Page 25 of The Withering Dawn
I peeled open my eyes against a beam of sunlight flooding in from a small window at the back of the cabin.
Nazario’scabin. The captain’s quarters.
I froze at the thought, blinking a few times to get my bearings. Slowly, I recalled all that had transpired the night before. The way Henry invaded my cell with his thugs. How they pinned me down and tried to cut out my tongue after I’d only just gotten it back.
Then I woke and saw Nazario hovering over me, his touch gentle. My heart was so confused at his careful handling of me. More than one of his men wanted me dead and yet I was laying in his bed, his sheets covering my nearly naked body.
It was the best sleep I’d gotten in years. I woke sore and stiff, but not because I had slept uncomfortably. Because I had not moved. My mind wasn’t plagued by dreams. I woke up knowing I’d slept straight through the night.
I sat up, realizing the storm had passed and the Amanacer was on a steady course.
And I was not in a cell or tied or chained. I was unbound. Free.
Suspicious, I pushed the blankets off me and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, standing on stiff joints. I was alone in the room. Draped over a chair was a blue garment of some sort. When I lifted it, I could see that it was a dress. It was large for me, but it seemed better than the oversized shirt I was wearing. I pulled the shirt over my head and replaced it with the dress, letting it drape over me and cover my scarred legs. There were laces down the front and despite tightening them all the way, the fabric still hung loosely over my waist.
Perhaps it was time to eat more.
I brushed the soft cotton with my hands and wandered slowly around the room, getting used to the weight of clothes. On the desk in the middle of the cabin, I saw papers and ledgers stacked in various piles. I leaned over them, reading a few lines of what I could see and realized I was looking at documents from the Perry Smith. I furrowed my brows wondering why a pirate would care about records and documents.
Then again, Nazario wasn’t any pirate. He seemed to have motives. Plans. And he certainly seemed to be more empathetic than most men.
It did not take long to put pieces together. He was looking for someone. Perhaps one of the men I heard him address in his sleep. Looking around, I saw shelves of books, some of which had been knocked to the ground in the storm. I bent to pick a few up and place them neatly on the desk, reading titles in different languages etched on the colored leather binding. Picking the last one up, I smelled the spine, recalling the very few times someone gave me reading material on the island that wasn’t religious text. They were only fairytales, but they were my favorite.
Outside, I could hear men talking and boots clomping across the wood flooring. I stepped up to the door, leaning in to peak through the cracks. I couldn’t make out any distinguishable features, but I could see a dozen or so men tidying the disheveled deck. It took some time to build up the courage, but eventually I stepped out. I was slow and quiet about it, testing myself as well as the men as I moved out intothe sun. It was midday and I was astonished that I had slept so long. The clouds had cleared and the storm was long gone, but it was evident that the ship needed a couple minor repairs.
Nazario was on the far end of the ship, his coat removed and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows. He had a tattoo on one forearm and his wrists were covered with leather cuffs and beaded bracelets, but I knew the scars that hid beneath them.
He was glistening with sweat, like all the men, as they hauled a heavy cannon upright and secured it into place with ropes. His bronze skin gleamed and his muscles bulged at the effort. The man helping him was Cathal. He had removed his shirt, putting his bulkier build on display. There was a man with a thinner figure at the helm, the sides of his blond hair shaved short to show the tattoos that decorated his scalp.
I stood close to the wall, watching the men go about their business. Part of me wondered if someone was going to spot me and throw me back behind bars, but the first person to notice I’d come out of the cabin was Cathal. I saw him straighten and then tap Nazario on the shoulder. He was crouched over, tying a heavy knot against the cannon, and turned to look at me at his friend’s behest.
The two men started to approach me and I felt my chest squeeze. I bit my lip, wondering if I should be nervous, but Nazario seemed strangely distracted or maybe just disinterested in my presence.
“You’re awake,” he panted, using a tattered piece of fabric to wipe sweat off his arms and neck. Cathal rested his hands on his hips and watched Nazario closely. “I need to bathe,” he continued, running his fingers through his hair like the sweat-soaked strands falling in his face were infuriating him. “Cathal will look after you for a moment.” He turned his head toward him. “You will bathe today as well. All of you, clean yourselves up. There’s plenty of fresh water onboard.”
His tone was as agitated as he looked. I watched him step past me into his quarters and slam the door shut behind him, sensing something wasn’t right. When I looked up at Cathal, he shrugged, letting out aheavy sigh. He was covered in sweat and dark smudges of grease or soot from the equipment they’d all been handling.
“Don’t take it personal,” he said, lifting a brow. “Cap’n’s obsessed with cleanliness and we’ve been at this for hours under the hot sun in this humidity. We all smell,” he chuckled, but then dropped the smile like it was against the rules. “It’s no laughing matter,” he cleared his throat. “But ye best leave him be. He’s probably scrubbing his skin raw in there like the madman he is.”
I drew my brows together at the image and turned to look at the closed door, concern nipping at my heels and encouraging me to go in there.
“Hungry then?” Cathal said. “Human meat is still not on the menu, but…”
I reached for the handle and opened the door, stepping into the room.
“You shouldn’t…”
His voice faded behind the door as I closed it behind me. Sitting on the bed was Nazario, his sweaty shirt discarded on the floor. He had a bucket of fresh water in front of him and a soaked rag in his hand lathered with soap. He looked up at me when I entered, still seeming irritated by… something. His scent permeated the room. The smell of sweat and hard work mixed with hints of black tea, perhaps from the soap. I took a deep breath, finding it all quite pleasant, and slowly stepped closer.
The air in the room was charged with tension and I ached to ease it. I continued toward him as he dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out a little, and brought it to his neck, wiping sweat and grime off his skin.
“I meant for you to wait outside,” he said flatly.
I stood in front of him as he dipped the cloth again and began scrubbing at his forearms. I reached out, taking his wrist in my hand. He stilled as I turned his arm over, brushing my thumb over the raised marks on his flesh. The urge to ask about them was an itch I couldn’tscratch. I knew he needed to be clean first before anything. I didn’t know why, but his desire to bathe was important and I wanted to help.
I grabbed the cloth and slid it out of his hand, dipping it in the cool water. The scent of black tea began to completely replace the smell of sweat as I lifted the cloth to his back and began gently washing his skin. I cleared damp hair off his neck and paused at the sight of a prominent scar between his shoulder blades. I couldn’t make out what it was. It seemed to have healed poorly and turned into a mess of lines that once meant something. When I touched it, Nazario reached back, taking my hand and straightening to look at me.
“You do not need to clean me,” he said.
