Page 6 of The Lost Child

For a moment we simply stared at each other—him slouched comfortably behind his massive desk, fingers laced together as he stared at me with heavy contemplation. I sat up, my back as straight as a rod.

Finally, he cleared his throat and shifted. “Gaitworth swears you’re some kind of demon bitch, so that acquits you well. Gerrick, Boots, and Seth were also satisfied with your performance.”

Inwardly, I huffed. Of course my father had men spying on me. Perhaps Gerrick didn’t like me as much as I thought he did.

Don’t show anger. Don’t show fear.

I simply nodded my head in acknowledgement. Father always kept tabs on everyone and everything. I wouldn’t be any different.

“I hope in the future you will consider me for similar opportunities,” I said slowly.

My father crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back further in his chair.

“What exactly is all of this about?” he asked softly, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

That caught me off guard. “I … what? I don’t understand,” I muttered, fighting the urge to break his gaze and stare at the floor. I resisted. I wasn’t a frightened little girl anymore.

Father gestured whimsically in the air. “The training. The fights. Working with the other men with their drills. How many years have you been at it? You seem to be working toward something. But what?”

This had to be a trap of some kind. A trick. Or more likely, a test.

I spoke carefully, and slowly. “I have only ever wished to train myself to be the best I can be so that I may fight for you like I’ve done today.”

He knocked his knuckles against the wood of the desk. Once, twice, three times.

“Do you see yourself taking over this company one day?” he asked darkly, the bits of beading and coins braided into his hair catching the candlelight and flashing at me.

I swallowed reflexively. What was it about him in particular that turned me into a stumbling, frightened minnow?

I bowed my head. “I would be honored,” I answered deferentially. “One can only be—”

He cut me off, laughing uproariously. My heart withered in my chest, and I fixed a cold, unbothered expression on my face: my mask. Slamming it down was as familiar to me as putting on my boots.

My father pounded on the table hard, his quill jumping and rolling to the ground. “And here I thought Gerrick was pulling my leg! It’s true then! A magick-less half-breed thinks she can be a pirate princess, eh?”

My mask was slipping. All the training, the hours of sleep lost, the wounds and scars, the bruises and bleeding. Long years of trying to control an odd power inside me I didn’t understand, but I knew for sure it wasn’t air or sea weighed on me. My body shook, and I clenched every muscle I could in order to hide it.

“Piratequeen,” I corrected boldly.

Father wiped his face with his handkerchief, his face twisting from mirth to deadly venom in the blink of an eye. “What did you say, girl?”

I swatted the word away like a gnat. Insignificant and inconsequential.

“I’m your daughter,” I said slowly. It seemed a logical conclusion to me that I would follow in his footsteps. I was a good fighter, well read, and of his bloodline.

“Women ain’t pirates, girl. They’re bits of treasure to be hoarded until the time comes to cash in.” He picked up his quill, then picked up a sheet of parchment.

A clear dismissal.

I burned inwardly. Despair, anger, hatred … I couldn’t keep track of all the emotions that whirled through me. It didn’t matter what I did. I would always be an embarrassment to him; a disappointment.

“And the mission I succeeded on today? The supplies I brought? The men?” I asked, struggling to keep desperation and rage from coloring my voice.

He glanced up at me, eyes surrounded by black kohl softening just a bit. “Aye, you’re a good fighter, I’ll give you that. Even have a head for business. Shame it is what it is.”

I stood before him, each of us hovering on the edge of a knife. This would be it. The moment he realized I was worth it, and that I could be important to him. It was so close, I could almost taste it: the tobacco scent lingering in his hair and beard; hints of vanilla and leather from his armor; polish from when he shined his buckle and hilt.

The tension left the room as he grunted and leaned back in his chair, ink-stained fingers dropping the quill. The nub fell and tore the parchment, but he didn’t notice. “It isn’t just you. I plan to rule for a long time thanks to my secret weapon. He’ll allow me to keep running business even when I’m too old to sail.” His arms crossed behind his head, a smirk twitching from behind his mustache.

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