Page 59 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Twenty-Three

ELIZABETH

F ortune had smiled upon us at the docks—though whether it was fortune or fate, I could not say.

When Mary and I approached the towering ship, desperation clung to us like the mist rolling off the Thames. The weight of impossibility pressed against my chest, heavy as the fear we carried. We had no money, no connections—only the urgency to escape.

The captain’s eyes narrowed when he heard my name.

His gaze flicked between us as I explained—haltingly, voice trembling—that I was fleeing Lord Alexander’s wrath.

He knew the rumors, the fall of my father’s society, and the destruction left in the wake of a nameless alchemist. Perhaps that was why he took pity.

His voice, gruff and worn with the sea, held no emotion when he said, “The sins of fathers should not chain their daughters.” Then he turned away, shouting orders to ready the ship.

* * *

As the vessel rocked beneath me, I still heard his words echo in my mind. I couldn’t tell if they were a mercy or a warning, but they’d been enough to grant us passage—and carry us into the unknown.

The ship groaned and shuddered as if protesting every wave and gust of wind that battered its hull.

I curled on the narrow cot, knees pressed to my chest, willing the nausea to pass.

It didn’t. The stench of salt, sweat, and unwashed bodies clung to the air like fog, pushing against my lungs with every shallow breath—thick, sour, suffocating.

Each breath was a battle. Each hour, a reckoning.

And still—the sea carried us forward.

Mary had gone above deck to fetch water, leaving me alone in the cramped quarters we shared with two other women—a widow with a barbed tongue and a silent girl whose eyes darted like a frightened bird.

The widow snored in the corner, her bulk blotting out most of the weak light that filtered through the porthole, casting the cabin in a dull, sickly gray.

The ship rolled hard. A wave slammed against the hull with a thunderous roar.

My stomach twisted violently—not just from the pitch and yaw of the sea but from the persistent nausea of pregnancy.

I gripped the cot’s edge, knuckles white, bracing myself against the lurch.

This voyage was a torment. How long had it been now?

Four weeks? Six? Time had blurred into an endless rhythm of cold, sleepless nights and days spent clinging to the fragile hope that we might one day see land again.

The door creaked open.

Mary stepped inside, her face pale and drawn, carrying a tin cup of water. She handed it to me, her fingers brushing mine. “It’s rough today,” she said softly, lowering herself beside me.

“Rough would be a kindness,” I muttered, taking a tentative sip. The water was tepid and metallic, but it soothed the desert in my throat.

Mary offered a faint smile, her eyes drifting to the porthole. “A sailor told me we’ve made good progress. If the winds hold, we could reach the colonies in another fortnight.”

Another fortnight.

I didn’t know if I could endure it.

My body was worn thin, my spirit frayed by the constant motion and the ceaseless noise of the sea.

Every creak of wood, every crash of a wave, was a reminder that I was suspended between one life left behind and another not yet begun.

But there was no choice now—no return to England, no option to remain adrift forever. Only forward.

I set the cup down, forcing myself upright. “We’ll make it,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if the words were meant to reassure Mary… or myself.

Her eyes softened. She reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like a sister might. “Of course we will, my lady. You’re stronger than you think.”

I swallowed hard and nodded, though tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.

Strength wasn’t a choice anymore. It was survival.

And I would survive—for Mary, myself, the new beginning waiting across the ocean… and the child growing in my belly.

The ever-mercurial widow often left Mary and me flinching with her biting tongue. But her provisions—oh, how they saved us. For weeks, we’d relied on her stores, each mouthful a gift, no matter how bitter the barbs she laced them with.

One evening, as the ship groaned and heaved under the weight of another storm, Mary and I huddled near the communal firepit on the lower deck.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of brine, sweat, and the acrid bite of smoke.

The dim, flickering light painted every face in shades of desperation and fatigue.

The widow loomed above us, slicing a wedge from a wheel of hard cheese with her ever-present knife—the blade catching the firelight, gleaming like a threat.

“Mind you, don’t burn it,” she barked, handing the cheese to Mary and a hunk of salted pork wrapped in linen. Her eyes flicked to me, keen and appraising. “And don’t waste it either. No matter how long this cursed voyage drags on, my stores are not bottomless.”

