“Stop that,” Monty says suddenly.
“Stop what?”
“Trying to rip your own skin off. You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry.” My tea is mostly cold by now, but I clamp my hands around it anyway and curl over it, like I’m huddling for warmth. “Did Mr. Buddle show you the painting when you saw him at the museum?” I ask Monty. “The vanitas?”
It takes him a moment to find the memory. “Oh. Yes. I forgot about that.”
“I think the title was something about the Flying Dutchman.”
Monty frowns down at the cat rubbing against his shin. “Are you certain?”
“You think I’d lie?”
“No, but I think you might . . .” He hesitates, reaches for his tea, then remembers its empty. “Sometimes our memories shift to be what we need in the present moment.”
“I’m sure of it.” Am I? I have a thousand reasons to doubt my own mind. I press the mug to my forehead. Am I trying to put together a puzzle that doesn’t exist? Did I almost get thrown in prison by pirates over nothing but a family trinket that my mother manifested her insanity onto? “What did she mean that the seas are in disarray?” I ask.
“Not a clue. Though everything feels a bit . . . dunno. Upside down lately. Felicity’s gone and Mum died and you’ve shown up and the company . . .” He trails off, rubbing a hand over his chin. He stopped shaving our last few days at sea, and his jawline is pebbled with dark stubble.
“Are you selling it?” I ask.
“How did you know that?”
“There was a sign in the window when I came.”
“God, you’re aggravatingly observant.” He rubs his bare ring finger, then says, “We are, unfortunately.”
“Why sell if it’s unfortunate?”
“Financial necessity. Our profits took a rather significant dip a few years ago, and we’ve never really recovered. Actually.” He reaches down and thoughtfully strokes one of the cats on the head. It leans into his hand, purring. When another cat comes too close, it gets slapped across the face by the first. Monty chuckles and offers it a piece of meat.
“Actually what?” I prompt. I’ve been mentally eating off my own fingernails in anticipation of the end of that sentence.
He glances at me. “What?”
“You said actually, like you had more to add. What was it?” My tone is too urgent. My hands are still shaking. I’m suddenly embarrassed by the sound of my own breathing. Shifting my posture feels showy and obtrusive, like I’m trying to draw attention to myself.
“Nothing,” he says, though I’m sure it’s not nothing. “I was just thinking.”
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .” I have no idea what I didn’t mean to do but I can’t stop myself from apologizing so I say again, “Sorry.” Sorry I’m here. Sorry we both are. Sorry my sister is dead and his business is ruined and Mum is gone and my thoughts don’t make sense and I can’t do a goddamn thing about any of it.
“If you want to go to Portugal,” Monty says slowly, “we can charter a ship.”
“What about Basira Khan’s instructions?”
“Well, obviously we’d have to ignore those.”
“Do you have a ship in mind?”
“I do, actually.” He tosses the finished skewer into his mug, then stretches his hands over his head, fingers linked. “It was in the harbor when we arrived.”
“A Crown and Cleaver ship?” I ask.
“They are now,” he says, “but they sailed for Hoffman for a long time, under the protection of the Crown and Cleaver, not as members of it.”
“And you think they’ll be willing to go against Basira Khan’s orders?”
“If it’s still captained by the same bastard as it was the last time I saw it, I think he can be persuaded.”
My heart soars, and I practically leap to my feet, ready to sprint all the way down to the harbor and row us across the sea. “Then yes. Yes, absolutely yes, let’s . . . yes. Let’s go to Portugal.”
Monty blinks up at me, unmoved by my sudden burst of enthusiasm. He scrubs his hand over his eyes, then stands up. There’s a sharp ripping sound, and the entire crotch seam of his pants splits. “Christ, I’m too old for this.”
12
The captain of the ship Monty calls the Eleftheria is an hour and a half late to our meeting. We wait for him in a teahouse in Rabat, sitting on understuffed cushions and drinking cup after cup of warm mint tea until my sinuses feel cavernously clear and I have to piss so badly it’s hard to sit still. A wall of glass on the opposite side of the room from our low table splashes colored light across our feet. Then our shins. Then our laps as the time passes. When the teahouse door finally opens, there’s a diamond of green light on my face, and I swear I can hear an entire pot’s worth of tea sloshing around in my stomach.
A wiry young man who looks only a few years older than me enters, spots us, and waves. Monty leaps to his feet with as much enthusiasm as a man can when hobbling up from sitting practically inside a mostly unstuffed pouf, and they throw their arms around each other. The young captain nearly lifts Monty off his feet with the strength of his embrace, and in return, Monty musses his hair affectionately, then takes his face in both hands for a better look. I feel a sudden stab of envy, knowing now that Monty is capable of a warm greeting after a long time apart, he just chose not to offer it to me.
“Come sit down, sit down.” Monty encourages the captain toward our table. He sinks onto the deflated pouf beside mine, which expels a gasp of musty air, as Monty returns to his.
“God, it’s good to see you.” Monty gives the captain’s shoulder a playful shove, and only remembers I’m there as well when I get in the way of this. “Oh, introductions.” He seems to consider standing again, then decide I’m not worth his knees. “Adrian, this is Georgie.”
The captain clears his throat. “It’s George, Monty. No one’s called me Georgie since I was small.”
“Oh, damn, sorry.” Monty presses his fist to his forehead. “Old habits. Scipio always called you Georgie.”
“Scipio was the only one permitted.” He smiles sadly, and Monty touches a hand to his heart, and why am I here? I don’t want to be here watching Monty pick a different little brother he’d rather dote upon and trade hugs and memories and fond smiles with, and also I really have to piss.
“All right then.” Monty again extends a presentational hand between us. “Adrian, George. George, Adrian.”
George holds out a hand to me, and as we shake, I can feel him scrutinizing my face, noticing the same dark hair and easy-to-draw nose as Monty has.
“He’s my brother,” Monty says before George can ask. “In spite of our vigorous efforts, Percy and I have still not managed to procreate.”
“You never told me you had a brother!” George laughs and claps me on the shoulder. I almost vomit. “Good to meet you, Adrian.” A server passing by pauses to refill our cups and pour a new one for George, who gulps it down, then picks out the mint leaves and chews them with great relish. He has a puppy’s energy, ravenous and curious and bounding through the conversation. The fact that he’s not wearing shoes only adds to this effect. It feels like he outgrew them just before he arrived. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”