Chapter 22, Sarah

  I step through the galley door and pause, taking in the state of things. Drawers that should have been latched hang open, their contents spilled across the floor. The place has seen better days, but it looks like Sonya has made a start. A few pans hang from their hooks again. Some tools have been gathered into a crate near the prep table.

  Sonya is crouched in front of the oven door, brow furrowed, a pair of pliers clutched in one hand.

  “Well, well. Look who’s decided to grace the galley.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Not unless you can help with this damn oven. The door won't stay shut.”

  I take a closer look and notice that the latch appears to be smashed in. I look around the galley for something I can use.

  “How attached are you to this spatula?” I ask.

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Good. I’m gonna need a cleaver and those pliers.”

  Sonya takes a leather wrap from one of the cabinets, opening it to reveal a large cleaver.

  “Perfect.” I grin.

  I brace the spatula on the edge of the counter and, using the blunt edge of the cleaver, break off the handle. Then, I remove the rivet from the broken latch and use it to secure the one I’ve just made from the spatula handle.

  I wink. “That should hold, for now.”

  “I’ve gotta say, I’m impressed.”

  “What’s next?” I ask.

  “I’ve got things covered here, do me a favor and go check on Manee,” she says, “and bring them this.”

  I take the jar with amber-colored contents.

  “Don’t let anyone see you with it, it’s from my personal stash.”

  “Sure,” I say, tucking the package under my arm.

  “Oh, and Sarah? Thanks. You’re a good one.”

  I leave Sonya and find my way to the ship’s dark belly.

  “Manee?” I say to the person crouched in an impossible position, smearing hot tar into the seams of cracked wood.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Sarah. Sonya instructed me to bring you this,” I say holding out the jar, “And give you a hand, if you need one.”

  “Ah, Sonya’s famous candied ginger. Only cost me a night of hauling buckets and losing the will to live.” they say, pointing to a shelf. “set it down over there, will you?”

  “How can I help?” I ask, nestling the jar into a tool crate on the shelf.

  “This part’s really a one-person job.” They say, turning back to their work.

  I move closer, crouching beneath a low beam. “Then at least let me keep you company.”

  They glance at me sideways, then nod once, flipping a spare bucket over. “Suit yourself.”

  I sit, and only then do I feel the full weight of the heat and damp. The smell down here is sour and metallic.

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  “These patches,” I blurt, trying to think of something light to say. “How long do they hold?”

  Manee sighs. “Come on. Anything else we can talk about?”

  We chuckle, and the tension between us loosens.

  Then, curiosity gets the better of me.

  “The Captain, have you sailed with her long?” I ask, cautious.

  “Yes. Though if you’re looking for the longest witness to her story, that would be Harken.” They say, giving me a sidelong look. “Why?”

  I hesitate. I don’t know why I feel nervous asking. It’s not like Roberts is here. But saying her name aloud still feels like standing too close to an open flame.

  “She’s just—” Arrogant. “Are all pirate captains like her?”

  “You’ve not met many pirate captains, have you? If you had, you’d know. There’s none like her, dead or alive,” they say.

  “It feels like she… thinks she has it all figured out,” I say. “Like she wants to change the world and knows exactly how to do it.”

  “If anyone can make a difference in this trash heap, it’s Roberts. We all believe in her,” Manee says.

  “What did she do to earn that kind of belief? Does it have anything to do with the scars on her back?” I press further.

  Manee stops. “So you are sleeping with her?”

  “No,” I say, the bluntness hitting like a slap. But Manee’s laugh tells me they’re teasing and my shoulders drop.

  “Since you’re here, wouldn’t hurt to have a little help.” They hold out a small clay pot, its rim thick with tar. “You don’t mind getting dirty, do you?”

  “Not at all. Dirtier the better.” We both laugh quietly at that. I take the pot, and warm tar coats one of my fingers where it dripped over the edge.

  “Get a bit on the paddle, and smooth it over the seams like this.” They demonstrate, spreading a glossy layer across a cracked brace. Now that I’m looking, I see just how much damage the ship took.

  “Go over any dry spots with a second coat,” they add.

  “Right,” I say, smearing a clump of tar onto the wood. “Like this?”

  “Good,” they say. “And try not to get this stuff all over you. I know you said the dirtier the better, but this shit’s basically glue.”

  I laugh quietly, easing the paddle into the next seam. For a moment, I think they’re going to ignore my earlier questions.

  “The Captain got those scars long before any of us knew her,” they answer.

  I wait for Manee to say something else, but they don’t. The only sound is the slow, deliberate drag of the tarred paddle over wood.

  Their bare back is streaked with sweat, skin glistening in the low light.

  "I guess it’s none of my business," I say.

  "She was a slave in her former life," says Manee. "That’s no secret around here. I’d venture about six years. As many as she’s been a pirate."

  And then it dawns on me. Twelve years in total, which means when Dar—when she ran away, she must have run straight into trouble.

  A mix of gloating and empathy washes over me. Because that’s what she gets for doing something so brainless. But then, slavery. The web of lashes across her back flashes through my mind. I wouldn’t wish that on her.

  “You never answered my other question: how did Roberts earn such respect and downright worship?”

  Manee lets out a short laugh. "Gods, how didn’t she? For starters, she puts herself in danger constantly, but never recklessly. She doesn’t ask her crew to do anything she wouldn’t do herself. That’s rare, even for a pirate captain. She’s pulled us out of impossible situations more times than I can count. You’ve seen it yourself."

  They lean closer to inspect my work, their bare shoulder brushing mine. The space down here is too tight for modesty. I scoot backward to give them room, bumping my head on the beam overhead.

  "Shit," I mutter. The end of my braid dips right into the tar pot.

  Manee watches it happen, eyes widening. "Damn, Sarah. That is... not good."

  I groan. “It’s fine. I’ll wash it later.”

  Manee shakes their head, clearly amused. “No, you won’t. Not unless you want a permanent rats’ nest on your head, or a haircut.” They wince.

  “Here,” they say, setting down the paddle. They grab a cloudy glass jar from their belt, with an oily sheen clinging to the outside. “I use this to clean tar off my hands. It might work.”

  They dip their fingers into the oil and reach toward my hair, pausing just long enough for me to nod.

  They cradle the length of my braid and start working the oil in, separating the strands with slow precision. The scent of the oil cuts through the sharp tang of pitch. Herby, clean, almost like citrus. Their hands move gently, but the work is messy.

  “You’re lucky it’s still warm,” they murmur.

  I stare at the curve of their collarbone, the tension in their arms, the deep black smudge of tar beneath one fingernail.

  “Your head took a good knock too,” they say, rising to check the top of my head.

  Now my eye level is directly in line with their chest. I try not to stare at the two thick scars, where curves might have once been. My breath catches.

  “Not all scars are wounds, Sarah. Some are victories,” Manee says.