Page 52 of The Sea Witch (Salt & Sorcery #1)

The seawater in the basin changed from clear to pink and then to a rusty red as Ben bathed in Alys’s quarters. He emptied

the basin out the window twice and refilled it with water. He’d stained three cloths, but he couldn’t consign them to the

ocean. They were heaped beside the bulkhead, to be taken away later. Whoever did the laundry aboard the Sea Witch was surely familiar with getting blood out of fabric.

Ben stared down at his now clean skin. Though his markings now stood out in bold relief, the last traces of the Redthorn’s

blood were gone.

Not so. His clothing bore permanent traces of what he’d done. An oxidized pattern heralding a decision he could not, would

not, undo.

Alys had disappeared after their brief encounter on the top deck. His gaze kept straying to the door.

Without the manacles weighing down his movements, he pulled on his breeches. God, fresh clothing would be incredibly welcome.

But what would those garments be? The ensemble he wore as a naval navigator? Or something else?

He turned his wrists this way and that. Red chafed skin glowered at him. He might always bear the reminder on his flesh of

the time he’d been held prisoner aboard the Sea Witch . He wasn’t held captive any longer. His sword through the monk’s chest and throat was the closing of a door. On one side of the doorway was his life in the Royal Navy. On the other side... he didn’t know.

Alys strode into her quarters.

“Shipshape.” Like him, she appeared to have bathed, her wet hair spread on her shoulders. She wore a linen shirt and laced

bodice of deep wine-colored twill, along with her favored leather breeches and tall boots. The bodice had the added benefit

of lifting her breasts, freckled half-moons rising above the neckline.

He held himself still as she approached him.

When she stood less than a foot away, she asked, “May I touch you?”

“You may.”

His chest heaved as she ran her hand over his pectorals, tracing the patterns.

Their gazes locked as she continued to touch his flesh, skin against skin. She drizzled more water down his arms. Her fingers

skimmed along the corrugations of his abdomen. His muscles twitched.

“I wanted to see these again.” She eyed his markings, and traced the patterns that twisted and wove across his body. “Remind

myself of what they looked like.”

“I hate them.”

She laid her hand against his chest. Her eyes widened, no doubt because his heart pounded against her palm. “I saw them, back

there at the monastery.”

“My markings?”

“In a book in the Redthorn’s library. I’d recognized the language this time. It was the same as the parish register at the

church in Domingo.”

“Latin.” He straightened. “You brought books back with you.”

“Not that one.” Regret flashed across her face. “Someone took it.”

“Who?”

“A powerful mage. Got no fealty to anyone. Only himself.” She added, frowning, “I’d heard, once, he had an allegiance, but

that’s long past.”

“Who’s this mage?”

“Luca Pasquale. Good fortune to you in finding him. This sea’s too vast, and he’s as manageable as a hurricane.”

Ben swore. “The Redthorn... seemed to recognize me. Said something about me being the first. And that’s two books now that

had illustrations of these things on my skin. There’s a riddle written on my flesh.”

“We’ll find the answer.” She said this like a vow, her hand on his chest pressing against him firmly.

We , she had said. Not you . We.

He covered her hand with his.

“I was going to destroy it. The fail-safe.” When her expression didn’t change, he said, “My plan was to help you find it.”

“And make sure no one could use it.” She didn’t slide her hand out from beneath his.

“No anger? No recrimination?”

“I didn’t keep those manacles on you because I thought they looked pretty.” She glanced down at his chafed wrists and clicked

her tongue. “Fatima will have a salve for that. Should heal up within a few days, even if the salve stinks like rotten haddock.”

He stared at her. “At the least, throw me back in the brig. I was going to betray you .”

“Betrayal doesn’t look like your cutlass through a Redthorn’s chest and throat. And it doesn’t sound like you confessing your

plan, either. A plan that sounds abandoned.”

“It is,” he said firmly.

“I can’t be angry on account of you trying to carry out your duty. But,” she added, pressing her fingers against him as if she could learn the truth of his heart through touch, “I don’t know what your duty is now.”

He hauled in a long rough breath. “At the Weeping Princess waterfall, we took that step over the edge, hoping we’d fly to

the bottom and not smash against the rocks below. This feels like that.”

“You flew, didn’t you?”

“It was more of a controlled plummet, but yes. And I did it because...” He swallowed. “Because you were with me, and I

trusted you.”

There were so many colors in her eyes. Moss and amber and the tiniest flecks of summer sky. The whole of the world contained

in her irises, and that world was warm, brimming with life.

