Page 55 of A Curse of Salt

The room was suddenly crowded, filled with voices, jarring and anxious. I heard my name, felt hands reaching for me, trying to tear my attention in different directions. When I looked up again, Una and Mors were there, too, their expressions ridged with worry.

Something cracked inside me at the sight of them and a surge of questions flooded my mind. They filled my lungs and chased the air from them, making my breaths come sharp and quick.

You left me, I wanted to cry, my eyes burning with relief. I thought you were gone.

But it was as though my mind shouted the words from a clifftop, into the wind, and my mouth never caught hold of them. I couldn’t force them out, couldn’t move.

Mors wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, leading me towards the door.

I’m fine, I tried to say, but all that came out was a croak.

‘Ye’re a’ight, lassie,’ echoed Una’s gentle voice.

‘I didn’t know what to do,’ I finally muttered. I could still feel the ghost of Golde’s grip on my arm.

‘You did all you could,’ Mors said softly, hands warm on my back, guiding me away. I wondered if he knew what I’d really done. My hands now knew the feeling of flesh, torn through. Knew the shudder of bone against steel in a way I’d never wanted them to.

I shrugged Mors off and turned back towards the bed, deaf to the crew’s protests. I needed to make sure he was all right; needed to know that what I’d done wasn’t for nothing. The voices dissolved into murmurs as I leaned over Sebastien’s body. Perhaps it was because he’d so recently been pulled from its clutches, but there was something in him – from the sands of his skin to the shadows that played across his face – that still reminded me of the sea.

His broad chest was caked with blood and salt, and as I pulled back the last shreds of his once-white shirt, I saw the deep gash that ran the length of his torso. It tore through the hard muscle of his abdomen, reaching from his ribs to the ridge of his shoulder.

I knew, somewhere in the vaults of my mind, that the bleeding needed to be stopped and the wound cleaned before it started to fester. But before I could move or ask for alcohol and cloth, the raw skin surrounding the wound began to constrict. My breath hitched as tendons of flesh wound forth, weaving the skin back together before my very eyes. I leant in, watching as Sebastien’s chest mended itself in a slow ripple, leaving nothing but a trickle of blood behind.

Mystified, I laid a hand on his rough, oaken skin. It burned feverishly beneath my fingertips, a reminder that he’d been wounded in more ways than one. His back was likely in far worse condition.

Unable to help my curiosity, I skimmed my fingers down the planes of his powerful torso. I could smell the brine entangled in the dark curls of his hair, could smell the ocean in him. Under all the blood and sweat and ash, it was there – the wind, the tides, the sand. Sebastien didn’t flinch as my hands glided over his remaining wounds, those left to heal on their own. Many were fresh, still beaded with crimson. Others dissolved beneath my touch.

His skin warmed me, easing the iciness from my fingertips as rain lashed against the cabin windows. I stared down at my hands, pale against his bronze skin, and my stomach turned hollow.

The room seemed to be shrinking, growing fainter as the memory of what I’d done encroached. It crept up from inside me, pulling my body back in time. I couldn’t feel Sebastien’s skin beneath my palm any more, only the smooth lick of steel, my fingers wrapped tight around dagger and sword. My nostrils filled with the scent of hot blood, of sea rot and smoke.

I shuddered, spinning back into the dark room.

When I looked up, Sebastien’s black eyes were open. Watching me, glittering.

‘Your hands are cold.’

I snatched them back, cheeks suddenly hot as I realised how close I stood, my knees pressed into the mattress, seeking his warmth. I cleared my throat and stepped back from the bed, immediately colder.

‘You’re alive,’ I remarked quietly, not knowing how to act. How to treat the monster who’d saved my life. Whose life I’d saved in return.

I’d watched them raise him from the sea like a fallen god: his wings waterlogged, a crown of tangled rope. Something in the sight had made my eyes burn. Not for his heart, but . . .

Maybe it was the hands that had pulled him from the darkness, the souls that followed him and the bodies that fought and fell for him. Something about it had made me wish, for an instant, that he wasn’t as irredeemably cursed as he claimed.

‘Come away, lass.’

Mors was beside me again, his wrinkled hand on my shoulder and, this time, I let my feet follow him, slipping past pirates who juggled armfuls of bandages and liquor bottles, their faces eddying around my vision.

Soon I was trailing after Una’s colourful skirts, letting her lead me back to my cold, empty chamber. I wavered on my feet, my mind swimming in a river of fatigue. I was all too happy to let Una steer me towards the bed, pulling back the crisp sheets. My fingers fumbled with my corset strings for a moment before the thought struck me.

‘You left,’ I said, remembering the stillness of the Blood Rose as I’d stood, alone, among the wreckage.

‘Didn’t leave, lass,’ Una said, nudging my hands aside to take over. ‘Had somethin’ important to do.’

I was too tired for subtleties. ‘What?’

The pirate sighed, her exhalation warm on my bare shoulder as I shrugged out of my damp petticoats. ‘Gatherin’ things,’ Una answered. ‘Ledgers, books, documents and such. Things that ought not to be lost when . . . if somethin’ were to happen.’

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