Page 4 of Sharpest Court

I winced at the memory of Briar’s arrow slashing through it. Even with the salve Ed had given me, a throb constantly radiated from the red crag of my stitches.

I’d boarded this ship believing that the Ansoran symbol Erik had carved into his weapons might lead me to answers about his plans. That within Ansora, I could learn about—and destroy—the compass I carried. Yet now, I had only two objectives upon reaching Ansora. The first: to find a physician. The second: to not die from a wound infection before reaching that physician.

At least the salve had helped erase the thin cut on my forehead, whose tip had crept into my right eyebrow. An eyebrow scar would remind me too much of Garret.

And I didn’t want to remember him tackling Briar to the ground, sacrificing himself for me, every time I looked in a mirror. Especially when I didn’t know if he had gotten away or if that act had cost him his life.

“Need a hand?” Zeke asked.

“No thank you.”

“Are you sure?” He winked. “I’m very gentle.”

As the woman on a neighboring mat noticed him, she blanched, got up, and scurried away.

With his easy stance, tousled light brown hair shaved short around the sides, and a pair of braces fastening a billowing shirt against his lean frame, Zeke did not appear particularly intimidating. But as I’d learned at court, the hierarchy of any community was built upon its strongest form of currency.

And Zeke possessed the most powerful currency on this ship.

“How about I give you a discount on my product?” Zeke asked. “Seeing as you probably won’t make it to Ansora with a wound like that.”

My glare shifted to the pouch at his waist, and I stifled the urge to tell him exactly what I thought about his product. On this ship, I was Dinah Summers, a Verenian governess who would never think about cinching the strap of my saddlebag around Zeke’s neck the way Alissa Paine wanted to.

So I rewrapped my bandage, pulled down my sleeve, and repeated, “No thank you.”

He pocketed his marbles and crouched down to my level. As I caught the fresh scent of heather soap on his clothes, I was suddenly aware of how miserably haggard I must look. Though I’d bathed this morning with the seawater pumped into the washroom, the salt had scalded my patchwork-bruised skin so painfully that I’d sobbed through my teeth.

No wonder Zeke was pushing me today.

“That arm must hurt enough as it is, and the fever can’t be fun either. No need to suffer on all fronts.”

“I don’t have a fever,” I lied.

“No? So you’re always this delightfully sweaty?”

I swallowed drily. Thanks to the hot, sludgy glide of my specter, I knew my temperature ran a few degrees above healthy, and that the dullroot withdrawal was probably worsening my condition.

But no force could induce me to take what Zeke was offering.

“Come on, Dinah.” He adopted an oily tone he must have thought was persuasive. “I’ll take a gemstone off an earring, a few links off a gold chain. You’ll be robbing me.”

“I have nothing of the sort to trade,” I said flatly.

“Now, that can’t be true. A charming girl like you must’ve had sweethearts offering all kinds of trinkets.” He looked at the bruises darkening my throat, and his voice dropped to a sly whisper. “Settle a bet, won’t you, darling? Clayton over there has his money on a lovers’ spat turned violent. Leland thinks your employers caught you stealing and sent mercs after you. But I noticed those.” Zeke nodded to my wrists, still chafed pink from Erik’s manacles. “And I wondered”—he reached for my sleeve—“what might have produced—”

His fingers were skimming the fabric when my specter heaved forward, giving a great smack to Zeke’s hand that threw him off-balance and sent him plunging onto his rear.

I tried to keep my expression neutral, to keep him from seeing his own shock reflected in my eyes as my specter remained shimmering over my skin, thick and rippling with a strength that was still wildly unfamiliar.

Since I’d ruptured that internal dam in the palace kitchens, when Erik’s hand had been clamped around my throat, every attempt to Wield had caused my power to flare with a force more robust than I intended. It was clumsy and heavy and too dense to thin out.

But I was oddly glad of the extra force as Zeke righted himself, laughing hard enough that I considered striking him again just to hear him choke on the sound.

“Gods, Dinah.” He ruffled his hair. “At least take me to dinner before trying to sweep me off my feet.” Despite his relaxed manner, a slight wariness laced his tone, making me wonder if he was more disturbed by my display of power than he was letting on.

As he reached into his hip-pouch and withdrew his brown paper bag with a crinkle-crunch, my specter shriveled back under the surface. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked.

And because revealing my dread would be like handing him a blade to use against me, I said, “Go ahead.”