Chapter 17 Rum and Reckoning
The captain’s quarters had stopped feeling strange. Not familiar exactly. I still noticed things every time I stepped inside. But the room no longer felt like enemy territory.
Lanternlight pooled warm and steady across the polished teak walls. The wood gleamed like honey where the light caught it. Every edge had been worn smooth by years of hands and sea air.
I knew the room now.
The writing desk tucked against the far wall, charts pinned above it in a perfect row. The armillary sphere in the corner, its brass rings shifting softly whenever the ship rolled. The heavy velvet curtain framing the porthole, dark blue as midnight water.
Outside that round glass window the sea pitched and churned, angry and endless.
Inside, everything felt calm.
Captain Fisk Harrow stood at the sideboard ladling stew into two bowls.
He moved with the same easy certainty he used on deck. Like filling bowls and steering a pirate ship required the same steady hands.
The smell curled through the room. Onions. Smoked meat. Pepper sharp enough to make my nose sting. My stomach tightened before I could stop it. Two thick slices of bread waited beside the pot. The crust was dark and glossy, nearly the color of tar. Rum sat ready too. There was always rum.
He glanced over when I stepped inside. That half-smile split through his beard. Usually it felt like a challenge. Tonight it looked almost… welcoming.
“Right on time,” he said. “Wouldn’t want the stew to go cold. Even pirates have standards.”
I leaned my shoulder against the doorframe for a second, watching him set the ladle down with unnecessary flair.
“I can feed myself,” I said.
The words came out sharper than I meant them to. His eyebrow lifted.
“Of course you can.”
He picked up the bowls anyway and carried them to the small table.
“But if my hospitality’s insulted,” he added lightly, “I do have a temper.”
I snorted and shut the door behind me.
The noise of the ship dimmed instantly. Boots thudded somewhere overhead, muffled by beams and distance. The hull gave the occasional hollow thump as waves struck it.
Harrow stretched his legs beneath the table and nodded toward the other chair.
“Sit.”
I dropped into it, keeping my back straight.
My hands trembled when I tore off a piece of bread. I hoped he didn’t notice. The inside was still warm. Steam curled faintly from the torn edge. How in all the cursed seas did someone manage fresh bread out here? Across from me, Harrow watched. Not hungry. Not impatient.
Just curious.
The silence stretched until it felt deliberate.
Finally he said, “You’ve made an impression.”
I chewed slowly.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
His grin widened.
“Bram says you tied twenty-six rolling hitches today.”
One finger tapped the table.
“Talon says you asked him for a navigation lesson.”
Another tap.
“Silas claims you cut onions better than half the fools in his galley.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“No one’s ever tried that hard to fit in.”
A pause stretched between us.
“Not here.”
I let the bread soften on my tongue before answering.
“Maybe I just hate being useless.”
His head tilted slightly. Lantern light caught the edge of his eyes.
“I don’t think you’ve ever been useless, Sirianna.”
The ring at my throat suddenly felt heavy, choking even. My fingers found it automatically, rubbing the dented gold between thumb and forefinger as if I was rubbing away all my unease.
I broke eye contact first. My spoon slid into the stew. It was excellent. Rich and thick and full of pepper. I refused to say a word about it. For a while the only sounds were spoons scraping bowls and the quiet creak of the ship. Then Harrow said, almost casually, “You’re scared of the ocean.”
My spoon stopped.
Not a question.
I lifted my gaze to his. Let him see the anger first. Maybe the shame too.
“Is that a problem?”
He considered that.
“No.”
A small pause.
“Just unusual for a stowaway.”
“I didn’t stow away,” I snapped. “I was kidnapped.”
His laugh came quick and bright. “Technicality.” Heat crawled up my neck. I hated how easily my skin betrayed me. But he’d already moved on, tapping his finger against his mug like he was turning something over in his mind.
“Fear’s not a flaw,” he said after a moment. “Not if you use it right.”
His grin returned. “Some of my best men started out as cowards.”
I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t picture any of crew interacted with being cowards, especially Reed. He bounced with excitement.
“You just have to be braver than your fear,” he added.
The words slipped into my chest anyway, settling somewhere uncomfortable. My dad used to say that when He tried teaching me to swim. I took another bite of stew.
Slower this time. The tightness in my jaw loosened just a little. Harrow reached over and refilled my mug without asking. Rum sloshed gently against the rim.
“So,” he said, almost lazily. “Why not jump ship at the first port?”
I shrugged.
“Maybe I will.”
“Maybe.” The look in his eyes said he didn’t believe it for a second.
I finished the stew and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
“You always interrogate your dinner guests?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
The laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. Sharp and real. For a moment his whole face lit up like that had been the point all along. He stood and gathered the empty bowls. When he passed behind my chair, his hand brushed mine.
Light. Careful.
Just enough that I could pretend it hadn’t happened.
I didn’t pull away.
Instead I stood and wandered to the porthole. The sea outside had gone black. The moon hung thin and jagged above it, like someone had torn a silver coin in half. I pressed my palm against the glass.
Cold.
The ocean rolled endlessly beyond it.
Harrow’s voice drifted closer behind me.
“Ever slept in a captain’s bed?”
I glanced back at him.
“Is that supposed to impress me?”
He shrugged. “Its more comfortable than the chair you've been sleeping in.” He dropped onto the cot with his boots still on and folded his hands behind his head. “You’ve earned better.”
His expression turned perfectly innocent. Which fooled absolutely no one.
“Suit yourself.”
I walked toward the desk slowly. Let him think I might actually take the bait. At the last moment I grabbed the chair. Spun it around. Then dropped into it and planted my boots squarely on his desk.
His laugh broke loose.
Real this time.
The lines around his eyes crinkled.
I leaned back and studied him through half-lidded eyes.
“You keep this up,” I said, “and I might start to like you.”
His grin softened. “Careful.” He stretched out across the cot. “That’s a slippery slope.”
The ship rocked gently beneath us. Wood creaked. The lantern flame swayed. Somewhere high above, a gull cried out over the dark water. For a moment the quiet felt easy. Dangerously easy. Then Harrow spoke again. Softer now.
“You know the Red Eel’s captain is after us.”
The warmth drained out of the room.
“If Kip catches us,” he continued, “he’ll recognize you.”
My stomach dropped.
“Use you to get to me.”
Ice slid straight through my veins.
“So I’m bait.”
He shook his head. “You’re leverage.”
A beat of silence.
“There’s a difference.”
I nodded.
Even though I wasn’t sure I believed him.
Restlessness prickled under my skin.
I pushed out of the chair.
“I should go.”
My hand closed around the latch.
“Crew’ll talk if I stay. I have work to finish.”
He didn’t argue.
Just watched me.
Something made me glance back before I opened the door. Harrow lay stretched across the cot, eyes half closed.
But I could feel it. He was still watching. Still measuring. “Thanks for dinner,” I said. He lifted one hand in a lazy salute. “Anytime, Tavern Queen.” I rolled my eyes and stepped into the corridor.
The door clicked shut behind me. The passage smelled like salt, wax, and distant stew. I leaned against the wall for a moment and let out a slow breath. My fingers found the ring at my throat. The chain spun slowly between them.
Luck or fate.
I still couldn’t tell which had dragged me onto this ship. And I couldn’t decide what would run out first.
My luck.
My courage.
Or the captain’s patience.