“Enough!” the Admiral interrupted. He bent down low so Jonathan could look into his shiny, bloodshot eyes. “Everything that I wish or need to know about you and your pathetic life, I have already read. You are here because they sent you. And, yes, we save money at the same time that we save souls here at Slabhenge—even souls not worth saving. Since I now know how very frugal you are, I shall make extra certain that we don’t waste a single unnecessary dime on your care, other than the discipline required to correct your corrupted character. Now, the letter!”
Jonathan resisted the urge to wipe the spittle off his face that had flown there from the Admiral’s mouth. He blinked down at the paper through the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. His knees throbbed. He scrawled another message and handed it to the Admiral.
“No,” the Admiral said after reading it. All the teasing was gone from his voice. “Longer. More pleasant. And mention our food.”
“What food, sir?”
“Our delicious and nourishing food.”
“But I haven’t had any food, sir. And I’m starving.” Jonathan’s stomach growled as he spoke.
The Admiral ground his teeth and blinked his eyes slowly. “Write the letter, Jonathan Grisby. Then dinner.”
It took Jonathan seven tries to write a letter that the Admiral would accept. By the time he was done, his stomach was rumbling loud enough for all three of them to hear, and the boy in the corner was glaring at him with open hatred. The Admiral had gone through three more gold-wrapped chocolates.
“There,” the Admiral said, folding up the final letter and slipping it into an envelope. “It shouldn’t have been that hard. Awful things happen to boys with awful attitudes.”
Too late, Jonathan wanted to answer, but he bit his lip and kept his eyes on the cracks between the stone blocks of the floor. His hair dangled down in front of his eyes and he let it stay.
“Brandy,” the Admiral said, and Jonathan heard the kid hurry to fill his glass. The Admiral walked to the door and opened it.
“Mr. Warwick. Show Jonathan Grisby to his quarters.”
“Yes, sir, straight away.”
Jonathan’s head shot up.
“What about my dinner?”
A pair of rough hands pulled him up from the agony of the Sinner’s Sorrow and yanked him toward the door. The Admiral yawned as Jonathan was paraded past. He held out his hand to stop them, his fingers pressing into Jonathan’s chest. He smacked his lips and leaned down to speak into his face. The sour mix of chocolate and liquor on his hot breath made Jonathan’s stomach curl.
“Do you really think a boy who wastes six pieces of paper to write a simple letter deserves to be spoiled with food? Hmmm?” Jonathan’s heart sank into his aching belly. The Admiral’s eyes slithered to the man who was pushing Jonathan from behind. “No pillow for this one, Mr. Warwick. He doesn’t have a brain worth cushioning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will see you in the morning, Jonathan Grisby. Do try to get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a very hard day for you.”
“Got on the Admiral’s bad side, did ye? Ya idiot.” Mr. Warwick hawked up a mouthful of snot from his lungs and spit it onto the floor. He was guiding Jonathan through a twisting labyrinth of dark hallways and steep, shadowy stairwells. The whole place—floor, walls, stairs, and ceiling—was made of the same huge blocks of gray stone. Their way was lit only by a hissing lantern that swung from Mr. Warwick’s outstretched hand.
“Ye all do, nearly. Bunch of scum, ye are. The Admiral knows ye fer what ye are, aye.” Jonathan stumbled on a slippery step and Mr. Warwick jerked him roughly back up to his feet. “Still, ye got it better’n some. You get a blanket, at least. More than ye deserve, likely.”
“Lucky me,” Jonathan muttered.
Mr. Warwick spit again and flicked Jonathan in the ear hard enough to make his eyes burn.
“Don’t ye be gettin’ smart, now. Smart gets ye nowhere good ’round here.”
“Look, Mr…. Warwick, or whatever,” Jonathan started, rubbing his ear. “Could I get something to eat, something small, even? A biscuit or an apple or something? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Mr. Warwick scratched between his legs and snorted. “Ah, me heart’s just a-breakin’. Poor little criminal’s got ’im an achin’ tummy!” He coughed out a mean, small laugh.
Suddenly, he pulled to a stop and grabbed Jonathan’s arm. “Ah, now look here, boy.” His voice was tight and breathless. He held up the lantern to show a narrow stairway leading down from the corridor they were in. The stairs curved down and around a corner before they were lost in darkness. A low rumbling, gurgling sound and the salty, rotten smell of stale seawater wafted up to where Jonathan and his guard stood. A frayed rope stretched as a flimsy gate across the stairway opening.
“Don’t ye never stumble down this wretched staircase, boy,” Mr. Warwick whispered. He leaned close to Jonathan’s face in the yellow lantern light. For the first time, Jonathan saw his wrinkled face and his one puckered, empty eye socket. He shivered and pulled back.
“Why? What’s down there?”