Sonja Nehalenniasdóttir is finally free. After a daring escape from servitude and a sharp rise to first mate of the North Sea's most notorious pirate crew, she's survived punishing storms, several double crosses, and even diffused a mutiny against t...
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SAILS OF WRATH AND SILVER ✵ III. ——————————————————
Sonja saw Strijk was hungering the moment he locked the door. What she didn't know was what for. Information, an apology, the curve of her waist? He stalked through the little room as she settled on the foot of the mattress, removing her sash and draping it over a bed post.
The inn they'd come to wasn't special, just another building of washed stone and dark wood crammed onto the island's rocky hillcrest. The walls were thin, but the half-drunk drivel of the crowd permanently crammed into the main hall always covered what went on between them. Maybe that's what drew them to the inn time after time; it was both private and communal, sleepy and awake. Their stays were often damp and dark and cost more than Sonja thought was reasonable, but were some of the only times she could share Strijk's company without the crew. Such respite was welcome, especially after evading storms and men she thought she'd stranded in her past.
Though they'd left Mister Mooren rattled and robbed, Sonja couldn't stop thinking about his and Van der Zee's threats. The last time she'd heard from either of them was in Amsterdam, mere months after her escape. She'd been working for an apothecary to stay out of trouble and had seen Van der Zee outside the customs house in Amsterdam, Mister Mooren trailing after him with the books containing the family accounts like an obedient hound. The sight of them had been enough to scare her into stowing away on the nearest ship come morning. It was at sea, fleeing the Low Countries for Sweden, that she'd last heard Van der Zee's name and hoped she would never hear it again.
Now she had to explain all of her fears to Strijk, who was watching her in the hazy mirror from the vanity chair. He'd taken off his hat, unwrapped the silk handkerchief tied about his head to keep the sweat from his eyes and his hair protected. He began to brush it with the tooth comb from his pack, the coily strands separating and falling around his face like a thunder cloud.
"I bought beads if you thought to plait it," he said, lifting his chin to the leather pouch on the vanity table.
"Are you asking or suggesting?"
"Assuming, it seems. Wrongly."
Sonja pushed to her feet. The mirror had a crack running between its corners. It splintered her reflection, her sea glass eyes and freckled nose interrupted by jagged lines. Strijk's longing, however, was well reflected. Seeking to satisfy him, she settled on his lap. Her restless hands took a stretched section of curl, entwined it with another.
"I'd need water and oil."
"There's a basin behind you. The castor oil is in my pack."
Sonja sighed, took another section. "And time—time you know we don't have."
"Then plait along the scalp and the twist the ends. I'll do one half, you can take the other."
"Didn't you hear what that merchant said?" Her hands went limp. One fell to his shoulder, the other to the shirt placket she pushed open to feel the warmth of his skin below. "There's a privateer after me. Not just any privateer: Jan van der Zee, pride of the Dutch East Company with letters of marque signed by the Orange Prince."
