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T he shifts with Laverna Omphrey and Florence Solandis had been wordless and stiff, each interaction weighed down by the unspoken tension between Vivienne and Lewis. Even their usual sarcastic banter had dried up, replaced by the monotonous scrape of their fingers against tin plates as they picked at reheated stew for lunch.

Two hours of dish duty passed in complete silence. This has to be some kind of record. Vivienne couldn't remember the last time they'd gone this long without talking—unless one of them was asleep.

When Commander Thorne switched the rotation, sending Lewis to work with Cirrus while Vivienne shadowed Dr. Mercer, she practically ran down the stairs. Finally, some space.

Dr. Mercer caught sight of her from the infirmary doorway, her full lips curving into a bright, dazzling smile. "Ah, Banner! Let's get you acquainted with my home away from home."

The infirmary, tucked near the bow of the Orlop Deck, was designed for quiet and order. Along one wall, narrow cots nestled into alcoves, and in the center, a broad wooden table stood under the glow of a swinging lantern. Opposite the beds, rows of cabinets and drawers lined the wall, filled with medical supplies, the scalpels gleamed under the dim light.

"The inventory is checked daily," Dr. Mercer explained, opening one of the cabinets with a flick of her wrist. "Anything missing would mean someone took it without permission."

Vivienne nodded, taking a seat across from her at the central table. She rolled bandages with methodical precision as Melodie counted and sorted surgical tools, her deft hands moving with choreographed ease.

A glint of silver caught Vivienne’s eye. She gestured toward the pendant around the doctor's neck, its surface engraved with the sigil of the goddess of healing and mercy.

"Is that?—"

"Seradwen?" The doctor lifted the pendant between her fingertips, her eyes aglow with admiration. "Yes. I bought it the day I was accepted into the surgeon specialty."

Vivienne rerolled the same bandage, becoming annoyed at herself for not being better at this. "Did you always want to practice medicine?"

Melodie let out a slow, thoughtful breath. "I did, but the news shocked my parents."

Vivienne arched an eyebrow.

"In Suharath, my mother is an opera singer, a legendary soprano," Dr. Mercer said, pulling her long braids over one shoulder. "That’s why they named me Melodie. They always assumed I'd follow her onto the stage."

Vivienne smirked, tying off another bandage. "You might be the first person in existence whose parents were disappointed when their kid wanted to be a doctor.”

Melodie laughed, the sound rich and warm. "They nearly died from the shock."

Vivienne chuckled, but the warmth drained from her expression as Melodie studied her, eyes shining with questions.

"And you?" Melodie asked. "The captain makes it sound like your parents are walking, talking libraries."

Vivienne’s smile flickered, faint and fragile. She had spent so long worrying about whether they’d even find her parents alive that the weight of their expectations felt almost irrelevant. Almost.

"That’s an accurate description," she admitted, throat tightening. "The Banners have been antiquaries for generations."

Melodie rested her chin on her palm, her dark eyes thoughtful. "And you never considered something else?"

Vivienne hesitated, rolling the last bandage a little too tight.

Not with any seriousness. Not without guilt. How could I throw away generations of work?

“No, not really,” she replied, her tone hollow. Her father’s voice echoed in her memory. Selfish. Short-sighted. Self-centered.

Melodie’s voice broke through the storm in her mind. "I think expectations weigh just as heavy as grief."

Vivienne’s brow creased. "What do you mean?"

Melodie’s fingers tapped absently against the wooden table. "Think of it this way. Meeting someone’s expectations means grieving all the things you cannot be. Meeting your own expectations means they grieve the life they envisioned for you."

Vivienne stilled.

The words hit like a rogue wave, stealing her breath.

If her parents were gone, so were their expectations. Expectations she had spent her entire life trying and failing to meet. And with them, every version of their relationship that might have been.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

Damn it.

She swiped at it instinctively, only for a fresh sting to bloom across her palm, prompting a grimace.

Melodie clicked her tongue. "Show me your hands."

Vivienne reluctantly turned them over.

Melodie hissed between her teeth. "Agh, worse than I thought."

She stood gracefully, gliding to one of the locked drawers. The click of the key was quick, muscle memory taking over. She pulled out a small jar of salve and a dark glass bottle.

"Hands on the table," she ordered.

Vivienne obeyed, though she eyed the bottle with suspicion.

Melodie uncorked it with a sharp pop and poured a few drops onto her raw skin.

A burning sting shot through Vivienne’s hands, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

"You’re evil."

Melodie snorted, unfazed. "I prefer effective ."

Vivienne scowled, but relief rippled through her skin as the doctor rubbed the cool salve over her blisters. The pain dulled, replaced by a soothing numbness.

Melodie wrapped her hands with quick, practiced motions. "Salve twice a day. Fresh bandages if they get wet. Got it?"

