His ears turn red. “My father gave it to me for my seventh birthday, but it was barely more than a hull then. It’s tradition for a boy to build his own first ship. It took four years before she was seaworthy, and another two before she was anything to be proud of. Now she’s the fastest ship in the harbor.”
“Impressive,” I say, smoothing my hand over the polished wooden deck at the edge of the blanket. “But what does that have to do with cats?”
His fingers pick at a pill in the wool. “The docks are overrun with them, as I’m sure you’ve seen. Of course, the more experienced sailors knew to scatter orange peels on their decks to keep the cats off the boats, but no one thought to tell me that. I suppose they thought it was funny to see an arrogant prinzling step onto his embarrassment of a ship only to find dozens of cats lying in wait. What was worse, the cats took a liking to me. A few of them would follow me around the dock like ducklings trailing after their mother. The men started to call me W?skin.”
Child of W?s. Hardly the most ferocious of nicknames. I give a snort of laughter and try to hide it before I realize S?ren is laughing as well. I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh before, but something’s changed in him since we left the palace. He’s softer, more open here.
I wish he weren’t, because it makes him easy to like.
He shakes his head and smiles. It’s the first time I’ve seen him really smile, unguarded, and it sends all thoughts of plots and murder out of my head completely for an instant. For an instant, I let myself wonder what this would be like if I were just a girl having a secret rendezvous with a boy she might like. It’s a dangerous path for my thoughts to walk, but if I’m going to get him to fall in love with me, he needs to believe I care about him, too. So I can let myself, just for tonight, believe it’s that simple.
“It was a well-earned nickname, I’ll admit,” he says, cheeks reddening. “And I’d taken a liking to the little beasts. They weren’t bothering anyone. The ship was just warm and smelled like fish.” He shrugs. He tries to keep the story light, but there’s a darkness in his eyes that won’t lift.
“Your father didn’t like his heir being associated with the goddess of cats,” I guess.
His mouth tightens. “He thought it was unbecoming for any Kalovaxian, let alone a prinz. He told me that either I could take care of it or he would. I was nine, but I already knew what that meant. And I tried, but orange peels wouldn’t work. They’d gotten so used to me, so attached, that there was nothing I could do to keep them away.”
“So he had them killed?” I guess.
S?ren hesitates before shaking his head. “I did it,” he admits. “It seemed…nobler. They were my responsibility. And I made it as painless as I could. I poisoned the water I set out for them. No one called me W?skin after that, at least not to my face.”
He’s staring straight ahead, blue eyes unfocused and expression back to its usual hard-edged frown.
It’s the sad story of a sheltered child. Dead pets aren’t so tragic when you’ve seen your mother slaughtered, when you’ve stabbed your own father in the back even as he sang you a lullaby. But still, S?ren’s pain was real. So was his disillusionment. It was the moment he stopped being a child. Who am I to say that it wasn’t awful?
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
He shakes his head and forces a smile. “My father didn’t get to be kaiser by being a kind man. You should know that better than anyone.”
“And here I thought he got to be the Kaiser because he was born into the right family.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “As a third son,” he says. “You haven’t heard the story?”
“Your mother told me about her wedding. Was that a part of it?” I ask, frowning. The Kaiserin had said he had killed his siblings, but for some reason I’d imagined them younger. I’ve seen the way second and third sons move through the world. They’re hungry for attention and affection from anyone around them, or else they try their hardest to sink into the background. The Kaiser does neither. He owns the ground he walks on, the air he breathes. I suppose I assumed he’d been born like that.
S?ren shrugs. “My father wants things and he takes them,” he says. “Everyone else be damned.”
The words send a shock through me. No one dares to speak like that about the Kaiser, and I didn’t expect it from S?ren of all people. They may not be close, but he’s still his father. I’d thought it would take more effort to turn S?ren against the Kaiser, but the Kaiser seems to have done a good enough job of that on his own.
“As captain of this fine vessel, I have the right to make a few rules,” S?ren says with a sigh, interrupting my thoughts.
“Rules?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, one rule,” he amends. “No more talk of my father.”
I laugh, even though my mind is whirling, puzzling out how to push S?ren’s feelings about his father further, how to twist them more in my favor. But there is time for plotting later; tonight I need to just be a girl alone on a boat with a boy she likes. Tonight I need to be Thora.
“I like that rule,” I tell him, surprised to find that it’s the truth. I should be trying to coax more information out of him, but the prospect of a conversation that isn’t darkened by the Kaiser’s shadow is too much to pass up. “What happens if we break it?”
S?ren softens, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Well, there is a plank,” he says. He sits up and opens the wicker basket, pulling out a bottle of wine. “There aren’t, however, any glasses.”
I laugh, sitting up as well. “How barbaric,” I tease.
“The plank or the lack of glasses?” he asks, uncorking the bottle with his teeth.
I consider it for a moment. “The lack of glasses. The plank is tolerable, I suppose, provided it’s well polished.” He passes me the open bottle of wine and I take a small swallow before passing it back to him. It’s barely a sip, but I need to keep my wits about me. “What else did you bring?” I ask, nodding toward the basket.
He takes a significantly longer swig before passing the bottle back to me and digging through the basket. He pulls out a small chocolate cake, still warm from the oven, and two forks.
“Forks!” I say, clapping my hands in glee. “If you hadn’t brought forks, I think I’d have gladly walked off the plank.”
He holds one out to me, but pulls it back when I go to take it. “Just promise you won’t stab me with it?” he says. His voice is teasing, but guilt ties my stomach into knots.
“Don’t be silly,” I say, keeping my voice light. “If I killed you here, however would I get back to shore?”
He smiles and passes me the fork. I’m not sure if it’s the cake itself or everything else—the ocean, the sense of freedom, the way S?ren’s looking at me—but it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Though the cake is large enough for four people at least, it’s only a matter of moments before there is nothing left but crumbs and both of us are overstuffed and lying on our backs with our heads angled together.
It’s so easy, I realize, to pretend to be the sort of girl who likes him. It makes me wonder how much I’m actually pretending. I’m comfortable around him. Talking with him like this, saying things we shouldn’t, feels as natural as breathing.
He must feel it, too, because he turns his face slightly toward me. “What’s the Astrean word for cake?” he asks.
It’s a dangerous question. After the siege, anytime I spoke Astrean, I would be hit. A sharp slap across the face, a fist to my ribs that would leave a bruise, a kick to my stomach that knocked the breath from me. I didn’t speak a word of Kalovaxian back then, but I learned quickly. Speaking Astrean now with my Shadows is one thing, but it feels like a trap to speak it with a Kalovaxian prinz. When I turn to look at S?ren, though, his face is open and guileless.
“Craya,” I say after a second, before frowning. “But no, that’s not right. That refers to a lighter cake, usually lemon or some kind of citrus. Those were more common. This would have been called…” I trail off, struggling. We didn’t have chocolate cakes very often, maybe once or twice that I remember. I close my eyes, trying to recall. “Daraya,” I say finally.