Page 22 of The Sea Witch (Salt & Sorcery #1)

Ben started into wakefulness. The manacles on his wrists and irons on his ankles jangled with the movement and rubbed against

his skin.

He was still Alys Tanner’s captive.

Immediately, he turned toward her berth. Perhaps she’d still be asleep. Maybe he’d be fortunate or cursed enough to watch

her dress.

She was gone. The berth was neatly made, as it had been the day before. Surprising that she would take the time to be so fastidious

to tuck in her blankets, though a dent remained in her pillow.

Three bells rang out. Early in the morning.

She’d quitted her cabin without a word to him.

A peculiar heaviness settled in his chest—doubtless because he was still sleeping poorly in an unfamiliar place and had strayed from his routine.

He always woke at four bells, washed, brushed his clothes to ensure they were neat and trim as befitting a sailing master.

Once he was satisfied with his appearance, he broke his fast with the other warrant officers, and immediately went topside to take readings and chart the ship’s course.

He spent his days going up and down the rigging to ensure his readings were accurate.

Dinner at eight bells, including his single drink of rum.

Then reviewing charts, reading a few pages of edifying works of literature, and finally to his berth.

Now, all of that had been thrown off.

A pitcher and basin waited for him on a slim spare table. Thank God. He went to them and splashed water on his face, his manacles

jangling. Well, he wouldn’t trust himself, either.

She’d no idea his intentions toward the fail-safe.

The door to the cabin swung open and an angular, narrow-shouldered member of the crew came in, bearing a bowl and a mug.

It would take a very long time for him to get used to the sight of a woman in trousers, including the wide-legged ones worn

by this particular female. At the least, they were much looser than the tight leather breeches worn by Alys, which left little

to his admittedly detailed imagination. It didn’t help that he no longer had to rely on imagination to picture the captain’s

bare legs.

The crew member set the mug and bowl down on the table. In a brusque colonial accent she clipped, “The cap’n says I’m to answer

your questions.”

“What’s your name?”

She glanced at him suspiciously, then said, “Jane.”

“Did you meet Captain Tanner here in the Caribbean?”

“She and I came from Norham,” Jane answered. “Our village in Massachusetts.”

“You were friends?”

“One of my few.” Jane’s mouth twisted. “I had no need for friends, or so my husband believed. He had strong opinions when

he saw me talking to anyone he didn’t approve of. He didn’t approve of many.”

She gently pressed a hand to the side of her pale freckled face, as if touching a bruise even though her skin was unmarked.

A leaden weight formed in Ben’s gut.

Jane shook herself, then cocked her head, her brow furrowing. “She said you’d ask me about something that happened five years ago, here, in these waters. Not about life in that piece of shit village.”

“Yes. Right. Do you know of any pirate’s involvement in the murder of Captain Daniel Priestley? I know you’ve only been in

the Caribbean for a year, but perhaps you’ve heard something, perhaps a piece of gossip or rumor, or someone said something

in your presence that might indicate they had a hand in it. Or perhaps they knew someone who did.”

Jane exhaled. “I keep to myself whenever I go ashore. Hard to break the habit, I suppose.”

“So, you’ve heard nothing.”

“I have my haunts, and the sort of people who frequent them don’t trade in that kind of information.”

“What about Louis Dupont, Edward Best, or Diego Sanchez? Know anything about them? What they might have been doing five years

ago?”

“I don’t want to know what they do a quarter of an hour ago,” she answered, folding her arms across her chest. “Men like them

bring nothing but strife.”

“I see.”

“Apologies I couldn’t be of more help,” Jane said with surprising kindness. “Forty-five people crew the Sea Witch . Someone’s got to be useful to you.” She nodded toward the bowl and mug. “Josephine made hasty pudding. We’re always happy

on hasty pudding days.”

With that, Jane left the cabin. The unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock followed.

He sat at the table and ate. The porridge was flavorful and well-cooked, made with ground maize cooked in milk, and studded with dried fruit and a swirl of honey.

Moments later, his spoon scraped the bottom of his now empty bowl.

It was a far cry from most of the rations in the Royal Navy.

As a warrant officer, his food was slightly better than what the rest of the crew ate, but that still didn’t make it particularly palatable.

Soon after he finished his meal, there came a knock at the door. Why even bother knocking when he was, for all intents, a

prisoner? Yet he wouldn’t begrudge them the courtesy.

“May I come in, sir? Cap’n bid me come and talk with ye.”