Vivienne exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders finally easing. "Got it. Thank you, Dr. Mercer."

The doctor’s lips quirked into a smile. "You can call me Melodie. Only Owen—Commander Thorne, is strict about titles."

Vivienne grinned despite herself. "Thank you, Melodie. This salve is magic."

Melodie wagged a finger at her. "Not magic. Medicine."

"Shame you can’t sing," Vivienne mused, as Melodie returned the dark bottle to the drawer. "Gus could use some variety when he pulls out that accordion."

Melodie glanced over her shoulder. "I never said I couldn’t sing."

Vivienne raised both eyebrows. "Oh?"

Melodie flashed a playful grin. "I just didn’t want to do it for a living."

* * *

Vivienne glared at the piece of rope in her hands, frustration tightening her grip. The boatswain, Gus ‘Skull Crusher’ Conway, had demonstrated the clove hitch knot multiple times, his massive, tattooed hands moving in an automated flow, but no matter how many times she tried, her fingers refused to cooperate.

With a low, rumbling chuckle, Gus took the rope from her, his thick fingers twisting and looping the fibers effortlessly. "Takes practice is all," he assured, his deep voice like the rumbling of an earthquake. "Don't be discouraged."

Easier said than done.

Vivienne had already endured a full shift of learning the ins and outs of sail inspection, rigging, and overseeing deck operations. Gus had been patient and thorough, answering Lewis’ endless stream of questions, but Lewis hadn’t spoken a word to her the entire time. Even now, he worked on the opposite end of the main deck, recoiling piles of rope with singular focus.

Vivienne wiped sweat from her brow and looked up at Gus, craning her neck to meet his gaze. "Gus, can I ask you something?"

He nodded, offering a low hum of acknowledgment.

"Why do they call you Augustus 'Skull Crusher' Conway?"

A slow, knowing smile crept beneath his chestnut-brown mustache, the curled ends bending into his cheeks.

"Got that name when I sailed with pirates in the Eastern Seas."

Vivienne’s eyes widened, heat flickering in her chest at the unexpected revelation. "Pirates?"

Gus gave a deep, amused grunt. "Aye. But, I never crushed any skulls." He paused, the smile on his face turning mischievous. "I can, however, crush any melon between my hands, thighs, or knees."

A subtle crease formed at the edges of Vivienne’s eyes, intrigued. "So why skulls and not melons?"

He let out a booming laugh. "Augustus 'Melon Crusher' Conway doesn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of men." His dark eyes twinkled with humor. "Captain Varik thought 'Skull Crusher' sounded tougher, so it stuck."

Vivienne grinned, studying the web of ink covering his broad arms, hands, and even the sides of his neck. "Did you get your tattoos while sailing with pirates?"

Gus nodded, tapping his temple. "Aye, on the ship and at different ports."

She took a quick breath in, then asked, "Why so many?"

He grinned again, slow and easy, before spreading his arms to showcase the countless designs etched into his skin. "Once you get one, you want more. And when you live your life at sea, you travel light. These..." He waved over the elaborate ink covering his body, "I can always take with me."

Vivienne tilted her head, considering his words. She’d never thought about it like that. Tattoos as memories, stories written on skin—his own personal map of where he'd been. She hadn't expected Gus to be so layered, so full of quiet wisdom beneath his brute strength.

"Last question—" she said, then quickly added, "for this shift."

Gus raised a thick eyebrow.

"Why did you leave the pirates?"

The warmth in his expression caught her off guard. "I fell in love."

A fold between her brows took shape. "In love?"

All at once, the mountain of a man softened, his gruffness melting away like morning fog. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny, well-worn portrait of a curvaceous brunette, her warm brown eyes captured in delicate brushstrokes.

"This is my Millicent." His voice dropped to reverence, as if her portrait were an altar for his worship. "We've been married ten years now. She's a master seamstress... and she makes the best damn mead you’ll ever drink."

Vivienne stared at the portrait, then at Gus. He’s like a lovesick teenager. A twinge of envy twisted in her ribs. She ached for something like that—a love deep enough to leave behind an entire life of piracy and never look back.

"You must miss her."

Gus exhaled a deep, weighted sigh, a glimmer of silver lining his eyes. "Every day." He ran a thumb over the edge of the tiny portrait, the touch gentle despite the roughness of his hands. "But she knows every part of me that ain’t hers belongs to the sea."

Vivienne’s mouth curved upward. She hadn't expected this conversation to leave her feeling... hopeful. There were people in this world who loved deeply, people who carried each other across oceans, through distance and time. She wished for that kind of love for everyone.

Well.

Everyone except Bianca.

