Page 25 of The Sea Witch (Salt & Sorcery #1)

She dragged her hand back and curled it into a fist. At the same time, she returned her attention to her meal, as if she hadn’t

seen Josephine’s version of mutton stewed with potatoes, carrots, and island peppers hundreds of times.

“It can be, if you’re a pirate,” she said. “Even more so if you’re a witch.”

He resumed eating, his manacles making dull metallic sounds as he moved. Perhaps they were rubbing against the skin of his

wrists, but if they caused him pain, he made no mention of it. “I vow not to thank you again.”

“See that you don’t. There’s no value to me from your high regard.”

“I have a usefulness. For now. And nothing beyond that.”

She appreciated that there wasn’t any hurt in his words. “This,” she noted, gesturing to the space between them as they sat

at the table, “is brief-lived, and exists only because you’ve got knowledge my crew doesn’t.”

“It won’t end well for you,” he said softly. “For pirates, it never does.”

“Have some imagination.” She poured herself another mug of ale before silently offering to refresh his own mug. At his nod, she poured a healthy amount of ale. “Some buccaneers die in bed, surrounded by wealth and luxury. Or become governor, such as Woodes Rogers.”

“Fortune doesn’t smile upon exceptions. It’s merely proof that anyone, even a murderous scoundrel, can exploit the world to

their advantage.”

She was silent, and then said quietly, “Even if you find the pirate responsible for your father’s death, you’ll have to sail

forward. Say you get your vengeance, in whatever form it takes, it changes nothing about the past.”

His jaw set. “That’s a concern I’ll face when I get there. Until then, it’s the course I know.”

She stood from the table and walked to the window that ran the length of the stern, giving her cabin a view of the sea churning

behind the ship. The Sea Witch wasn’t the largest brigantine, and she cut a clean line through the water, so she had a narrow wake.

“What’s at the end of your voyage, Sailing Master? If you locate and punish whoever’s responsible, if you get off my ship, then what? More esteemed service to His Majesty? A pension and a quiet life in a seaside villa when gray

threads your hair? I hear tending roses is a favorite thing to do, when you’re no longer at sea.”

“You’ve no idea what I hope for.”

Her lips twisted, wry. “Many sailors turn buccaneer when they learn the terms of pirate articles. Good pay, decent working

conditions, and extra coin if they’re hurt or maimed and can no longer serve on the ship. In one year, I’ve had only two occasions

to flog members of my company. Once for hiding a share of booty for themselves without reporting it.”

“The second?”

She turned to face him, and he was watching her carefully, his attention sharp and purposeful.

“Torturing a captive.” She tilted her head. “That’s a look of astonishment if ever I’ve seen one. You believe we’re a lawless

band of vicious thieves.”

“Pirates are vicious thieves. There isn’t a single one free from that charge.”

“Painting with a broad stroke, when you’re blind to the details. A handful of days ago, you hadn’t even met a female pirate.”

He pushed back from the table and walked slowly toward her, giving her fair chance to move away and place distance between

them. Yet she stayed where she was, allowing him to cross the breadth of the cabin until he stood in front of her. She was

within striking distance—they both were. It would be simple enough for him to lash out, perhaps wrap the length of chain between

his manacles across her throat and pull hard enough to steal her words and her life.

She had a dagger in her sash. She could have the blade in her hand and through his windpipe before he could blink. She could

force the air from his body, suffocating him.

A current of fire ran through her body. It intoxicated her to test this possibility, and press against the danger that vibrated

between them.

“There’s no reason to do it,” he said lowly. “To take up a profession rife with men who are, in your words, a lawless band

of vicious thieves.”

“In your words, murderous scoundrels. My company is entirely composed of women.”

“By design.”

“Ask anyone aboard the Sea Witch the same question: what have men ever done for you? You’ll get the same answer: nothing good.”

For the remainder of her days, she’d see Ellen’s lifeless form swaying gently in the late fall breeze, or how the line of torches had made their way toward the harbor.

“ Curb your tongue ,” Samuel used to hiss when they were amongst the other villagers.

Other voices echoed: the upstanding men of Norham, coming to arrest her, kill her.

To her surprise, Ben didn’t scoff. Instead, he rubbed at his chin, considering what she’d said. “To become pirates .”

