I sat next to Demery and half listened, alert for any hints of who the last guest might be. The rest of my focus oscillated between the stairs and the Stormsinger, who stared out the window with a dull gaze.
That was, until Kaspin’s bodyguard patted her cheek on his way to the window, and her leg lashed out in a sharp, straight kick to his knee.
The big man went down like a sack of grain, if a sack of grain could be bearded and issue obscenities—first in a croak, then a shout, then a roar. The captive snarled something defiantly after him, her words completely distorted by the gagging device.
A laugh lodged in my throat, chased by dread. The man unfurled back to his full height, glaring at the Stormsinger in a way that made me reach for my cutlass.
Demery looked blithely at Kaspin and raised his brows.
“Mr. Speck,” Kaspin warned.
Mr. Speck’s jaw worked, his head twisted to one side and his fists clenched in fury. He grabbed the nearest chair with a scrape and clatter and situated it next to the window, making himself the closest to the Stormsinger.
“The moment she makes a move,” he growled, rubbing his knee with a huge hand.
“You’ll carefully ensure she sits back down?” Demery offered.
“What do you care? You’re a pirate,” the wigged man, Randalf, suddenly accused.
Demery’s eyes tracked to him, still amiable. If being outed so publicly perturbed him, he did not show it. One did not go to Whallum without expecting to brush elbows with criminals of all distinctions.
“I’ve been called as much, yes,” he affirmed.
“He’s seventh on Her Majesty’s contract list,” I heard myself commenting. My hand was still on my cutlass, but I loosened my grip, palming it absently.
The Stormsinger noticed my movement and considered me for a narrow second, then looked at Demery.
“Pray, seventh?” The pirate frowned. “Last I heard I was fifth.”
“You’ve lost your touch, old man.” Randalf chuckled. “There’s a pirate hunter in this room, but has he interest in you? No.”
I shot him a look. How did he know what I was?
Reading my expression, Randalf flapped a dismissive hand at me. “I’ve eyes in my skull, boy. I can see Hart in the harbor, same as everyone else.”
“I’ve not lost my touch. Rather, I’ve been preoccupied,” Demery said in a way that made my dreamer’s sense prickle. “It’s hard to steal enough tobacco and molasses to stay on the Queen’s List, even in peacetime. Besides, any position higher than four and there’s already a noose strung for you at Fort Almsworth. Hardly something I aspire to.”
The Stormsinger flinched at that, and my curiosity strayed back towards her. Her eyes met mine, still edged with the anger that she had unleashed on Mr. Speck. They were the deep grey of summer storms, infiltrated with shocks of equally dark blue. The combination was odd, but even odder on a Stormsinger. Her kind usually had pale blue eyes, many to the point that they were blind.
Or, in the worst cases, intentionally blinded in an ill-informed attempt to increase a singer’s power. It rarely worked and occasionally had the opposite effect, but that did not dissuade avaricious slavers from the attempt.
Gooseflesh prickled up my arms.
Demery’s voice pulled me back to the rest of the room. “At least Mr. Rosser knew me on sight, did he not?”
I tore my eyes from the young woman’s and gave him a nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Demery looked back at Randalf. “You, you’re a smuggler?”
He pursed his lips. “A merchant. Juliette is my ship.”
Demery leaned back in his chair and stacked his heels under the table. “Oh?”
Randalf rolled his eyes. “Merchant and occasional purveyor of tax-free goods.”
The Stormsinger looked between the two of them, her eyes losing even more of their light. Had she just realized how bleak her options were?
The sight made my guilt triple. I could not drag this woman aboard Hart. I had been a fool to agree to this errand, a fool to think there was any world where I could stomach exchanging money for another’s freedom, let alone dragging a village girl—which, from her clothes and manner, she certainly was—onto a warship with a contract as dangerous as ours.
Everyone looked up as footsteps sounded on the stairs. Demery’s hand drifted beneath his coat and every muscle in my body went taut. Silently, I prayed Fisher and the armsmen were not far off.
I leaned back slightly in my chair, angling myself so I could see the top of the stairs.
A young gentleman came into sight, his blond hair swept back into a fine red ribbon and his cheeks flushed with cold. There was more than a little snow on his clothes, and he brushed it off as he topped the stairs and came through the door.
“He is not coming,” Charles Grant, the man who had brought us our invitation to Kaspin’s auction, announced. He took an unclaimed glass of whiskey from the table and retreated to a corner, close to the fire but far from the light of the window.
Irritation flickered across Kaspin’s face. “Not coming at all? Or is there another day he’d prefer?”
“He is not coming.” Grant nursed the whiskey, the cup brushing his bottom lip and distorting his voice as he added, “He was also very rude.”
“Well, then.” Kaspin was clearly put out, but rallied. “Let’s introduce our witch.”
I stole a quick look at Demery as Kaspin removed the Stormsinger’s gag. The pirate’s expression was inscrutable except for a few lines around his eyes—not irritation or disappointment. Perhaps… preoccupation.
The gag came off and the Stormsinger coughed. Kaspin stepped back, proceeding to load a pistol as he said, “This is Mary. Mary, sing for us, something… subtle.” He cocked the pistol and pointed it at her head. “A simple demonstration will suffice.”
Half the woman’s face was rubbed red from the gag. She noted the muzzle of the pistol then surveyed the room, taking in each one of us in a way that made me overly aware of how I must appear, here among criminals. As if I were one of them.
There was fear beneath her resentment, and I reminded myself what Slader had said. She would be safest with us. Demery was a pirate. Randalf was just a smuggler, but from the way he leered, his company would be little better.
“One for sorrow, two for mirth,” Mary began to sing. Her voice was low and soft, not forceful, but cajoling. Outside the windows, the wind snuffed like a candle, and the falling snow became impossibly still. Beyond it the sun flashed through the clouds and bold, iridescent beams struck the water between snow-dusted ships.
Awe washed through me. Her voice did not just still the wind. It stilled my dreamer’s sense and left me feeling unexpectedly… whole. Awake and grounded in a way I had not felt for many years.
Logic told me this was simply my imagination, but for now, I ignored that cynical voice. I watched white flakes drift, caught outside of time, and let myself be captured too.
The Stormsinger sang, “Three for a death, and four for birth.”
Kaspin looked around with obvious satisfaction as Mary’s voice faded and Mr. Speck refitted her gag. The wind picked back up and the sun disappeared, but there was no doubt as to her power.