Mary forced a polite “Thank you,” though her cheeks reddened with restrained fury. I offered a tight smile, swallowing the retort that rose bitter in my throat. We needed her more than she needed us—and we both knew it.

Mary took charge of the fire, her fingers deftly balancing the iron pan over the flames.

I watched as she worked, melting the cheese until it bubbled and crisped at the edges.

The pungent aroma curling in the air made my stomach twist with hunger.

She added slivers of pork, letting the fat sizzle and spit before tossing in a handful of dried onions—the last of the widow’s generosity from the day before.

Despite the cold and the rolling waves that made every movement a challenge, this small ritual grounded us—a fleeting comfort in a world adrift.

The resulting mixture wasn’t much, but after weeks of gnawing on hardtack until my jaw ached, it tasted like a feast. I tore off a piece of the stale biscuit, using it to scoop up the savory mess.

The salt and fat burst across my tongue, intense and overwhelming, and I closed my eyes briefly, letting the moment linger.

“Better than last week’s gruel,” I murmured, breaking the heavy silence.

Mary snorted softly, though her gaze stayed on the fire. “Anything’s better than gruel.”

The widow let out a derisive sniff from her perch on an overturned barrel. “You’ll miss gruel soon enough if this wind keeps fighting us.”

Her words struck like cold water, dousing the brief warmth of our meager meal.

The storm-weary ship groaned around us, its constant creaks and wails a grim soundtrack to the days that bled together in gray monotony.

The rolling gait of the vessel had become as natural as breathing, but it offered no comfort—only exhaustion.

Each evening was much the same. Scavenging scraps, coaxing them into something edible, then eating in near silence, save for the occasional groan of timber or the widow’s cantankerous grumbling.

Her barbed remarks pierced the quiet like a splinter, but we’d long since learned not to bite back.

We needed her food more than we needed her kindness.

Morning brought cold hardtack and lukewarm water, just enough to keep us alive. The evening brought this—the smallest solace of Mary’s cooking and the flicker of flame against worn faces.

One night, as Mary scraped the last cheese from the pan, I caught her eye and whispered, “Do you think she’ll ever smile?”

Mary smirked, her weariness momentarily giving way to humor. “If she does, my dear, it’ll be the first sign of land.”

The laugh that bubbled out of me was brief but genuine. The cold, creaking ship faded momentarily, and a flicker of hope stirred in its place—however faint. Whatever lay ahead, at least we had each other—and, for now, the widow’s provisions.

My legs wobbled as we finally debarked, clutching what little we possessed. The dock beneath our feet felt foreign and shaky like the world had shifted while we’d been lost at sea.

We scurried behind Widow York, who had begrudgingly offered us passage to her brother’s home in Minnesota. Her thin-lipped scowl hadn’t softened since our first encounter, and I didn’t expect it to now.

Her brother, Jules, was as gruff as she was quick-witted—a man whittled from stone and solitude. A trapper by trade with weathered hands and a face lined like tree bark, he met us at the docks in New Orleans with all the warmth of a late frost.

“This the lot you dragged from England, Eleanor?” he asked, barely sparing us a glance as he jerked his chin in our direction—like we were bundles of pelts rather than people.

Widow York sniffed, not bothering to hide her disdain. “They’re my burden. Best you let them aboard before I change my mind.”

Her daughter peeked out from behind her skirts—pale, hollow-eyed, and silent.

The girl clutched a worn doll so tightly I feared it might break, her small fingers gripping it like it was the last thread holding her to this world.

I tried to catch her gaze and offer some measure of comfort, but she darted away like a frightened bird.

Jules grunted, then motioned to his flatboat—a rough-hewn craft with bundles of pelts and barrels lashed down with fraying rope. It smelled of fur, sweat, and river water—a far cry from the perfumed halls of my childhood.

“Get in,” he said. “We’re pushing off before nightfall. If I take you north with me, you’ll earn your place. I need help prepping furs for trade. That’s the deal.”

No ceremony. No welcome. Just survival. Again.

Mary glanced at me, her expression unreadable—but we both knew we had no choice. Not now. Not with the weight of the past chasing us like wolves on our heels.

We climbed aboard.

The Mississippi stretched wide and brown before us, its current swift and harsh, churning like it could swallow us whole. This was our path north—through wild, uncharted lands to a future none of us could yet see.