The Captain was still at the helm, leaning against the wheel. A sort of peace had settled over Fynn since the last time Sol had studied him, his head tipped back and eyes shut against the sun. His hair was down, billowing in a light breeze like the sails of his ship, a breeze that did not extend to the deck.
“What’s he doing?” Sol inquired.
Amael glanced at Fynn and scoffed. “Sunning himself, probably.”
She took a breath, one that had Amael turning to look at her. “I should talk to him.”
“You should,” he agreed. “He has a right to know who you are, and I truly think you should ask him if you can stay. Do you want me to come with you?”
Sol shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s best if I do it alone.”
Amael patted her leg. “I’ll be right here if you need me, but I think you’ll be just fine. Fynn is harmless.”
Another breath, and the Princess was on her feet.
One foot before the other, one step after the next, like crossing the gangplank onto an enemy ship. But these steps were far more damning than tumbling into the sea below, and Sol did not ascend the quarterdeck stairs when she reached them. “Fynn?” she called instead, a tremor in her voice that she cursed for slipping through.
A moment passed, and then the Captain was leaning over the banister. Fynn raised an eyebrow at her. “Sol,” he greeted, as if he were surprised to see her. “What’s the matter?”
“I…” She glanced over her shoulder to Amael, who raised his thumb in encouragement. Sol glared at him. “Can I talk to you?”
Fynn frowned, striding for the quarterdeck stairs. “Of course,” he said. “Up here, or in the cabin?”
Sol wrung her hands together, twisting her fingers until she feared they might break. “In the cabin,” she told him. “It’s…it’s important. And private.”
He took the stairs two at a time. “Gracia,” he shouted. The helmswoman dropped the old line of rope she was dragging over the planks, Indyr hopping after her and trying to catch the tattered end. Fynn winced. “Take the helm. I’ll be in my cabin.”
Huffing her disappointment, Gracia dipped her chin and grumbled, “Aye, Captain.”
Fynn rolled his eyes, motioning to his cabin door and ushering Sol inside. “After you,” he said. “Judging by that mortified look on your face, I assume this’ll be a while. Make yourself comfortable.”
Sol ducked beneath the threshold and into the Captain’s quarters. Her hands shook as she sat on the edge of his bed, and suddenly she regretted not having Amael join them.
Fynn closed and locked the door. “You look like you’re going to vomit,” he noted, though not without concern. Fynn leaned against the edge of his desk, his palms pressing into the wood. “What did you need to talk about?”
“I…” Sol’s stomach hollowed out, twisting up inside of her as the apple and orange she’d shared with Amael threatened to make a reappearance. She flushed, the Magic beneath her skin boiling like water in a cauldron, water that she could not control.
Fynn closed the space between them, dropping to his knees in front of Sol and taking her hands in his own. He gripped them until they stopped shaking. “I’ve seen you nervous,” he said quietly. “And I’ve even seen you scared. But this? This is terrified. What’s going on?”
Panic crept up her spine. It coiled in her chest and buried itself deep into her marrow. This was a mistake. This was not why she’d come here. “I—I can’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
She tried to stand, to run, to evade.
Fynn’s hands were firm as he placed them on either shoulder, pushing her back down onto the bed. His voice was soft as he commanded, “Breathe.”
Sol shook her head, wondering what expression lingered across her face that drew such alarm on Fynn’s. “I can’t.”
“Stop,” he said. “Stop talking. Breathe. I don’t want to make you, but I will.”
She pushed through the tightness in her chest, sucking down air she knew was of Fynn’s creation. He would make her breathe if she didn’t, would force her lungs to expand. Sol did not want that—did not deserve that.
“Good,” Fynn encouraged. “Again.”
Sol whimpered and said, “You’ll hate me.”
Fynn’s brow creased as he met her frantic eyes, as he observed the tears beginning to gather along her lashes. “I sincerely doubt that,” he assured her calmly. “But breathe, and then tell me why you think otherwise.”
“I’m not who you think I am,” Sol continued, the words beginning to tumble from her mouth before she could stop them. It was not supposed to be like this. She was not supposed to be afraid, not of Fynn. “I’m not from Valestorm.”
He was not troubled by the confession. “All right,” Fynn said easily. “Breathe, and then tell me who you really are.”
She gasped in a breath, assisted by the Captain’s Magic as he smoothed his thumb over her knuckles. “You don’t understand,” she insisted. She tasted salt on her tongue. “I’ve been lying to you, Fynn. My name is Sol—Sol Rosebone.” She swallowed down another breath of air. “I’m the Princess of Sonamire.”
Fynn smiled grimly. “Yes,” he said. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
FYNN
Kneeling in front of Sol, Fynn pressed an old, dented metal cup into the palms of her shaking hands. Water laden with salt sloshed over the curled rim. “Drink,” he beckoned softly, closing her fingers around the bronze. “And then we’ll talk.”
He had not been expecting the confession, had assumed that Sol Rosebone would take her identity to her grave. But he had known something was wrong when she’d asked him to come down from the helm, insisting that they speak together in private. They did not often find themselves alone, but these days, on the rare occasion they did…
Fynn banished the thoughts that plagued him; now was not the time to dwell on it. It wasn’t that good of a godsdamned kiss, anyway, and neither he nor Sol had spoken of it since. Not that they had spoken much at all since she’d staged a mutiny and brought that thing onto his ship.
The Princess of Sonamire sipped at the water he had given her, eying Fynn warily as she drank. He had seen that look before, that same anxious uncertainty she’d regarded him with all those weeks ago when the Captain had found her in Valestorm.
“How long have you known?” she asked eventually, handing the cup back to him when she was finished.
“Since we met,” he answered, setting it aside. Fynn crossed his legs beneath him. “Since I rescued you from that brute in the port. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”
Sol’s intake of air was audible. “How?”
He did not need clarification. “Your hair,” he admitted. Sol absently touched the dyed curls that bounced against the curve of her neck. “And I fought in the war ten years ago. You look just like your brother, though I can honestly say I was surprised to learn you were a Water-Wielder. If you had any Magic at all, I expected your Element to be Fire.”