“Have you discussed an exchange of power?”
“He’d never—”
“Just temporary. Or if he won’t let you help then maybe something more . . . forceful.”
A long pause. Then Sim says, in lowered tones as though they know someone might be listening, “Are you suggesting a mutiny?”
“If you like.” There’s a scrape of a mug pushed across the table. “I’m no longer a member of your fleet, so it’s not treasonous if I suggest it. And it wouldn’t be a mutiny! You don’t have to throw him off the boat or depose him or keelhaul him.”
“I think he’d prefer any of those to the shame of taking instruction from me.”
“But surely you’d have support from the men.” Silence, then Felicity says, “He needs your help. He must know it. You trained for this your whole life, and he has been thrust into it.” Another pause, then Felicity says, her voice betraying her frustration for the first time, “If you don’t depose him, he’ll ruin your fleet.”
“Keep your voice down. His men are prowling.”
“His men would be on your side! They’ve been sitting on my porch for a week moaning about what a terrible time it is sailing under the banner of a child tyrant.” There’s a clatter, the chink of porcelain on wood, and Felicity swears. “My fault, don’t get up.”
I hear her chair scrape as she stands up. “The governors would never support me after what happened,” Sim says at last.
“They would if it was Saad’s idea,” Felicity says lightly.
“And how likely is that? There’s a greater chance that the oceans dry up. The stars fall! You and I . . .”
Silence. Then Felicity says quietly, “I’m sorry.”
I peer around the door, just enough to see them on either side of the table, looking away from each other. Sim sets her hand between them, palm up, still turned away. Felicity glances from that outstretched hand to her face, then places her palm against Sim’s.
I was on course for the surgery to see Monty, but now is not the time to casually walk through the door and pretend I haven’t been lurking and listening. I turn, go out the front instead, and circle around, giving the men with scimitars at the gate a wide berth.
Behind the house, a small yard slopes down into the foothills. The moonlit flowers I saw from the ship’s deck line the mountainside—wild hydrangeas, their blooms the size of my head, just beginning to shed their petals so that the grass is sugared with handfuls of purple and blue.
Monty is sitting on the porch outside the surgery door, and we both jump when we see each other. Clearly neither of us expected the other.
Monty gives me a small wave. I wave back, and he laughs. “Where are you off to?” he calls.
I follow the porch along the house, stopping at the post on the opposite side of the surgery door from where he’s sitting and prop myself against it. Though it’s warm, he’s got his greatcoat thrown over breeches and a long shirt. He still looks too pale, though his skin has lost some of the mushroomy quality that it had on the boat. Perhaps it’s the illusion of his long shirt without a waistcoat and the way the wind clamps it to his frame, but he looks thinner, more coatrack than man.
“Nowhere,” I say. “I wanted to see the ocean.”
“Well.” He opens a presentational hand to me. “Enjoy.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Waiting for Felicity. Though I suppose I’ll be waiting for the rest of my life now that Sim’s here. It’s lambing season.”
I nearly lose my balance. “Are they—”
Monty laughs. “No, but one of them would like to be. I’ll let you guess.” The wind picks up, and though it’s warm, he shivers.
“What are you waiting on Felicity for?” I ask. “Do you need something?”
“No, it’s . . .” He pauses, then looks sideways at me. I have no idea what task I’m being sized up for, but I suspect I won’t be up for it. Particularly if it was meant to be done by Felicity. Her skills and mine overlap very little. But then Monty leans forward as far as he can while still keeping his injured leg straight in its splint and retrieves a pair of scissors resting on the porch rail. They look gleaming and surgical. “You can likely do it just as well.”
He holds out the scissors to me, but I don’t take them, afraid he’s about to ask me to hem some new bit of his leg that’s falling off, or some other medical job for which I am the least qualified Montague. “Do what?”
“I’ve got this bit in the back”—he scrapes his fingers along the crown of his head—“that won’t lie flat when it gets this length.”
“Do you . . . do you want me to cut your hair?” I ask.
“Only the back.” He clamps the offending patch between two fingers to show me. “I tried to do it but I nearly stabbed myself. There may still be some blood.”
“I’ve never cut hair before.”
“Believe you me, that’s no prerequisite. Felicity has cut her own hair since we were children, and I’ve never seen her ends even. Come on, you can’t make it worse. Or if you do, I’ll never know because it’s in the back.”
I take the scissors, then step behind him. His shoulders rise, and he pulls his coat tighter, the sleeves hanging loose so his arms are free. “Do you see the sticky-uppy bit?” He shifts almost imperceptibly on the chair so I’m not standing directly behind him, but rather at the edge of his line of sight. I might not have noticed except his broken leg doesn’t move with him, so he ends up sitting with an awkwardly wide stance. “Make it not do that.”
I study the spot like a general over a battlefield map, trying to work out the best angle for attack, the most effective approach, how much blood I’ll likely spill if my hand slips.
“Any day now,” Monty mutters, adjusting his injured leg with a wince.
Before I have any more time to dwell on scenarios more calamitous than accidentally creating a bald spot, I take the lock of hair between my two fingers and snip the end off it. The scissors, which likely are surgical, are much sharper than I anticipated, and I end up taking an overly zealous chop off the back. “Oh no.”
“Exactly what you want to hear from your barber,” Monty mutters.
“Just . . . hold still.”
“Wasn’t moving before.”
“You keep turning.”
“I am not!”
I try to step behind him again for a better view and he turns with me. “You did it again!”
“Well, don’t . . .” He presses his fists into his knees, and I slump. Two minutes and one lock of hair and he’s already frustrated with me. He takes a quick breath, then says, “Don’t stand directly behind me.”
“Then I can’t see—”
“Never mind. I’ll wait for Felicity.”
“No, I can do it.” I cannot fail him yet again. Especially when given a task this simple. I cannot fall apart over a haircut.
I reposition myself, adjust my grip, and make what I think will be a more delicate snip, though a substantial chunk still falls off. He twitches when it lands on his neck. He has more gray in his hair than I’d noticed—maybe it’s the light, or maybe the last few weeks with me have aged him.