Page 15 of A Prince Among Pirates
“Go on and get some dinner in your belly. In the morning I will dictate today’s log to you.”
As if on command, my stomach grumbles. My cheeks heat, but aside from a little smile on Captain Sharpe’s face, he does not react.
“I… am not sure how to get to the galley,” I admit reluctantly.
“Ask one of the men to lead you—they’ll be heading down themselves to eat,” Sharpe says as he uses the candle on his desk to light a few others behind him. “Then go to bed so you’ll wake up in time for breakfast.”
I won’t ask how he knows I missed breakfast. I suppose the captain should always know what’s happening on his ship, but I still don’t like that someone tattled on me for sleeping in. “Tomorrow I’d like to discuss my accommodations further.”
“I look forward to avoiding that very conversation,” Sharpe says as he turns to face me once more. “Good night, Kitten.”
That damned nickname! I can’t even scowl because of it. Instead I pout and take my change of clothes with me as I leave his cabin, both defeated and enamored at the same time.
“How was yer first day as a workin’ man?” Renard asks me an hour later as we sit together under the darkening sky, our dinner plates in our laps.
I almost snort, but I haven’t yet become quite that low class. “It’s simply awful,” I whine as I sip the swill in my mug. I gag and set the mug aside. I’m not sure I’m desperate enough to ingest another sip of it.
“Poor wee noble,” Renard says, clearly sympathetic by the absolute lack of sincerity in his voice.
I laugh and lean back against the rail of the ship. Renard has decided to sit atop the rail, but even seeing him up there makes my insides tremble with anxiety. I am safer down here on the floor. “I spent all day reading the old ledgers and can’t make sense of half the sums in them. I wonder if the last scribe had a firm grasp of his numbers.” Renard’s body goes stiff beside me, so I do finally shift myself to look up at him.
He is frowning down at me with his plate in one hand and ale in the other. He glances around and then slides off the rail to take a seat beside me on the deck. “Ye mean Jeff, the accountant?” he asks.
“Jeff?” I reply, incredulous. I have never heard a name like that one before.
“Jeffrey Reuter,” Renard says, and I cannot place the unusual quality in his voice. He isn’t quite whispering, but there is a conspiratorial tone to his words that immediately puts me on edge.
“Ah, yes… I believe Reuter was the name at the bottom of each page. I confess I mostly skipped over that bit.” I frown at Renard. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“Ah… it’s nothin’, lad. I wouldn’t worry that pretty wee head of yers ’bout it.”
Now he really has my attention. My entire plate is set aside, and I lean forward to stare at Renard. “No,” I insist. “Tell me.”
Renard stares at me with a serious frown on his face, and I cannot tell whether he’s assessing how well I can handle what he’s about to say or whether he’s upset by the memory he’s conjuring. “He disappeared some months back.”
“He what?”
“Oh aye,” Renard continues. “We made a stop at Port Royal. ’Twas meant ta be a single day—the men didnae even get off the ship. Few officers an’ the cap’n left ta do some business. Jeff’s job was ta handle the finances, an’ that meant he ordered wha’ever rations we needed as well. Only, well after sunset the rations’d yet ta be delivered. The cap’n went lookin’ fer Jeff, as we’d meant taleave on the dawn’s tide. Only Jeff was gone. Everythin’ was left in his bunk—he was just gone.”
A cold chill prickles down my spine, and I know for sure I won’t be able to eat a bite of my dinner now. “What happened to him?”
Renard shrugs and sits back to take a long sip of his ale. He wipes his upper lip on the back of his hand and shakes his head. “Dinnae ken. Never saw him again. No’ a trace left behind.”
“And no explanation at all?”
Renard shakes his head once more. “Nothin’. He up an’ vanished wethout a word. The men thought he may have been tempted by a siren’s song. One of ’em claimed ta see Jeff walk straight off the poop deck an’ drop inta the ocean below.” He pauses to look at me, as if trying to judge whether he is terrifying me sufficiently.
He is.
“Another said Jeff’s ghost appeared ta him in his sleep the night b’fore. Either way, ’twas a nasty business. Cap’n spent three days lookin’ fer him, an’ fin’lly gave up when we couldn’t stay at port any longer wethout rousin’ suspicion.”
I am suddenly reminded of how Captain Sharpe hesitated when he told me the previous scribe had “left.” I feel sick. I need water, but all I have is this mediocre ale. I need air, but the salt on the wind is suffocating me. I swallow nothing and bring the ale to my lips to wet my tongue. “I think I should get to bed…,” I say.
Renard lifts a brow. “Ye ought ta toss them books an’ start a new ledger. Jeff’s books’re cursed.”
Cursed.
His words are like a punch to the gut. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can hear the familiar sound of my father’s voice whispering about curses. Aboutmycurse. About how it might be catching. The chill returns, and it is all I can do not to shiver as it courses once more down my spine.