“As opposed to what?” She set her hands on her hips as she stared up at him. “Meek wives. Doting daughters. Spinster sisters

dependent on someone to clothe and feed them, and give them a place to lay their heads each night. Robbed of the magical gifts

we were born with. Forced to be ordinary, to be safe to men and their pride. Hunted and killed if we refuse to comply. Aboard the Sea Witch , we answer to ourselves alone. The only boundary is the endless limit of the horizon.”

“Pursuing such a choice can only result in your death.”

“Death is the result for everyone, not just pirates,” she returned. “Whether we are sainted Madonnas or fallen whores, we

all die. And if you’re a witch, it’s almost certain your life’s cut short. This way, no man tells us who to be or how to live.

I doubt you can say the same.”

He jabbed his finger toward her. “The law is master over all of us, including you and your renegade band of women.”

“Laws that benefit some but harm more are no laws to me. If that means sailing to the fiery gates of hell sooner rather than

later, I know the better option. Where I was from, there were laws against witches, but simply because a law exists doesn’t

make it just.”

His jaw tightened, and his chest rose and fell.

“Everythin’ all right in there, Cap’n?” a crew member asked on the other side of the door. “There was shoutin’ fit to make

us think the ship was afire.”

Alys forced herself to take long, even breaths. Hell. She hadn’t realized she was yelling until that moment—and she never raised her voice except in the heat of battle.

“Everything is fine, Cora,” Alys answered, her gaze never leaving Ben’s. “A friendly chat.”

“Bit loud for friendly ,” Cora noted.

A corner of Ben’s lips quirked. Low enough so that only she could hear him, he said, “Herein lies the fault in such a democratic

approach to seafaring.”

“I’d rather a crew member with a bit of sass than a cat-o’-nine-tails on my back, or a husband’s ring on my finger or a noose

around my neck.” Louder for Cora, she added, “Back to your supper, Cora. There’s nothing here I can’t handle.”

“As you like, Cap’n.” Footsteps retreated in the passageway.

Alys and Ben continued to regard each other. Thank the trade winds she’d gotten back some of her poise. Fortunately, so had

he. Pushed to the edge of his composure, he held an edge, a sharp gleam of possibility. What else might get him to unravel

more? What would he look like... what would he do... when he did lose control?

“You’re confident that you can handle me,” he noted.

“I’ve done a fine job of it so far.” She pushed past him, though he barely budged when she tried to jostle him out of the

way. The contact of his solid shoulder with hers thrummed through her.

“Having me in irons hardly seems a fair assessment of how well you’d do against me in a one-on-one fight, cutlass against

cutlass.”

“Trying to nettle me into freeing you, just for the sake of my vanity.” She shook her head.

“Men are vain. It stands to reason women are, too.”

At her desk, she took the key that hung from a cord around her neck and used it to unlock a drawer. Taking her logbook out,

she set it atop her desk and also removed a quill and pot of ink, but then paused, debating.

“You claim you can wield a cutlass,” she said after a moment. “What’s your skill in wielding a pen?”

“I keep my own log that the captain and admiral review,” he answered. “And write correspondence for seamen that don’t know

their letters.”

“Then you’re used to it, writing down what someone tells to you.”

He took a step toward her, his expression carefully neutral. “If there’s something you’d like me to transcribe for you, I

can.”

“Stasia—she can speak English better than I can, but she wants to improve her ability to read and write it. To help her, it’s

become our habit that I speak my captain’s log, and she writes it down.” Gruffly, Alys added, “I’m used to it now. Haven’t

written my own log in close to a year. Nothing personal in it, but...”

Without speaking, he pulled a stool away from the table and set it in front of the desk. He flicked the full skirt of his

coat out before sitting, then picked up the quill. It was surprising, how fluidly he could move, even with the shackles and

manacles.

Ben hovered its nib over the waiting inkpot.

She drew in a breath, then opened the book to the next blank page, before sliding it toward him.

He dipped the nib into the ink and looked up at her expectantly.

“The Eighteenth of May,” she began, “1720.”

The nib scratched across the paper as he wrote with an exceptional hand, bold but elegant.

Once the date was inscribed, he glanced up at her again, waiting without judgment. Yet she wouldn’t unlock his manacles. Aboard

this ship, he was still a prisoner. Still the enemy.

She couldn’t allow herself to forget that.