Page 77 of Quarter Labyrinth

A simple thank you would never be enough. But I struggled to force even those small words through my tight throat before Aiden spoke.

“I’ll join the crew,” Aiden said. “If there’s room for me.”

This time, I managed to speak. “Always.”

“I’m in,” Astrid added, crossing her arms over her chest. Her words were less enthusiastic and more broken. Like joining our crew was the last option but she had no other path to walk. Day by day, this labyrinth beat her down. After the wolves…I was surprised she still stood.

I looked at Clark. “First mate?” I asked. He was the only one not to speak up.

He gave a little nod.

“It’s settled then. We shall call our captain’s shipThe Wolf Pack,” Gunnar said. His humor always managed to cut through the tension that clung to the air.

I chuckled. “The captain’s ship already has a name, but I shall petition to change it.”

“It’sSea Serpent, right?” Harald asked as he took a swig from his drink. “My master talked about the Silver Wings from time to time, especially the vessel that heads them.”

They already got my first secret, so this one didn’t feel as big to share. I leaned in close so they knew what I was about to say was exclusive information. “It’s actually not. TheSea Serpentis a guise to fool others. My father never boards it. He remains on one of the smaller vessels to keep his enemies from successfully cannonballing his ship or sneaking aboard to assassinate him.”

It worked, too. Several times we’d receive news clippings on Haven about theSea Serpentbeing sunk, and having to be rebuilt. But we always knew my father was never aboard during the attack.

“What’s the name of his ship?” Aiden asked.

I smiled. “Once we win, I’ll tell you.”

The group kept talking, mainly about what they would name their ship or how grand life would be with the Silver Wings, as if knowing my father once ran them had somehow guaranteed us the win. As I watched them, the hunger in my belly faded until I hardly noticed the ache, and memories of the wolf didn’t makemy bones tremble. Out of everything the labyrinth threw my way, they’d been the most surprising.

May you find yourself in the labyrinth.

I didn’t know if I’d found myself. But I’d found them.

As the others broke into sleeping shifts—some rolling to their sides to close their eyes while others sat watch—Clark tugged on my sleeve. He stood, and I followed him out of the bower into the scant light by the glassy lake. The silver glow of the moon reflected on the still surface, casting shimmering ripples as if the stars themselves had fallen into the water.

Clark cut his gaze across the distance in his thoughtful way where I knew his mouth was quiet but his mind was loud. “The wolves didn’t hunt you because of your father.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, his silhouette sharp against the faint mist rising from the water. The cool breeze tousled his hair.

The faint outline of his breath lingered as he exhaled.

“Dimitri, Leif…none of it is because of who your father is.” My throat tightened as his green eyes found me. “The wolf called you a child of Dawson. Who was Dawson?”

It felt very much like the day by the cliffs when I’d told him who my father was, hoping he’d believe me, knowing it sounded too far-fetched to be true. Mainly hoping he wouldn’t laugh.

“I’m Gerald Montclair’s daughter.”

His long pause, those kind eyes never harboring doubt for one second. “I suppose you should know how to sail then.”

I mustered up my courage. “You’re right—it’s not my father’s bloodline they care about. It’s my mother’s.”

I told him everything.

Clark listened quietly, his brow pinched together when I got to parts about Leif. When I noted the time, his frown deepened. “Why didn’t you mention you met him the night by the manor?”

“It wasn’t important,” I replied. “Now it is.”

He didn’t ask anything again until I’d finished my tale. Then he stayed quiet for the longest time.

“Please say something,” I whispered.

He worked his jaw. “How do you know it’s true? Allison never hid your father from you, but she hid her entire past? How do you know it’s not wistful thinking?”

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