The Bright and Breaking Sea

by Chloe Neill

  Something in his tone had her looking back at him. She found his gaze on her, intense and warm. “It’s a fairly easy decision,” she said, gazing back. “To sail or not to sail. I will always choose to sail.”

  “Always? You’ve no wish for anything beyond a ship and a star?”

  She smiled at the reference to Cox’s Seamanship, and gave Grant silent accolades for it. “I wish for many things. Pistachio nougats, safety for my family, Gerard’s eternal incarceration. If you mean my future, I’ve no desire to give up my captaincy or my ship. And I’ve yet to meet a married woman allowed to keep them.”

  “You’ve such a negative view of marriage?”

  “I’ve a negative view of the requirements that women play at being helpless to attract a wealthy man, and exchange meaningful activity to become accessories, like a soft rug or a charming vase, once married. Is that what you want, Grant? A viscountess of fine breeding and connections who can support your life of gentlemanly contentment?”

  He looked at her for so long she had to force herself to keep from breaking his inscrutable gaze. “I find my desires are somewhat more . . . variable.”

  “But then,” Kit said, “you’re a viscount. You’re allowed to be variable.” She looked back at the fire, let her mind drift back to the present. “Do you really think Gerard is building warships?”

  It took a moment for Grant to answer. “I have no reason to doubt Dunwood or the information he obtained—or the arrogance of Gerard or the Guild. I suspect you’d know more about shipbuilding than me,” he said wryly, “but I’m aware it requires space, workers, materials.”

  “Wood,” Kit said. “Hemp. Pitch. Iron. All in large supply.”

  “The more people,” Grant said, “the more opportunities for gossip, for word to spread. Which is likely how the information came to Dunwood in the first place.” He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “And if Gerard’s handed a new navy, what can be far behind?”

  “War,” Kit answered grimly. “More needless death. More needless destruction.” And with that grim thought, she rose. “I should go back to my room. Try to sleep.”

  “All right,” Grant said, rising. “Do you know the way?”

  “I’m sure I can find it. Good night,” she said with a nod. “Thank you for the drink, and the conversation.”

  “Kit.”

  It was the first time he’d said her name, and there was something in the tone—a kind of grim understanding—that had her turning back. “Yes?”

  “Whatever comes. Be careful.”

  She nodded, retreated into darkness from more talk of war.

  In her room, she took the coverlet from the bed, trailed it into the sitting room, and climbed onto the window bench. She pulled the curtain closed around her, and in her small fabric cocoon, tried not to think of the future.

  Sixteen

  She woke at dawn to find the rain gone, the sun just above the horizon, the sky smudged purple and orange.

  She washed her face and dressed in her spare uniform, then searched out the schoolroom again, only erred once while traversing the labyrinthine wing. The door was open, as were the windows, and a fresh breeze blew inside.

  She checked on her sailors, found them all awake and sipping on tea. She began to walk into the room, but the physick glared back at her before moving from Teasdale’s bed to Cordova’s. Teasdale offered her a wave; Kit waved back.

  “He’s a good physick.”

  Kit nearly jumped at the voice, turned to find Mrs. Spivey behind her.

  “His manner’s a bit cold,” she continued, “but he’s delivered a dozen children and cured twice as many fevers.”

  “As long as he helps them, he can have whatever manner he likes,” Kit said.

  “Good morning.”

  They glanced back, found Grant in the corridor. He’d gotten a shave, and his jaw was scraped clean again, square beneath his dark brows and turquoise eyes. He wore deerskin breeks with his dark boots today, and a greatcoat in the same honeyed color.

  “Grant,” she said.

  “Captain,” Grant said. “How are the patients?”

  “Improving, it appears. Although the physick has not deigned to speak with me, nor am I allowed to enter the room.”

  Grant nodded. “I thought you’d want to drive to Queenscliffe to check on the ship. I’ve a curricle harnessed.”

  She felt immediately calmer at the thought of returning to the ship, the water, if only temporarily. Less so at the thought of climbing into a death trap to get there.

  “That’s kind. But if you have estate concerns that you need to manage, I’d be happy to walk.”

  He raised his brows. “It’s four miles.”

  “I enjoy a good walk,” she said. On her own damned feet.

  “At present, the Diana is my estate concern. And I can collect some items Mrs. Spivey needs from the village, which will save her the trip.”

  “In that case, I suppose I have no other option.”

  And gods help them both.

  * * *

  She’d thought of curricles—in the rare instances she’d been forced to consider them—as dares. It was as if their designer had decided two horses simply weren’t dangerous enough on their own, so added a rickety bench balanced on narrow wheels at their back.

