Each night, I lie awake for as long as I can, listening to the sounds of the sleeping ship, and each evening, long after the ship has gone silent, the same wailing cry breaks the stillness of the night.
By the fourth morning, I’m at my breaking point. The muscles in my legs twitch with the need to move more than the four paces that make up the length of my quarters. So when the soft-looking, freckle-faced boy is the one who brings me my breakfast of lumpy biscuits, I know he’s my best chance to escape.
“Breakfast, mum.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he waits for me to take the plate.
I hesitate, wanting to hold him off while I consider my options. “What’s your name?”
His eyes widen a bit, as though I’ve surprised him by speaking. Slowly he raises them to meet mine. They’re soft eyes. Young eyes. “Owen, mum,” he says, pushing the plate toward me again.
“Owen,” I say, repeating his name as I stand. He shifts nervously when I don’t immediately take his offering. “Where are your parents, Owen?” I ask, finally inching closer to take a biscuit from the plate.
Confusion flashes across his face as he backs toward the door. “I have other duties, mum.” His eyes dart away from me as he speaks. “I best be getting back to them,” he says with a curt nod before he eases himself out of the cabin. But he’s so nervous and flustered, he doesn’t notice the door hitting my toe instead of latching securely.
I wait a few minutes, and when I’m sure no one’s around, I ease myself into the narrow corridor. The ship creaks and hums with the normal noise of the day, and once I know the way is clear, I don’t hesitate to make my way up the short flight of steps to the deck above.
The sun is low on the horizon, and all around me, the ship is bustling with activity. No one seems to notice that I’ve managed to escape. The few boys who glance at me look away just as quickly, as though they don’t care. Or maybe as though they don’t even recognize me from the day before.
“Well, that was easy enough,” I say to myself, trying not to worry that it was maybe too easy. I’ll take what I can get. Not that I have any idea what to do next—I’m still on a ship. I’m still far out to sea, and they’re all still armed.
So maybe I should find myself a weapon.
I find a cap sitting on a barrel and pull the hat over my short hair. Trying to blend in, I scour the deck for some boy careless enough to have left his weapon unwatched. But before I find one, I catch a glimpse of the Captain’s dark head near the center of the ship. Hiding behind one of the crates, I watch for a moment as he shows one of the younger sailors how to properly lunge at someone with a dagger.
He looks so at ease helping the child. Considering how violent the lesson is, the Captain’s face is strangely relaxed, happy even. When the small boy lunges correctly and manages not to tumble over, the Captain’s face splits into a wide and sincere grin. “Well done, Davey.” He laughs as he ruffles the boy’s shaggy hair before sending him off to practice on his own.
But before the next boy can step forward for his turn, a hushed murmur falls across the deck. Thinking someone has seen me, I duck lower. After a moment, though, I understand it’s not me that has drawn their attention. No one is even looking my way, because every one of the boys has turned toward the back of the ship. The deck quickly fills with their uneasy whispers.
When I turn to look in the direction the crew is all watching, I see that a girl with long blond hair is standing as regal as a queen on the upper deck directly above me. Her flesh-colored pants sit low on her hips and fit her like a second skin. They look like they’re made of poorly cured leather, and they’re covered in ragged seams that crisscross her narrow thighs like a spider web. She’s also wearing a shaggy fur vest dyed the color of blood. It’s not the color of fresh, bright blood, but the rusty red of blood that’s gone thick and dark.
As I study her, I realize why the boys are so unsettled by her presence: beneath the vest, her bare skin is a pale alabaster and is covered in a weave of opalescent scales. The scales look like an intricate tattoo, only they have the iridescent shine of a dragonfly’s wings. Even stranger, the scales seem to be shifting, moving. The individual scales melt into themselves and re-form into new shapes with an undulating rhythm that makes the very surface of her skin look alive. It reminds me of the island and the way the jungles shivered with life.
One thing is excruciatingly clear—there is no way the blonde can be human, and I can’t help but wonder if she, too, is Fey.
But there is something else about her . . . something familiar.
I duck again as the Captain stalks toward the stairs. “Bloody hell,” he mutters as he passes a few inches from my hiding spot, up to where the strange girl waits for him. Will is right behind him.