“You may.”

The door was unlocked, and a woman with curly brown hair and a cautious smile poked her head in. “Now a good time, sir? I

can come back if you’re, em, occupied.”

“Your company is welcome.” He stood. “I only have a few questions to ask you. Who do I have the honor of addressing?”

She flushed pink but didn’t look away. “I’ll do my best to answer ’em. Oh, I’m Cora.”

“Cora, have you heard anything relating to the murder of Captain Daniel Priestley of the Royal Navy...”

And so it went for the duration of the morning. One after another, the crew of the Sea Witch came to speak with him. Some were shy, like Cora, others were suspicious, or contemptuous. The quartermaster looked ready

to disembowel him with barely a lift of her eyebrow. Fewer of the crew were actually friendly, but they all answered with

honesty. At least, they seemed to be speaking the truth.

Each of the Sea Witch ’s crew members met his gaze. None of them fidgeted or touched their mouths or repeated his words back to him or offered too

many details.

By the time the last of the company left the cabin, three hours had passed.

“Thank you for your time,” he said to the final crew member, a Frenchwoman named Thérèse with tattoos on her hands and encircling

her wrists. The sides of her head were close-cropped, leaving her amber hair longer on top and the back. Everyone aboard the

Sea Witch seemed inclined to adapt their appearance to whatever pleased them, rather than adhere to prevailing beauty customs.

“De rien,” she answered with a shrug. “And now I am to take you above deck, to see Madame Capitaine.”

Ben straightened, tugging on his waistcoat and smoothing his hair. The chain between his manacles bumped against his nose.

He stopped when he caught Thérèse smirking at him.

“Come with me,” she said, “and try nothing or I will make use of this.” She plucked a trio of metal nails from her pocket,

then spun her fingers through the air. The nails transformed into a glowing spiked sphere that hovered above her palm. “It

attaches to the skin like a burr but it hurts much more than a burr. Much, much more.”

“Your warning has been taken into consideration.”

He hurried toward the door. He tried to hurry, but even after climbing the mainmast in his chains, he hadn’t mastered the art of walking whilst manacled, and

the shackles made him exceptionally slow and clumsy. Thérèse rolled her eyes at him, but said nothing as she pushed him along

the passageway, the enchanted burr at her fingertips ready to be deployed.

As he wended his way through the ship, Alys’s presence was an invisible sun. She burned through all the decks and bulkheads

that lay between them, heating him from a distance. Even if Thérèse wasn’t there to guide him, he’d know where to find the

captain. His feet automatically went up the companionway steps that led above deck.

Dazzled, disoriented, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the actual sun in the sky. The smell of seawater filled his

nostrils. Yet he heard nothing except the creaking of the sheets and canvas sails, and waves lapping against the ship. No

voices, no commands.

Everyone was silent.

Slowly, his vision came back to him. Dozens of female faces stared at him. He had met all of them, spoken to each, and some still looked at him with distrust and curiosity.

A collection of animals, including several cats, various birds, rodents, lizards, two dogs, and a small pig all curled together,

napping in the sun. So many different beasts cohabitated peacefully together. Witches’ familiars.

“No idling, navy man.” Thérèse brandished the glowing burr for emphasis.

Staying ahead of her, he clanked his way up the quarterdeck. He followed the ember of Alys’s presence. Her face was turned

toward the horizon as she stood at the wheel, steering the vessel. A fist closed around his heart, squeezing, welcoming and

painful.

The Greek woman, her quartermaster, leaned against the rail and watched Ben through narrowed eyes.

“I have him, Thérèse,” Alys said. “You can return to your duties.”

Thérèse brought her fingers together, and the spiked ball turned back into three metal nails. After pocketing them, she turned

to go, but not before shooting Ben a warning glare.

“Anyone who says women are the gentler sex hasn’t been aboard a pirate ship entirely crewed by females,” he said to the captain.

“There’s a whole flotilla of us?” she asked archly, though she didn’t gaze in his direction.

“The Sea Witch might be the only one of its kind.”

“We are,” she answered, still not looking at him, “in all ways extraordinary.”

“Anyone who argues otherwise is a fool.”

“And you’re no fool, Sailing Master.”

Her hands turned the handles of the wheel with a loose yet capable grip.

“Even more extraordinary, no helmsman, but a captain at the wheel,” he added.

“Hua’s our coxswain, but every now and again I like to take the helm. Get the feel of the ship beneath me and the wind in

her sails.”