“It’s just me,” she said, patting the creature beside her. “And Draven.”
Fynn relaxed, propping himself up against the helm. “It’s late,” he mused. “You should be sleeping. We’ll reach the island by morning.”
Sol reached for her hair, fingering through the messy curls and flinching at the tangles she found there. “I can’t sleep,” she admitted. “I asked Amael to tell me more about the island, and I’m scared.”
“Don’t be,” Fynn said. He’d do anything to quell her fears, to take them away entirely. “The Dryuans will not touch you.”
She shook her head, pursing her lips in a way that told Fynn she had spent a great deal of time considering this. “I’m not scared for me,” she told him. “I’m scared for you. Amael told me what his people would do to you. That they would throw you into a training pit and let the dragons pick you apart.”
Fynn grimaced at such abhorrent punishment. “Don’t listen to him,” he said. “He’s dramatic.”
Sol padded closer, her clenched hands within casual reach of the Captain’s. “He’s not dramatic,” she argued. “Those scars down the side of his neck? Amael told me how he got them, Fynn. He said that Nero threw him into the training pit when he refused to take a whip to a dragon. If he could do that to Amael, he wouldn’t bat an eye over you.”
He did not want to have this conversation with her. Despite his Magic, Fynn already knew that his chances of survival were astronomically small. He did not need Sol to remind him.
Fynn returned his attention to the helm, turning the wheel just enough to correct their course. “I’ll be fine,” he said curtly. “And if you don’t mind, I really don’t want to talk about this.”
The Princess pursed her lips as if she might say more, then thought better of it. “Fine,” she conceded. “But only because if you die tomorrow, I’d prefer our last conversation not be an argument.”
A startled laugh escaped from him. “A few weeks at sea and already you’ve become so blunt.” Fynn tucked his hair behind his ear. He tipped back his head and stared at the sky above, turning the helm accordingly. “Nedros is still three months away, if we’re lucky. Your manners will be gone by then.”
Sol did not rise to the bait. “How do you do that?” she asked instead.
Fynn looked at her. “Do what?”
She gestured to the stars and the helm, her fingers brushing over one of the wooden spokes. “Navigate,” she said. “How do you know where you’re going?”
The Captain paused, considering this. He did not know how to explain it to her, how to convey to Sol Rosebone that the wind had always been his guide, he the follower, and not make it sound as if he’d lost his wits.
“The stars,” he decided, because even Sol could understand that. “They’re stationary. No matter where you are at sea, that star right there—” Fynn pointed straight ahead. “Will always be south. And that one there—” he pointed again, this time behind him. “Will always be north.”
Sol hummed a sort of acknowledgement as she stared at the stars above, their light rounding out the soft angles of her cheeks, the slope of her nose. “So you just follow whichever star until you stumble upon your destination?”
Fynn chuckled quietly. “Sort of,” he said. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, but it’s not impossible to learn. Even Riel can’t screw it up.”
She tilted her head at him, absently pulling her fingers through Draven’s fur as the direwolf sat patiently at her feet. “What about me?” Sol inquired. “Could I screw it up?”
He considered this, too, before deciding to hold out his hand. “Come here,” Fynn said, wriggling his fingers and beckoning the Princess to him. “Let’s find out.”
If she hesitated, she certainly did not give him the satisfaction of seeing it. Sol placed her hand in Fynn’s, her skin warm against the center of his scarred palm as he guided her behind the helm.
Fynn stood at her back, prepared to take the wheel from her if need be. “Place your hands here and here,” he instructed, tapping the appropriate spokes. Sol did as she was told, grasping them with a white-knuckled grip. Fynn breathed a laugh behind her. “Not so tight. The wheel isn’t going anywhere.”
She loosened her grip. “Now what?”
Fynn reached over her shoulder and pointed. “Keep the bowsprit aligned with the southern star to keep our current course. The sea is calm, so it shouldn’t be difficult.”
“And if it does get difficult?”
“Then I’m right here to fix it.”
Sol tossed him a look over her shoulder, her hazel eyes swallowed entirely by the moonlight. She said nothing, simply met his gaze for a quick, fleeting moment before turning back to the helm, squinting at the end of the bowsprit. Fynn did not disgrace her by laughing.
They stood together in silence as she sailed, Sol adjusting the wheel at even the slightest deviation from their course. Her eagerness to do well warmed his heart, the seriousness for which she conducted this task. He could not have asked for anything more.
Fynn studied her, the length of her fingers as she drummed them against the helm. As she smiled and sighed contentedly. Sol tipped her head back and closed her eyes, and he watched the way she drank in the starlight, like the rivers of land drank from the heart of the sea.
He could get used to this, he realized. Seeing Sol Rosebone at the helm.
Such realizations had Fynn reeling back, yielding to this beautiful thing that would not last beyond their eventual arrival in Nedros. His heart stalled, an old wound opening deep inside him, one still raw and bleeding. Fynn stepped away from the helm, from Sol, and used his Magic to force cold air into his lungs.
She must have heard him gasp. “Is everything all right?” Sol asked, spinning on her heels to look at him, the helm and stars be damned. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Fynn answered, dragging a hand through his hair. He’d be damned if he ruined this moment for her. “You’re doing great, actually. Far better than Riel’s first time at the wheel. Vasil nearly threw her overboard.”
“She’d slap you silly if she heard you say that.”
“She would,” he agreed. Fynn stuffed his hands into his pockets, wincing at the sharp point that stabbed into the pad of his finger. “Oh,” he remembered, wrapping the object in his fist. “I forgot—I got something for you in the market yesterday.”
The Princess turned to him again, her head tilted curiously to one side. “You didn’t need to get me anything, Fynn. The cloak you stole was enough.”
Indeed, she was still wearing it despite the stifling heat.
“This is different, I promise.” Fynn withdrew the gift from his pocket. “You weren’t going to buy it for yourself, so I took the liberty of getting it for you. Consider it a thank you for the kiss.”
Sol slapped his shoulder.
Fynn laughed, opening his fist to offer her the puka shell bracelet.
Her intake of air was audible, stirring the breath in Fynn’s own chest. She gingerly took the bracelet. “Fynn…”