At least we’re out of the storm and the kitchen is warm, thanks to the cast iron oven with roaring flames inside its belly. The walls and floors are made from the same white wood as everything else, except it’s been stained, black with soot in some places, splatters of old food stuck on others.
Standing over the iron oven is the cook, the only pirate I’ve seen so far who isn’t dressed in the same white fur as everyone else. He’s in a simple white leather vest and trousers instead, his meaty arms bare and littered with sloppy tattoos. He’s stout and short, with a crooked jaw that juts to the side, and a low brow that makes me wonder how well he can see above the pot he’s stirring.
A scowl crosses his ruddy face when he notices us enter. “What the damned hell I got women in my galley for?”
“Cap’s orders, Cook,” Quarter replies. “We got guests coming, apparently. We need a meal served up deck.” He jerks his head in our direction, where all of us are grouped together near the doorway. “They’re your help.”
Cook lets out a garbled string of curses, but Quarter pays it no mind. “Cap wants it ready by the hour.” Cook sends him a crude gesture but starts to yank out tinned supplies from the cupboards.
Another pirate comes in and leans against the wall, a dagger held in one hand as he stares at us. A guard dog to watch us and attack, if necessary.
Quarter looks back at us. “I’ll warn you now. Cook’s the meanest bastard of all of us. Getting whipped and tossed overboard will be the least of your worries if you fuck up in here.”
With those lovely parting words, Quarter pushes past us and walks out, leaving us alone.
Cook takes one look at us and narrows his eyes, using a rag to swipe over his sweat-lined face. “Well? What the fuck are you waiting for? I’ll boil your fucking hands if you don’t get to work. This meal ain’t gonna cook itself.”
I tense and so do the others, but then Rissa strides ahead, leading the way once again, getting the others to follow suit.
I stay at the back of the group, trying not to flinch every time Cook screams at us or tosses food our way. We hustle to do everything he says, even with our teeth chattering, our clothes and hair sopping wet. When one of the saddles accidentally makes a puddle on the floor, he kicks her down and makes her sop it up with a tiny, useless rag.
And all the while, as I chop and stir and wipe, with Cook snarling and the pirate guard watching, I try to work my ribbons loose, try to get the knots undone bit by bit without anyone seeing.
I have no idea who sent that messenger hawk to the captain, or who’s coming here, but I know the options are bleak. No one good would come to dine with the Red Raids.
Yet no matter who’s coming, I’m grateful for the interruption. If it weren’t for that letter, I would be in the captain’s clutches right now. The thought makes me shudder.
Even so, I know that this reprieve is temporary. Fleeting. I know that before this long, horrible night is through, I’ll be stuck in the captain’s clutches again. So all I can do is try to work my ribbons, and hope I don’t get caught.
Chapter Thirty-One
Quarter wasn’t exaggerating when he said that Cook was a mean bastard. The only sort of direction we get are pans thrown across the room when we don’t move fast enough or a snarl if we dare to ask him a question.
We all rush around the narrow galley like chickens with our heads cut off, throwing things together with shouted directions barely more detailed than, “Go make the fucking biscuits,” despite the fact that none of us have ever worked in a kitchen and have no idea how to make anything.
The room grows hot and humid from the steam and smoke, sweat gathering to mix with the rainwater on our already wet bodies. It’s uncomfortable to say the least, but Cook doesn’t give us an inch to slow down, and none of us dare to look idle.
The entire hour is anxiety-ridden and feverish, and it seems like we make enough food to feed the entire ship twice over. When the ship rocks to a sudden stop, our only warning is the booming growls of the fire claws that preclude it.
Everyone lurches on their feet as our momentum comes to a skidding halt, but we barely have time to get our bearings before Cook is yelling at us to start bringing up the serving ware above deck.
With tin plates and tankards in hand, we file out, following our watchdog who leads the way. When we get upstairs, I find that the storm has ebbed, leaving only a stubborn wind behind.
We follow the pirate through puddled spots on the deck, to the door located to the right of the ship, all the way to the back, past the captain’s quarters. Inside is a small dining area, though it’s packed tight with rows of wooden tables and built-in benches. There’s barely room enough to walk between them, but we all slip down the aisles sideways, quickly unloading everything.