Page 22 of Lore of the Tides

Shit. He was bringing up the dangers of scrying again. She racked her brain for something to distract him, though now she was focusing on the gleaming golden cuff link that stood out so vividly against the black of his shirt, focusing on that and not the pulsating walls, the way her stomach was still in knots... when Syrelle did the job for her.

“What did you find?” His tone wasn’t demanding but rather tentative and curious. “This time was different; I think you found something.”

“I found a clue.”

His eyes flashed with excitement. “Tell me, and I’ll bring you up to the deck.”

Lore wanted to slap him. Again.

But she hadn’t the energy, nor total control of her limbs. Truly, if she tried to slap him right now, she would probably end up on the floor. Besides, she had to be clever about this. She couldn’t tell him anything that would lead him to the book before she’d discovered more and properly designed a plan of action. Though, the thought of willingly heading toward that putrid darkness... it seemed ludicrous.

“I tasted something. Dirt. Earth. It was... ancient. Undisturbed for a long time. I think it means the book may be buried underground.”

“Dirt? That’s it? Dirt has you so out of sorts, even now?” He pushed away from the desk, straightening his posture, and took a deliberate step toward her. “Lore, I know you. I can tell that you are frightened. And that it was something yousawor experienced that frightened you.” He eyed her, searching her face.

She returned his gaze warily.Please, let it go for now.

His face softened. “We will discuss this further tomorrow. For now, let’s go above and get some air.”

Gods. Lore must look a wreck for him to let this go so easily.

Syrelle plucked a cloak from a stand and handed it to her on the way out the door. The cloak was long; if she were barefoot, it would drag on the floor, though even wearing boots, it would just barely miss it. The fabric was dyed the pale green of lichen, spun with golden thread and adorned with golden motifs in a twirling arrangement that mimicked creeping vines. Two buttons carved from bone in the shape of moon moths decorated either side of the collar and could be secured with a golden ribbon that appeared to be spun from a bar of gold.

“This arrived by post this morning. I had it made for you.”

Lore didn’t want anything from him.

But it would be cold on the deck; it was winter, after all, and she was already shivering in this room. It was as though the frigid airhad seeped into her very bones and formed its home within them—despite the fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth.

Lore took the offered cloak and slipped it over her shoulders. Her fingers shook as she coiled the shimmering golden loop around the bone moth buttons. The fabric of the cloak slid over her shoulders, contouring to them like water. And it must have been spelled, because the material inside the cloak waswarmagainst her skin, as if it had been hung by the fire in Syrelle’s hearth and not dangling on a hook across the room by the door.

The warmth instantly loosened the knots in her shoulders. Her frozen fingers uncurled and the tremors racking her body stilled.

“Post? How can a messenger find us in the middle of the ocean?” Now that she was warm, her voice was less raspy, her throat less raw, and she felt like that lingering taste on her tongue was beginning to dissipate.

“Our messengers can fly, Lore, and our course is charted and logged with our military.”

“Oh, yeah.Wings,” Lore said as she followed his enormous wings out the door and down the corridor.

* * *

Syrelle led the way onto the deck and promptly pretended to leave her to her own devices. He busied himself by walking the length of the deck, talking with Thadrik in low, hushed whispers. Scheming the top-ten best ways to betray your friends and loved ones, probably, before he sat next to the first mate, who was busy mending nets despite the darkness.

She supposed the elderly male had been mending nets so long that he didn’t need light to see by.

The first mate was wind-blasted and sun-damaged, with a patchy white beard and yellowing gray hair that he kept tied in aknot at the base of his wrinkled neck and covered with a ratty old knitted cap. She’d heard the others call him Old Salt, which Lore couldn’t be sure that, at birth, despite him being a fresh baby, wasn’t the name his mother had given him, because heembodiedit. Old Salt was straight out of a pirate adventure novel. Lore didn’t know how to explain it, but the old fae male looked like he was born on a ship and would die on a ship, and he wouldn’t want to live life any other way.

He was the only sailor who offered her a smile and tipped his hat at her in greeting when they crossed paths. As he did just now.

Lore returned his smile, but hers was cautious, wary.

Gods, she was desperate for a friend.

Syrelle, who looked entirely too... noble to be sitting on a salt-stained oak barrel beside Old Salt, picked up a needle, extracted a net from the pile at the old sailor’s feet, and began the task of repairing it himself. The two seemed like old friends. Syrelle laughed and joked with the old man, his fingers skimming across the latticed material, searching for rips and tears, all while keeping one eye on her.

If he had been Asher, it would have made sense. Asher was lowborn like her, like Old Salt no doubt was. But Syrelle was a different creature than Lore or Old Salt. He carried himself differently... He was wearing a tailored coat and boots that were shined so fine they positively glowed in the dark.

Lore’s cloak was undoubtedly more expensive than anything she or Old Salt had ever owned combined, and because of that it fit her, strangely. Notstrangelybecause it fit her perfectly, but... she wasn’t used to such luxury. She wasn’t born to this, and it showed.

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