* * *

Vivienne kept her eyes on her plate as she sat with Gus and his crew, the low murmur of their conversation and the occasional bursts of laughter barely registering. Across the deck, Lewis stood with a group of sailors, his back to her. He still wasn’t speaking to her. He disappeared from view as he descended the stairs toward the galley.

She shoved several bites of stew into her mouth, chewing mechanically as Gus finished off his meal. His accordion emerged from its case, signaling the shift from dinner to evening leisure, Vivienne took it as her cue. She wouldn’t let Lewis do the dinner dishes alone, no matter how much he ignored her.

The metallic clang of tin plates and the steady slosh of water reached her ears as she descended into the galley, her boots tapping against the steps.

But it wasn’t Lewis at the makeshift sink.

Cirrus stood over a towering stack of rinsed plates, his sleeves rolled up, soapy water dripping from his forearms.

Vivienne squinted, startled. "Cirrus? What are you doing here? Where’s Lewis?"

“Blume is elsewhere.” His ice-blue eyes snapped to hers, irritation clear in their depths. "I read your name in the medical log." He tossed a plate into the water, the splash echoing through the cramped space. "Why in the everdark didn’t you tell me about your hands?"

Vivienne stiffened, surprised by the accusation in his tone.

"I didn’t think it mattered," she said with a small, dismissive wave.

Cirrus’ jaw ticked, his grip tightening on the edge of the wooden table. "If you don’t tell me these things, I can’t help you." His voice rose, frustration marinating every word.

Vivienne crossed her arms. "Who says I need your help?"

"Gods, Vivienne," Cirrus hung his head, his knuckles whitening against the table. "Maybe you don’t need it, but what would it hurt to accept it once in a while?" His gaze returned to hers, the anger dimming. "Can you just—" he exhaled heavily "—let me help?"

Her eyes widened, mouth parting. She had no response. The truth was, she didn’t know how to let people help her. She’d always been led to believe it made you look weak, vulnerable, or incapable.

“Fine.” Vivienne sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. "Thank you," she murmured.

Cirrus huffed out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "You're impossible, Banns."

Vivienne’s shoulders tensed at the nickname but she didn’t fight it. Not this time.

She glanced at the remaining dishes. "What if I helped you finish washing?"

Cirrus rolled his eyes, shaking soapy water off his hands. "Or…" He nodded toward a small barrel near the sink. “You could sit there and keep me company."

Vivienne paused, then perched herself on the barrel, watching him work.

Silence stretched.

What do we talk about? The voyage? The weather? Our breakup? What delightful choices.

Cirrus sensed her hesitation. "So," he said, relieving them of the quiet. "What have you been up to these past few years?"

Vivienne knew what he was really asking. What have you done since leaving me?

She didn’t have a grand answer.

"I’ve been apprenticing under my parents at the Library of Metis." She shrugged, toying with the bandages on her hands. "Spent a lot of time with Johanna, Briar, and Lewis."

Cirrus’ expression tensed at Lewis’ name. That had always been their biggest fight—how much time she spent with her best friend. Her single, eligible, male best friend.

"You’ve always been… consistent," Cirrus muttered, his mouth tight.

Vivienne narrowed her eyes, recognizing the subtext. Predictable. Stubborn. Unwilling to change.

She tilted her chin up. "And you? Have you been sailing this whole time?" She bit the inside of her cheek, then added, "How much have you traveled with my parents?"

Cirrus rinsed a dish, his fingers drumming against the tin. "Almost the entire time." His voice was even, but layers of conflict brewed below the surface. "I couldn't go back to Roanthe, and I didn't have a reason to be in Fendwyr anymore. I really only ever had one reason to stay."

His eyes lingered on her. He let the words settle between them before continuing. "I sailed with your parents right after you… called things off. We traveled together for eight months or so."

Vivienne’s fingernails dug into the bandages on her palms. The way he said it—as if she alone had unraveled them. She bit her tongue, choosing not to argue. Not now.

Cirrus exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "Hey, do you mind—" he nodded toward the tendril of white-blonde hair that had fallen into his face, his hands still submerged in murky dishwater.

Before she could think better of it, Vivienne rose from the barrel and stepped closer, reaching out.

Cirrus froze.

Vivienne brushed the loose strand behind his ear, her fingers grazing his temple.

Cirrus’ eyes locked onto hers, the flickering lantern light accenting the silver streaks in his irises.

Too close. Too familiar. Too much like before.

Above them, Gus' accordion wheezed to life, the breeze carrying the notes of a lively tune.

Vivienne stepped back like she'd been burned, breaking the moment.

Cirrus' lips twitched. "Go ahead," he encouraged. "I'm almost done here anyway."

Vivienne lingered for a second too long. She paused on the first step, looking over her shoulder. "Thank you again."

