Fynn was sitting up, albeit slouched against the headboard of the bed, when Amael pressed the mug into his hands. His tingling fingers leeched the warmth from the glass, steam rippling in plumes from the dark liquid inside. Fynn drank, a mixture of herbs and spice sliding down his throat until there was nothing left. Until the mallet beating him in the head was no longer chipping away at his skull to expose the muddled brain beneath.
“Jorel said I drank how much last night?”
Amael shrugged. “Between you in the rest of the crew, the owner of that tavern became a very wealthy man last night. Riel paid the tab on our behalf, but I doubt she used her own money.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Do it in the bathroom,” Amael warned. “Then get dressed. I’m starving and have things to do. I figured you could join me.”
Fynn presented his friend with a show of his middle finger and rolled out of bed. He staggered into the nearby bathroom. He did indeed vomit once inside, hunching over the porcelain toilet until he’d emptied the contents of his stomach. The Captain said nothing as Amael ducked into the bathroom, not even a croaked thank-you as he tossed a leather bag onto the ground near Fynn’s feet.
Rifling through it, he fished out the supplies to brush his teeth. Fynn rinsed his mouth twice before last night’s wine was no longer a taste on his tongue. Neither was Jorel, his tea, or that godsdamned cologne that Fynn both loved and hated. Loved because it promised him a good time, and hated because this always followed, the headache, the vomiting, and the desire to crawl back into bed and stay there.
He was dragging a tarnished brush through his hair when Amael laughed from beyond the door, loudly enough that Fynn’s curiosity got the better of him. He hadn’t heard anyone enter their suite, so who was Amael so jovial with? Fynn was still ripping through tangles when he ventured into the main room, far less presentable than most of his crew had ever seen him. His eyes widened to the size of gold coins when he found the Princess of Sonamire perched on the edge of Amael’s bed. Her cheeks were pink.
“Sol,” Fynn said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
She tilted her head as she looked at him, her lips slightly pursed as she sniffed at the air. She likely smelled the vomit that Fynn had tried and failed to banish from the bathroom by repeatedly flushing the toilet. “Rough night, Captain?”
“You could say that.” He rubbed at his face, his calloused palm brushing over the stubble that darkened his jaw. “Did you enjoy your night out with the crew?”
The Princess fiddled with her braid. “Amael and I retired early,” Sol told him, continuing quickly when Fynn raised an eyebrow, “Since you were…indisposed, and since Amael had no place to go, he slept on the floor in my suite. He was—what did you call it, Amael?”
“Sexiled,” the boatswain provided.
The tips of Fynn’s ears heated with embarrassment. He cast a scathing look to Amael, but his friend was grinning a smile so wide that his cheeks were near splitting with glee.
“Sexiled,” Sol repeated, her own cheeks flushing further. “That’s right.”
Fynn cleared his throat and said, “I take it the two of you have made amends?”
Amael slung his arm around Sol’s shoulders. “We have indeed.”
“Good,” Fynn said tightly, suddenly too conscious that he was dressed in nothing but his undershorts. He hastily began collecting his clothes from where Jorel had thrown them the night before. “Is there a reason you’re here, Sol? It’s early.”
“Yes.” Sol lifted a cream-colored envelope, her elegant handwriting scrawled across the top. “Amael promised to take me into the market to help me send a letter.”
He pulled a dark grey tunic over his head and did not care that the fabric was stained red with wine. “A letter?” Fynn mused, yanking on his breeches. “To who?”
“My brother,” Sol answered. “I was meant to write to him when I reached Nedros, but since we’ve taken a detour, he’ll be worried that he hasn’t heard from me yet.”
Fynn stuffed his feet into his boots, the heels caked with mud that he dug from the grooves with his fingernail. “Is this what you meant when you said you had things to do?” He glanced at Amael as he tightened the laces. “Do I really need to be dragged along while the two of you deliver a letter? We’re casting off tomorrow morning and I have things of my own to take care of.”
He’d tell them anything to get away, to escape from the look Sol was giving him. It was not one of disgust, nor was it the giddy amusement that bloomed in Amael’s face, but she made it a point to avoid catching his eye as she watched him fumble with his shoes.
For the love of Thymis, what had Amael told her?
“You don’t have to come,” Sol assured him. She was still fidgeting with her hair, and Fynn wondered if Sol hoped that he wouldn’t come. “But we’re getting breakfast before we head into the market, and we thought that you might want to join us. I didn’t see you eat dinner last night, so we figure you’d be hungry.”
As if in answer, Fynn’s stomach rumbled with betrayal.
He sighed and finished lacing his boots. “Breakfast it is.”
And what a horrible breakfast it was.
The three of them had sat together at a long banquet table in the inn’s dining room, Sol perched precariously on the end of a wrought-iron bench. Amael sat beside her, a buffer between the Princess and Captain that kept them from being able to see one another. Fynn had tried leaning around him to speak to her, to lessen that strange, building tension between them, but Sol had kept her eyes fixated on her plate, idly picking at an assortment of eggs, potatoes, and crisp bacon while providing the Captain with brief, one-worded answers. She’d eaten so little that a waitress had stopped by to ask if the food was to her liking, to which she’d forced a smile and promised the woman it was fine, that she simply just wasn’t hungry.
Fynn had never been more relieved when the waitress cleared away their plates, when Amael and Sol had risen to their feet and bid the Captain farewell. He’d offered Sol his arm, and the Princess had allowed Amael to lead them both from the dining room, the skirts of her sapphire dress fluttering over the marble floor.
He told himself it did not bother him, that Sol was free to indulge in who she pleased, just as he had done with Jorel the night before. Albeit, Amael had been angry with her yesterday, and he did not know what could possibly have changed in one night.
He strolled through the market outside, his pockets jangling with what little gold he had left, and he did not let himself consider it. Amael and Sol were his friends, and if something had changed and they were happy, then by the Gods, Fynn could be happy, too. For them, if necessary, even if for some reason, it hurt.
He’d be even happier if he could find this godsdamned dragon scale and not have to travel any further south. If he never visited Dryu again, it would still be far too soon.
But he didn’t happen across any dragon scales, least of all the one he was searching for.
There were stands of glittering stones and geodes, of silk scarves and tapestries, intricate statuettes that were painted gold and silver. Gowns of gossamer, satin, and taffeta exploded in bursts of color, ruffled skirts fit for a queen swaying over the polished flagstones. Fynn lazily fingered through the material, wondering if the Princess of Sonamire had once donned such ridiculous finery.