  If Grant noticed her white-knuckle grip on the seat, he managed not to mention it.

  They reached the village, and villagers emerged from buildings as the curricle passed, then watched from the dock as Kit made her way to the Diana. The hole in her side was bigger now, and Kit couldn’t hide the wince, even though she understood the reason. They’d need clean edges for a clean patch, not the irregular tear made by the cannon.

  You can’t get through the thick, Kit thought, hearing Hetta’s voice recite Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 9, without going through it. This, at least for the Diana, was the thick.

  Grant stopped to chat with villagers, and Kit continued through them, could feel their curious stares, could just see their approving nods at the periphery of her vision. Then she put it away, climbed the rope ladder with the swiftness of a salty hand, and chuckled at the mild applause.

  “Captain on deck!” someone shouted, and the sailors above came to attention.

  “At ease,” she said, and looked around at the work underway.

  Mr. Oglejack had indeed found a spare yard, and had set sailors to work planing it down to replace the lost topmast. Damaged decking was being pulled up, the pitted gunwale being sanded.

  Jin was chatting with Simon. He looked up, caught her eye, and came her way.

  “Captain,” Jin said. “Been a while since we’ve had a fancy lady on board.”

  “Hilarious as always,” she said dryly, and was relieved to return to the company of those she knew and understood. “How’s the crew?”

  “Very well, m’lady,” Jin said, and made a little bow.

  “I will write you up for insubordination.”

  “Perhaps you could request a servant prepare the documents for you?”

  “Hilarity,” she said. “Report.”

  “A few crew members had too much tipple last night, but the town’s full of sailors who outdid ours in drink, so that’s something.” He gestured toward the high street of shops. “The bakery reportedly makes a very good meat pie. I hear there’s still a bit of coin to be spent. As long as that’s the case, they’ll be very welcome here.”

  “We need the repairs finished by the time it runs out,” Kit mused.

  “As you can see,” Jin said, “the villagers are skilled and efficient. They found more hull damage beneath the waterline, but nothing as big as the hole.”

  “The hold?”

  “Still dry, or at least no wetter than usual. The hand pumps are ready, just in case, but we haven’t had to use them yet. How are the pa
tients?”

  “They’ve a very skilled physick. And while I would never admit this in his presence—or Grant’s—he’s rather bossy.”

  Jin just looked at her.

  “Insubordination,” she called out, and headed for the stairs.

  * * *

  Kit found a hive of activity in the forecastle. At present, Mr. Oglejack and Mr. Bailey were involved in a heated discussion over how tight to make the wooden plug they’d prepared.

  “It will swell when it hits the water!” Oglejack said. “If it’s too snug now, it’ll pop right out again.”

  “And if it’s not tight enough,” Bailey said, “it’ll pop out before you leave the damned harbor.”

  When the sailors realized Kit had entered the room, the din quieted for a moment, then picked up again at twice the volume as each man tried to sway Kit to his side.

  Kit stared at them blandly until they stopped shouting.

  “Thank you,” she said in the ensuing silence, and looked at Mr. Oglejack. “While I think you’d be absolutely right if the hole was beneath the waterline, it may not swell enough above to keep the plug seated. So seal it now but”—she said, holding up a hand as she saw a fresh barrage being loaded—“in the event Mr. Bailey and I are both wrong, we should have an extra plug that we can plane down and use if the first one does, as you said, pop.”

  Neither man looked especially pleased by the result, which Kit figured was a pretty good sign she’d done the right thing.

  She checked the hold herself, then went back to the deck to watch the work, when someone called her name.

  “Captain.”

  Kit refocused, found Mr. Oglejack on the deck a few feet in front of her with one of the village carpenters, a piece of decking, and a wooden box of tools. And there was plain discomfort on Mr. Oglejack’s face.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “You’ll beg my pardon, but the, well, the pacing is making it a bit hard for us to accurately plane the decking.”

  She looked around, realized she was the only person standing in this part of the ship, and didn’t remember having walked here. She’d been pacing, something she did only when working things over. A marauding water buffalo, Astrid had once called her.

  “Pardon,” Mr. Oglejack said sheepishly, cheeks blushing.

  “No, it’s my fault,” Kit said with a smile she forced into place. “I was thinking, and hadn’t realized I’d stepped into your workspace. My apologies, gentlemen.” She went back to the helm, crossed her arms, and felt her foul mood returning.

  “Irritating your own men?”

  Kit refused to look at Grant. “I’m observing their progress.”