“Trust your own judgment,” she answered. “Trust yourself.”

A knock sounded on the door.

“Got the things you wanted, Cap’n,” someone in the passageway said.

Alys stepped back, her hand sliding out from beneath his. To the door, she called, “Bring them in.”

Ben moved to slip on his grimy shirt.

“No need for that,” Alys said to him as Jane and a crew member named Cecily marched into her quarters, their arms laden with

garments. To the crew, Alys instructed, “Put them on my berth.”

Only Cecily glanced in his direction, her gaze skimming quickly over his bare but marked torso, before she turned her attention

back to laying out each article of clothing. They appeared to be very ornate clothes, with gold braid, shiny buttons, and

brocade fabric.

“Here’s everything we could find, Cap’n,” Cecily said with a deferential nod. “Something’s got to work amongst all this.”

“We’ll find what we need,” Alys answered. When she looked toward the door, the crew took this as a clear sign of dismissal,

and they filed out, carefully shutting the door behind them.

Ben moved toward her berth to examine the clothes. “These are men’s garments.”

“What we’re searching for is at Lethal Lambert’s table. His estate is... wild.”

“How wild?”

“When he’s throwing one of his parties, orgies have been known to break out. Yet Lambert likes everyone to be clean. The blueblood

in him.”

“We’ve both bathed,” Ben noted.

“Tomorrow afternoon, we reach Lambert’s island,” she explained. “I suppose you’d call it an enclave for pirates. He’s a man

who values prosperity, or at least looking prosperous. To take a seat at his table, you’ve got to look like you’re thriving.”

“Wait...” Ben held up a hand. “Orgies?”

“It can turn into one.”

“So, you’ve...”

A corner of her mouth turned up wryly. “It’s a careful line I walk, as a witch and a female pirate. Having others watch me

fuck wouldn’t do my reputation any favors.”

Ben exhaled and the knot in his gut unraveled. They weren’t virgins, either of them. Yet at the mental image of her eagerly

participating in a public bacchanal, his jaw turned to iron.

“Lambert might be having a party, he might not, but he always likes a festive mood,” she continued. “With you beside me at

the pirate refuge, the right rigging is needed.”

Forcing his jaw to unclench, Ben picked through the assortment of coats, waistcoats, shirts, neckcloths, and breeches. They

all were of excellent quality, and came in every hue and fabric. Amongst the coats, there was a vivid emerald green with golden

braid, a deep aquatic blue trimmed in peach ribbon, and a rich claret adorned with black soutache, like calligraphy written

upon the silk.

Something she had said snared his attention. “A pirate refuge. Then I’m to pose as...”

She slanted a look at him. “Lambert’s quite particular about who he lets feast with him. Only the Brethren of the Coast.”

“This choice is dizzying.” He examined the array of coats on her berth. They were far more elaborate and ornate than anything

he’d ever worn.

“One of them must call to you,” she answered carefully. “When you played pirate, how’d you see yourself?”

His heart kicked within his ribs, and he rubbed at his chest.

“This one.” He stroked his fingers along the cuff of the claret coat, with its dark braid scrolling in mysterious patterns.

“Bold, sensuous,” she said with approval. “Daring, with substance.”

She searched through the waistcoats and grabbed one that was black with silver embroidery, which she handed to him.

“A good pairing,” he said. “Unexpected.”

“But they work well together, despite the odds.” She stroked a finger down the lapel of the coat. “Give them a try.”

He took one of the clean shirts and pulled it on. Then he donned the waistcoat, followed by the coat.

“I take it they fit well,” he said dryly, seeing the smile bloom across her lips.

She opened a trunk and pulled out a large flat object wrapped in a silk blanket. Unwrapping the blanket, she revealed a mirror

of decent size, framed in carved and gilded wood. She held it up for him.

He started at his reflection, the first time he’d seen himself in a long, long while. His beard was thick and dark, his hair

loose, and in these small details, he was no longer a warrant officer in the Royal Navy. No longer neat, trim, tidy, but wilder,

closer to the living pulse of the sea than ever before. His eyes held knowledge of things that the other Benjamin Priestley

did not possess.

“They suit you.”

Her admiring words broke his stunned reverie.

He stepped back to see more of the ensemble. It was all he could do to keep from turning and preening at the reflection of a dangerous, daring man looking back at him. But then... fuck it.

He turned. He preened.

“You look a fearsome, dashing pirate,” she added, eyes bright.

“I do.” He loved the way the fuller skirt of the coat flared when he moved. It was dramatic and dashing, as she’d said. And