Cirrus simply smiled, dipping his head in acknowledgment. The same white-blonde tendril fell back into his face, right where it had been.

As she climbed the stairs, she considered fixing it again.

But she didn’t.

* * *

The rich, brassy exhale of Gus’ accordion filled the night air, the notes dancing over the main deck like embers on the wind. Vivienne had to admit—for a man who looked like he could break someone in half with one hand, the accordion suited him perfectly. Something about the twinkle in his eye, the flourish of his twirled mustache, and the way his massive fingers handled the instrument made the entire scene feel whimsical.

A roar of cheers erupted.

Vivienne turned, catching sight of Captain Garrett striding through the crew, grinning as he waved. Behind him, a more reserved but equally commanding presence followed. Commander Thorne.

The energy on deck shifted, sailors straightening as the captain approached, his demeanor as steadying as the ship’s keel.

"How are the finest sailors, on the finest vessel ever to set sail, doing tonight?" Captain Garrett called, opening his arms wide.

A resounding cheer shook the deck in response.

Vivienne watched as the captain clasped hands, clapped shoulders, and asked questions as though he knew each sailor personally. Thorne, on the other hand, remained just a step behind, nodding in acknowledgment but speaking little.

She found herself watching the commander longer than intended. There was something impressive about the way he moved through the crew, offering a curt nod or a sharp look, always recognizing them by name.

Gus’ voice boomed above the din, "To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, captain?"

The captain planted his feet, sliding his thumbs through his belt loops, surveying the gathered crew with a knowing smile. A slow hush fell over the deck.

"My dear crew," he began, pausing for effect, "I had the burning need…" he exhaled dramatically "…to tell a story."

The resulting cheers doubled in volume.

Vivienne flinched at the sheer force of it, glancing around as sailors eagerly dropped onto the wooden planks, forming rows like school children at story hour.

Florence elbowed her way through the crowd, cursing in at least three languages. "Sit down, you brutes! The captain can't start until everyone is seated!"

Vivienne shook her head, bemused. She’d seen kids at the library show this much excitement for storytime, but a group of scarred, tattooed, sea-weathered sailors? That was new.

Captain Garrett balanced himself on a barrel, his sea-green eyes glinting as he surveyed his audience. Thorne leaned against the railing, arms crossed, one foot resting against the planks.

Is this what he looks like when he’s relaxed?

Before she could dwell on it, a familiar figure sidled up next to her.

"I’m done being mad at you now," Lewis muttered, his gaze fixed on the deck as he slipped his hands into his pockets.

Vivienne sighed, relief flooding through her. "Good, because I’m done with you ignoring me."

Lewis brightened. "Oh! Guess what!" He dropped his voice to a gleeful whisper. "Cirrus had to do our dishes shift tonight—he pissed off the commander."

Vivienne’s brow arched. "Oh, really?"

Lewis nodded, eyes sparkling. "I went down to the galley, and Cirrus was already washing."

As if summoned, a familiar shock of wavy white-blonde hair emerged from the staircase. Cirrus caught her eye, gave a small wave, and flashed an innocent smile.

Vivienne pressed her lips together in suspicion. What are you up to, Cirrus?

The captain cleared his throat, and the crew instantly quieted. The last traces of daylight spilled over the water, casting a golden glow deepening the anticipation in the air.

"Long ago," Captain Garrett began, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush, "there sailed a great ship—not unlike our lady Zephyrus—called the Tempest’s Veil. But this was no ordinary vessel. Oh no… this ship was bewitched."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the sailors. Excited, skeptical, enthralled.

Vivienne flicked her gaze to Thorne, who looked less than impressed.

The captain smirked. "Why am I not surprised you’re a nonbeliever, Thorne?"

Thorne exhaled, unamused. "I do my best not to surprise you, captain."

Garrett chuckled, undeterred. "The world was once humming with enchantments, full of all manner of magic."

Thorne scoffed. "Sure… and Gus once had hair."

The deck erupted in laughter. Gus’ deep, booming laugh was the loudest of all, his mustache twitching with mirth.

And for the first time since she’d met him, Commander Thorne smiled. A wide, bright, undeniably human smile. The dimple she’d noticed before carved deep into his cheek. Vivienne stared, barely breathing.

Lewis nudged her with a sharp elbow. "Oh my gods," he whispered. "Did the statue just make a joke?"

Vivienne grinned, shaking her head in disbelief. "Maybe the captain is right," she whispered back, "magic might still exist after all."

The day had been full of surprises: a doctor who nearly became an opera singer, a pirate-turned-boatswain hopelessly in love, and a captain who could spin a tale that captivated even the roughest sailors.

To top it off, her ex-fiancé spent hours doing dishes to spare her hands.

Vivienne let out a breath. She had a feeling this voyage was going to continue to surprise her.