Viv tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace and probably looked about the same. “Really done in for the day. Just going to head up to my room.”
She limped up the stairs, tucking the blade under her arm, and hurried to her room, where she closed the door firmly behind her. A damp sea breeze filtered through the narrow window, laced with the sulfurous smell of seaweed.
She laid the greatsword atop the leather straps of the empty bedframe, lit the lantern, and stepped back to examine the blade.
The steel glimmered along its flawless length, clean and perfect, not so much as a nick or notch to mar the edges. The leather wrapping on the hilt might have been bound and shrunk yesterday, and a beautiful but substantial silver ring formed the pommel.
Viv immediately wanted it in her hands again.
She probed her thigh, testing the receding ache there. Had Rackam cornered Varine the Pale yet? Was he still alive? Was she? The signal from the book strongly implied she was.
Impatience swelled in her breast. She’d been reading and idling away her days, with nothing but a little indifferent training to keep her reflexes afloat.
Murk seemed to have a sleepy power over her, a seductive song of indolence.
She’d almost let it claim her. Sure, she had to bide her time and heal. And there was no harm in wringing a little enjoyment out of her forced recovery. She thought guiltily of Maylee. Or a little companionship, she added mentally.
But her time in Murk must draw to an end. And she needed to be ready when it did.
27
The sky threatened rain all the following day. Viv made a perfunctory visit to Thistleburr but didn’t stay. Fern was busy shelving the last of the remaining books and fussing over the wrapped packages, and there wasn’t much that Viv could help with anyway. She relayed what she’d done with Varine’s book, and Fern seemed caught between anxiety and relief, but the tasks of the day outweighed either in the end.
Viv and Maylee had planned an outing, which had been a pleasant prospect until she’d drawn forth the greatsword. She tried to recapture her anticipation as she knocked on the door of Sea-Song.
They shared a leisurely walk along the beach. Maylee traced a finger up and down Viv’s forearm in a very distracting way, and Viv described the plan she and Fern had hatched to find homes for the surplus books.
“Thanks to your baking,” she said. Viv gave Maylee’s hand a squeeze.
“Everythin’ good is thanks to bakin’，” Maylee replied with conviction.
As they strolled, Maylee talked about old friends and adventures past, and Viv laughed and nodded when it was expected. But more and more, her thoughts returned to the blade on her bedframe, drawn as if by a deadly lodestone. Her steps kept speeding up, as though she wanted the walk over and done with so she could get back. Viv had to rein herself in several times.
When they parted, Viv could tell from the bruised smile on Maylee’s face that she’d noticed, and a spasm of guilt seized her.
It didn’t stop her from hurrying back to her room though.
Behind The Perch and out of view of prying eyes, Viv hefted the greatsword, turning it in the silvery overcast light. The weight of it made the muscles of her arms and shoulders strain in a deeply satisfying way. She felt firm and hard and full of purpose, and when she executed the very different practice forms suited to the larger weapon, it was as though she’d wielded the blade all her life.
Any ache in her leg was forgotten. It wasn’t fully healed, not by a long shot, but it didn’t plague her in the slightest. As she completed a diagonal chop, the metal sighing through the air, a surprised laugh escaped her lips.
The steel seemed drawn by inexorable purpose, tracing a pathway that led back toward the Ravens. Toward where she truly belonged.
She felt the grin transform her face, a savage, joyful baring of fangs. Sweat pooled in her clavicle and flew from her forearms as she snapped the blade back and up.
Gods, it felt good.
* * *
On the day of Fern’s boardwalk sale, Viv descended the front steps of The Perch feeling more herself than she had in days. Her shoulders were tight from the bladework, but it would pass soon, she could tell. The rain that had seemed imminent yesterday was nowhere to be seen, the clouds torn up into ragged white ribbons.
She made her way out of the valley of dunes and sea-grass leading from The Perch. Drawing near the bookshop, she was surprised to find Pitts setting up four trestles out front. His wagon waited nearby, loaded with a stack of long planks.
As she approached, Pitts nodded and returned to the cart. He slid out four planks together and easily hoisted them onto one scarred shoulder, then set them across the top of one pair of trestles side by side, forming a rough tabletop.
“Here, I’ll grab these,” said Viv. She matched him, retrieving the other four to assemble a second table. It felt good to easily handle physical work that only a week ago would’ve had her leg folding underneath her.
“Thanks, Pitts.” Fern stepped out onto the boardwalk, and Potroast trotted behind her, his arrow of a pink tongue lolling out of his beak. He didn’t even growl at Viv, for once.
The rattkin clapped her paws together, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Let’s get to it then, shall we?”
“You’re roped into this too, huh?” Viv asked Pitts.
He shrugged. “Got a little exchange worked out. A couple of things just for me in the next shipment.”
“More poetry?”
Pitts studied her with a small, calm smile. Then he recited, “A worthy hand at patient rest. An endurance of moments. Contentment blossoms there.”
Viv nearly offered a teasing response, but her mind caught up with his words. Instead, she frowned at Fern. “How come you haven’t tried me out on any poetry yet?”
“I was just waiting for you to get all contemplative on me. You have to approach these things delicately,” replied Fern. “Now’s not the time for delicacy, though. We’ve got a load of these packages to shift outside, and the passenger ship arrives in a few hours.”
“Yes, m’lady,” said Viv, imitating Satchel’s solemn tone.
Fern brought a paw to her mouth to suppress a laugh, and Pitts gave her a quizzical look but didn’t say anything.
* * *
As they stood surveying the two tables and orderly ranks of neatly wrapped book bundles, Fern clapped a paw to her forehead. “Shit! I almost forgot!”
She hurried into the shop and returned struggling under the weight of a chalk sandwich board. Printed on both sides in white chalk were the words …
mystery
book
sale
… with a neat arrow beneath.
“I need to get this down to the beach,” she panted.
Potroast hooted supportively.
Viv went to relieve her of it, but Pitts beat her to it.
“Got to head that way anyway,” he said, taking the sign easily with one hand and carrying it over to his cart. “I’ll set it up. Good luck to you.”
With a wave, he stepped into the traces of his cart and got moving, heading downslope.
“Well,” said Fern, fiddling with her clasp. “I guess … now we wait?”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Viv, although she wasn’t sure. Not exactly.
* * *
The frigate debarked close to noon, and for the hour afterward they waited. And waited.