
This is what I find Kearan doing when he’s not on duty? Comforting a child?
Damn him.
Damn him to the stars and back.
FIRST THING THE NEXT morning, I rouse Roslyn from her bunk before the day crew even rises to prepare for their shifts.
Her sleepy eyes widen when she sees me hovering over her bunk. “What is it? We can’t have reached the Seventeen Isles yet!”
“Shh. No. Grab your dagger and meet me on deck.”
The weather is a bit chillier than it was yesterday. We’re slowly making the transition from the tropics to more temperate climates the farther north we go. The cooler air feels nice in my lungs, and I take a deep breath.
Roslyn’s changed her clothes and slid on her knife holster by the time she reaches me. She looks thoroughly confused when she notes that it’s just the two of us at the fore of the ship.
“Don’t be seen or heard,” I say.
Her face turns downcast as she says, “For the rest of the trip, you mean?”
“It’s the first rule of being an assassin.”
It takes her a moment, but her eyes widen, and her smile comes out in full force. “Don’t be seen or heard,” she repeats.
“Take out your knife and walk around the deck. Learn which floorboards creak. Follow the pirates on board without them knowing you’re there. Learn to place yourself in shadows and little nooks.”
“Why do I need to have my dagger out while I do it?”
“Because assassins must often be sneaking about while balancing their weapons, but for stars’ sake, do not stab anyone.”
“I won’t,” she promises.
“When you’re ready, we’ll move on to the second rule.”
“How will I know when I’m ready?”
“Bring me a secret. Something you observe or overhear. Not something trivial. Something good. Then I’ll know you’re ready.”
She gets to work that very instant. She tests her little feet out on every square inch of the ship. From my usual position on the aftercastle, I watch her following her crewmates around. More often than not, they catch her and ask what on earth she’s doing.
But she is undeterred. If she’s not up in that crow’s nest keeping lookout, she’s snaking her way through the ship, desperate to catch a juicy secret to bring me. I hadn’t realized just how busy it would keep her. I thought for sure she’d grow bored by the task, but she’s more determined than I’ve ever seen her.
“Something weird is happening with the little one,” Dimella informs me one day. “I caught her riffling through the ship’s log. It’s not exactly a thrilling read.”
“She’s hunting for secrets,” I say.
“In the ship’s log?”
“Do you not have a personal journal that you write in at night?” I ask my first mate.
“I do,” she says, her voice showing her surprise at my noticing.
“And was your journal where you’d left it after you spotted her at the ship’s log?”
“No, I thought I’d maybe forgotten where I—That little sneak!”
I fight a smile as Dimella goes to punish the little one as she sees fit. Later that day, I find Roslyn swabbing the deck instead of enjoying her time off.
“Captain,” she says. “Couldn’t you tell Dimella the nature of our lessons to get me out of this?”
“Oh, no. If you get caught as an assassin, the consequences are far worse than extra chores. This is how you learn not to get caught. Be more careful next time.”
She grumbles, “Dimella doesn’t have any juicy secrets anyway. That journal is as dull as the ship’s log.”
“Keep looking.”
She does so, and the crew is so busy trying to keep her out of their things that they’re far too distracted to notice me observing them, even in broad daylight.
Kearan’s new patterns prove to be … unexpected.
For one, he’s on the move more than I would have thought. He takes his exercise routine very seriously, and he’s often running up and down the stairs belowdecks or hauling items out of the cargo hold and then repacking them. He’ll do push-ups and sit-ups next to his bunk or some weird movement where he jumps into the air over and over again.
He works himself up into a sweat, then cleans himself off. He likes to take naps every once in a while, and he still talks in his sleep. Rarely are the words understandable. But sometimes he’ll say a name. “Enwen.” “Alosa.” And once. Just once. I hear him say my name.
“Sorinda.”
Must be having a nightmare.
If he’s not exercising, he’ll be playing cards with the lads or chatting with Roslyn. He seems to spend more time with her than anyone else. For some reason, my mind can’t wrap itself around the fact that he’s good at talking to children. In fact, he’s good at talking to everyone.
He jokes with the lads, makes polite conversation with the lasses. I even witnessed him make Dimella laugh, though I was too far away to hear what he said. The only person he isn’t nice to is Enwen. But only sometimes.
They’re perfectly fine until Enwen makes some comment to specifically address their friendship. Then Kearan gets all defensive.
Yet Enwen continues to bring it up, and Kearan continues to contest the label.
“Kearan, could you please pass me the water jug?” Enwen asks during the midday meal.
Kearan does so, and Enwen says, “Thank you. You’re a good friend.”
Kearan picks up his tray and switches tables.
I eye Enwen. “Why do you do that? Goad him so?”