Page 82 of Freeing Hook

“Do you speak to ghosts then?” says Siv.

Astor holds his hand up, silencing Siv, and smiles at me, the realization of what I’m thinking dawning on his face.

“Not quite,” I say, thoughnot yetis what I should say. “But wraiths have a fondness for me. And they’re not always loyal to the people who created them.”

I would know, I don’t add, thinking of the wraith who succeeded in talking me off the side of this ship.

“Are you suggesting, Darling,” says Astor, “that we torture and kill one of the Nomad’s followers, then use the wraith that’s formed from their pain to obtain the passcode?”

The words get hung up in my throat. Astor’s staring at me. His question wasn’t a taunt. It’s genuine.Do you really want to become this?is the question dancing in his eyes.

I think back to Zane’s brothel. How many patrons Vulcan said frequented their business daily.

“I’m sure we can find someone who deserves it,” is all I say.

As the restof the crew files out of the map room, I stay close to Charlie. It’s pitiful, but I’m still shaking from having spoken up in front of the entire crew.

“Charlie,” Astor calls out from behind us as we reach the door. “Do me a favor and leave Darling behind.”

For a moment, I consider whether my heart has actually ceased to exist. Charlie tosses Astor a conniving look over her shoulder, winks at me, then leaves me stranded.

“How’d you enjoy being a part of the scheming?” asks Astor, still rolling up maps on the table, clearing the space.

“Better this time,” I say, interlocking my fingers behind me so Astor won’t see me wringing them. “The sound quality is much better in here than it is in the hall.”

The captain presses his lips together in a half-smile. “Plus, you get a better view this way.”

I refuse to let myself blush. The captain isn’t referencing his own appearance anyway. “Much better than peering through the crack in the door,” I say. “You should really consider getting that fixed.”

“Noted,” he says.

I find myself swaying, bouncing on my toes impatiently as I pick at my fingernails behind my back, but the captain doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to address whatever it was he kept me back for. Finally, when I can’t stand it anymore, I clear my throat.

“Yes, Darling?” he asks, peering up from his papers, his green eyes lined evenly with his dark eyelashes.

“I…” I shake my head. “Was there something in particular you wished to discuss with me?”

The captain’s eyes flicker with amusement. “Nothing in particular.”

When I reach my rooms,I’m still buzzing from the excitement of having spoken up at the meeting. While I return to my usual habit of analyzing my words—annotating them and revising my points to sound more fluent, infusing my voice with more confidence than I’d had in the moment—I’m not as embarrassed of my imperfections as usual. It ends up being for the best thatI can’t seem to calm my mind, because Charlie clearly has no intention of me getting any sleep.

She bursts into the room, then promptly drags me two floors below deck, explaining on the way that she has something to show me.

We arrive in a large storage closet where the maintenance supplies for the cannons are kept. In the corner is a table, across which dozens of metallic parts are strewn. Framed in greasy gadgets like the suckling pig at a Solstice dinner party is a long black barrel with a handle. It sits atop a black velvet piece of cloth, like Charlie couldn’t stand for something so beautiful to simply lie upon the desk.

“You know when you were talking about portable cannons?” asks Charlie, bouncing on her toes, her energy filling the cramped storage room with an infectious buzz.

“You invented one?” I ask, wonder striking me as I run my fingers over the smooth barrel.

Charlie looks abashed. “Well, sort of. It still needs some tweaking. And the design didn’t come entirely from me. You see, it’s been attempted before.” She rushes over to a pile of books on the table and flips through one, showing me countless pictures of similar prototypes. “The problem is that the faerie dust burns too hot for such a small barrel. The wrought can’t take the ignition inside, not like the thicker cannon barrels can. Several researchers have tried, but they always end up with damaged barrels.”

“But this one works?” I ask, tempted but somewhat frightened to pick up the small but intimidating object.

Charlie nods, though she bites her lip. “Snuck off yesterday and tested it while the rest of the gunners were firing routine test shots with the cannons.” She takes the weapon, her grip gentle enough to coax a wild creature, then pops open a compartment. She produces a metal ball from her pocket and clicks it inplace before pressing the compartment closed. As quickly as she loaded it, she whips open the compartment again, emptying it. “It fired alright,” she says, peering down at the invention like she’s vacillating between pride and regret. “But the aim was off.”

She places the invention back on the table, wraps the handle in the velvet wrap—I assume so I don’t get my oily fingerprints on it—then hands it to me. When I hesitate, she gasps. “Oh, I forgot you hate the feel of velvet,” she says, quickly removing the velvet wrap and flinging it to the side, as if fingerprints no longer matter.

“How did you know that?” I ask.

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