My heart kicks. Surely this is a bluff. What kind of tyrant would leave a stranded ship—one of his own fleet’s stranded ships, no less—drifting and doomed because of a grudge.
“Prepare the boats,” Saad calls, grabbing one of his men by the front of his shirt and shoving him toward the ladder. “What are you standing there for?”
“Wait!” I leap forward. George tries to snatch my arm and pull me back, but I slip from his grip and jump between Saad and the ladder down to his longboats. I plant myself as steadily as I can on a canting ship and upon shaking legs. “You can’t leave us here.”
Saad fingers the butt of his pistol, rubbing his thumb along the trigger. “Get out of my way.”
“You have to help him.”
He gets his face very close to mine, but I force myself not to pull away. “The Montagues,” he says, and I feel his damp breath on my cheek, “can rot.”
He tries to shove past me and nearly pushes me backward into the water—he may have meant to, but I grab one of the lines and steady myself, a graceless recovery but a recovery nonetheless. “He needs help! He’s going to die!”
“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about what happens to your family. You’ve nearly been the ruin of this fleet a dozen times over—it’s remarkable, truly, how such tiny people with such tiny lives can wreak so much havoc everywhere they go.”
I’m not sure how literally he means that tininess, but I still try to stand as straight as possible to remind him that I’m almost a full head taller than he is, and definitely older. Not that that matters when he’s literally a pirate lord and has more weapons on him than I have fingers to count them, but to most lads of five and ten, age matters more than anything.
I look past Saad to George, silently pleading for him to intervene. But it’s Sim who speaks instead. “Henry hasn’t done anything wrong,” she calls to Saad. “Neither has . . .” I can tell she can’t remember my name, so she just gestures open-palmed in my direction.
“He likely has,” Saad replies without turning to her. “But we don’t know what it is yet.”
“My brother is one of your men,” I say. “He has your mark—the Crown and Cleaver. What kind of commodore leaves one of his own behind?”
“We don’t claim him anymore. I’d burn that mark off him if I could.” Saad grabs me by the front of my shirt and drags me back onto the deck. He shoves me aside, then snatches the charter from Sim’s hand and reads it in earnest this time. His eyes narrow, and he mouths Montague like it’s blasphemous. Perhaps he’s cursing himself for missing it earlier, or not smelling us on the wind when he first saw the signal flares. “What business do you have in Portugal?” he demands.
My bravery has been all used up. I brace myself against the rails of the deck, feeling suddenly dizzy. “My mother just died, and she left something—”
“What kind of something?” Saad interrupts, and I wonder if I’ve accidentally baited a pirate with a hint at wealth and treasure. Best to correct that course now before I lead him down yet another road to terrific disappointment.
“It’s nothing,” I say. “A family trinket. There’s no value to it.”
“But it means enough for you to charter a ship to Portugal?”
“Saad.” Sim interrupts again. Her eyes flit around the men assembled on deck. Then she says to him, in a low tone like they’re speaking in confidence, though everyone can hear her, “This is not the way.”
Saad whirls on her, the tails of his coat flying. “This isn’t your fleet anymore, Simmaa,” he says, his voice losing the affected deepness so it comes out high and petulant. I swear he almost stomps his foot. “If you have any charity left in your heart for the Montagues, then you see to Henry. I’m sure Felicity would have thanked you.” Saad shoves the charter papers back into George’s hands, then says, “Come on, Georgie, show me what you’ve done to your ship.”
He calls several of his men after them, and our sailors begin to disperse—several head for the longboats, eager to claim their spots before the commodore revokes his offer. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I double over, pinching the bridge of my nose until I feel my equilibrium start to return.
Breathe, Adrian.
When I straighten, Sim is standing in front of me, and I jump, all the calming breaths I had just taken rendered moot.
“Adrian. Was it Adrian?” she asks, her voice gentler than it had been when she spoke to the men. I nod, and she holds out a hand. I don’t take it, only because my palms are so sweaty her grip would slide right off. “It’s good to meet you. I know your sister.”
“Veronica?”
She frowns. “Who?”
“Felicity.” God, I cannot keep this straight. Monty broke my brain more thoroughly than I think even he intended. “My sister.”
“I do.” The wind changes suddenly, and she looks away quickly. “Did. I did know her.”
“I don’t,” I say, then to match her, “I didn’t.”
Her mouth quirks into a half smile. “This only grows more interesting. Show me where Monty is.”
Something about hearing her use his name—not call him Henry like she did before, or like Saad did—shimmers. If there is one person from the Dey I can trust, it might be Sim.
“Do you have a surgeon in your crew?” I ask her as we cross the deck toward the captain’s cabin.
She shakes her head, then amends, “Yes but I wouldn’t let him come near me with anything sharper than a butter knife. He’s a friend of Saad’s and he’s never had real medical training.”
“That seems like a poor appointment.”
“My brother makes many poor appointments.”
“The commodore is your brother?”
That half smile flits about her mouth again. “Try not to hold it against me.”
“He seems . . .” I hesitate, then finish, “very young.”
She snorts. The tail of her headscarf has come free in the wind, and she tucks it back into place as she glances at me. “You know, I thought you were Monty when I first saw you. It almost felt like I had fallen backward in time.” She pauses, then adds, “But you’re far too tall.”
“I’m aware,” I reply.
I hold the cabin door for Sim, and she instructs me to prop it—I hadn’t realized how stale the air inside the small room had grown. I also hadn’t realized how poorly Monty looked, and I brace myself for Sim to chastise me for what an appalling job I’ve done of caring for him. She doesn’t, so I supply her with some opening lines. “I must have done something wrong. It’s probably my fault.”
Sim unwraps the makeshift bandages George and I fastened around Monty’s leg. “Did you break his leg?”
I frown. “What?”
“No one who’s spent more than an hour with Monty could blame you if you hit him with a hammer.”
It’s hard to tell if she’s jesting. “I . . . no.”
“Then it isn’t your fault.”
“I should have done—I could have done more.” I try not to stare at Monty’s labored breathing, the way his shirt is plastered to his chest with sweat. “Or something different. I could have done more to help him.”