When Whitley winds up on the top of a pirate hit-list thanks to her con-artist father, she must hide her identity and board another pirate ship, trusting in one shape-shifting pirate named Bluff to help her escape. Too bad you can never, ever, trust...
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The wind rushes at me, tossing my hair about recklessly. The soft tickle over my skin would feel good, if there weren't also a bite of cold laced through the air.
The squeak of ropes followed by the grunt of effort alerts me to someone approaching. I peer over the edge of the crow's nest and nearly topple all the way down to the main deck when I see wild blond hair flying and blue skirt billowing in the violent wind. Whitley is climbing up to me.
Suddenly, my heart leaps. I can't control the spinning of my mind. I image all the wonderful things this could mean—what could happen once she gets up here. The last time we spent the night in the crow's nest, I was determined to stay away from her. This time, I long for the chance to get as close as possible.
Something has broken her from her reverie and I couldn't be more thankful, even just for the chance to talk with her again.
It takes longer than I'd like for her to reach me. I hold out a hand as she comes into reach, and she hands me a tote, it's heavier than I anticipated. I fling it behind me, then reach for her, but she shifts to the side, pulling herself up on her own.
I turn to the bag she handed me. Inside is a glass bottle.
"Rum?" I ask with a smirk, cheeks growing warm, remembering the last time we spent the night in the crow's next.
Whitley's eyebrows pull down in confusion. "Soup. It was the only way we could figure to bring it all the way up here."
I nod slowly. "Right. So no rum then?"
Her eyebrows pull down. "Was I supposed to bring rum?"
"No, I just thought because that's what we had last time we spent time here... Never mind."
She looks down at her hands, mouth tight. "We spent time here?" she says, more to herself than to me.
"You don't remember?"
She meets my gaze with her silvery eyes and shakes her head. "Some of my memories... are slipping," she admits.
That makes sense. She lost pieces of who she was when she turned siren. Somehow, she held on to some of her humanity, but how much is hard to say.
I look up into the bright sky, and leaning against the wooden planks. Does she remember any of it? Does she remember falling in love with me?
I take in another long breath and then pull the stew from the bag, pour a bit into each bowl and hand one to her. She stares at it like it's foreign. Red liquid sloshes with the movement of the ship. I press the bowl to my lips and slowly tip. It's warm, but not hot and too salty. Pirate stew. Can't expect much from it.
She watches me with her unnatural eyes. I try to pretend not to notice and simply stare straight ahead, sipping quietly.
