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My awareness slipped to the movement of the ship beneath me. The seas were calm, and we had slowed. Significantly.

“Are they aboard?” I asked the boy.

He nodded. “Rowing over now.”

Anxiety welled like bile in my throat. I fought the feeling as I dressed and rammed my hat onto my head.

By the time I joined Slader on deck, I had regained my composure. I stood tall, stance set against the roll of the ship as the sailors formed up to greet our guests with doffed hats and lopsided salutes. Behind them, sunlight broke through storm clouds and a less-than-arctic breeze tossed fringes and hems.

The sight of my own reflection climbing over the ship’s rail almost cracked my veneer. Backed by the towering masts ofDefiance, a second-rate man-of-war of the North Fleet, Benedict Rosser straightened to his full height. His eyes glassed over me before he stepped left, clasped his hands behind his back, and stood to attention.

His captain, Amory Ellas, came aboard. She was a weathered, serious woman, with greying hair and a practical demeanor. She had a peppering of scars across one tanned cheek, perhaps from shrapnel or powder burns, which only made her more intimidating.

Slader strode forward to clasp her hand.

“Captain Slader,” she said, releasing the man’s hand. “I hoped we might have a word in private.”

Slader nodded and gestured towards the quarterdeck doors. The two of them left without pleasantries, though Ellas gave Benedict a meaningful nod before she disappeared.

Around us, sailors resumed theirtasks—castingnot a few startled glances between Benedict and I. But my focus remained on my brother alone.

I had not seen my twin in two years. Looking at him now was like glimpsing a past version ofmyself—thepractical naval uniform, dark blue with deep black cuffs and stiff collar, his straight chin clean-shaven and his brown hair bound in a short tuft. We stood the exact same height, had the same breadth to our shoulders and narrowness about the eyes from a decade of squinting into the sun. But where my stance was stiff, his eased now that his captain was out ofsight—thestance of a man with no conscience and no regrets.

I decided to be the better brother and strode forward. I felt the eyes of the crew follow me and heard their whispers, but I had no desire to seek privacy. Away from watching eyes, this meeting would degrade rapidly.

“Sam,” Benedict said.

“Ben,” I returned, stopping close enough for the mist of our breaths to mingle.

“You are looking piratical today.” My brother tilted his head to one side, noting my short beard and the quality of my coat. “It suits you.”

I snorted. “Yes, I am the rogue here.”

Benedict’s smile was humorless, but something flickered behind his eyes. A glimpse of an old, tiredemotion—aboy sitting on a bench with beaten hands.

Weight settled in my stomach and my façade suddenly felt foolish. I stuck out my hand.

Benedict stared at it, then slowly took it in hisown—somuch larger and more scarred than it had been, back when we were children. His skin was warm and his grip loose. The touch sent an ache through my chest, an ache that made me want to forget all our grievances, all the lies and strife and simplybe…brothers.Family.

Benedict let go and shoved the hand into his pocket. I saw it clench inside, knuckles stretching the fabric. “Shall we take a turn about the deck?”

I nodded. Together, we ascended to the forecastle, passing staring sailors on our way to the bow. There, by unspoken agreement, we stopped over the spreading antlers ofHart’s figurehead.

“The girl is healthy and well.” Benedict spoke just loud enough to hear over the waves and bustle on deck. Behind him,Defiancecontinued to rock in all her glory, gunports closed, sails furled, deck and ropes immaculate. “She lookslike…you.”

“Of course she does,” I said dully.

“Has…”Benedict hesitated, long enough for me to wonder if he actually cared when he asked, “Alice, has she written you?”

“No.”

My brother fidgeted, running his tongue along his teeth behind closed lips. “You would not tell me if she did,” he decided.

“Alice does not matter to you.” I sidestepped the question. “She never did.”

“She never mattered to you, either,” Benedict retorted, then caught himself. He looked away, over the sea before the ship. “Or her husband. The child, though. I am glad she’s well. I assumed you would be too.”

I tried to read him as I had done when we were boys. Benedict’s range of emotions were stunted, usually vacillating between aloof, coy and enraged. But now I saw something almost like regret behind his eyes. Our eyes.