  “I’m aware,” Grant said. “But your very fine carpenter is right; they won’t get as much done with you hovering over them like a governess.”

  “I don’t hover,” she said crisply. “I lead. I manage.”

  “You’re slowing their work.”

  This time, she bared her teeth at him. “And what else am I supposed to do? Learn to cook pasties? Perhaps a bit of embroidery while Mrs. Spivey brings me tea and biscuits.”

  Grant’s expression stayed mild. “If she’s biscuits, have her send some up for me, as well. And I’m fairly certain you can’t tell a needle from thread.”

  “I’ve mended a shirt now and again,” she said, sounding defensive even to her ear.

  “Impressive,” Grant said, a corner of his mouth lifting. “If you’ve no antimacassars to tat, perhaps you could take a walk around the village, or the grounds of Grant Hall. There’s a lovely view of the sea from the hills behind the garden at Grant Hall. I’ve some business here, but you can wait for me. Or you can pace back on your own.”

  She growled, even as she knew hovering wasn’t going to help. And besides, women in the penny romances were always going for walks on the moors or by the ocean or across a hedged ground. An enemy was nearly always lying in wait to ambush them, but they usually enjoyed walks up to that point. She could try a meander. Maybe it would help her burn away some of the excess energy.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Captain.”

  She looked back at Grant.

  “If you reach the sea, you’ve gone too far.”

  * * *

  She took the same road back, marveled at how much she could hear when the noise wasn’t damped by speed or hidden by the clomp of horses and the squeak of wood and leather. The sky was overcast, and birds tittered nervously, as if expecting the sky to break open. Insects whirred and buzzed in the air, and frogs she couldn’t see made sounds like drums farther away.

  It took just over an hour to reach Grant Hall, and seen from the ground it might have been a public park. The lawn seemed to stretch in all directions without end. There was an enormous pond stocked with darting orange and black fish, hedge gardens that needed trimming, with green walls twice as tall as she was. A labyrinth of herbs. Fields of wildflowers. And acres of closely cropped grass that led toward the sea and the echoing waves.

  On a hillock of some of that grass, she passed a wooden building shaped like wheat sheaf, wider at the bottom than the top, but easily thrice as large. A barn stood nearby. A wooden door was closed, the side path leading to it well-worn and flattened, but she could hear what sounded like grinding from inside, and there were several large round stones propped against the building. A gristmill of some kind, she guessed.

  She kept walking, and the ground became rougher as she neared the sea, cratered rocks interspersed with moss as green as peridot, tiny white flowers adding softness to the craggy landscape. And then the stone fell away, and blue stretched into infinity. It churned white along the rocks below her, deepened in color to the horizon. The little peninsula leaning forward into the water so blue was the only thing she could see below.

  She closed her eyes against the wind, let it break against her, and listened for the song of the sea. The sea was a hundred feet below, its song just as distant. But even from above she could hear the faint melody, turbulent as water battled back rock and stone. It was a war—not just between landscapes—but between magic. The fluidity of water, the urge to move, to go faster, to slick through currents. The solidity of stone, standing tall against change, against capriciousness. And between, in the foaming water and water-smoothed rock, was the battle line.

  She felt the ground rumble, for a moment wondered if she’d managed to touch the magic without even being in the sea. And then she looked back.

  Grant galloped toward her on an imposing black horse, fast enough that his hair blew back in the wind, his coat flying out behind him like a cape.

  “Hello,” he said when he reached her, his turquoise eyes glinting.

  “Hello,” she said, and looked warily at the beast who’d borne him. It was big but lean, its coat was so deeply black it seemed to shine blue in the sunlight, and its mane had been carefully braided.

  “Would you like to ride?”

  Her no was perhaps a bit too quick.

  “You run headlong into a battle with pirates, but a horse disturbs you?”

  “They have bigger teeth.”

  Grant blinked. “I suppose that’s inarguable.” Before she could move away, he hitched a leg over the horse, hopped off, and shifted the reins over the horse’s head. “Come then, Captain. I’ll walk back with you, and stand between you and this vicious creature.” His coat lifted in the breeze, and he looked as much the commander inspecting the battlefield as gentleman preparing to negotiate a grassy heath.

  Kit looked at the horse from behind her human barrier. “What’s its name?”

  “Her name is Cordelia.”

  Kit also didn’t understand giving horses human names. It was just unnatural. But she wasn’t going to say that aloud, and admitted to herself that Cordelia was a handsome horse, as horses went.

  “Hmm,” Kit said noncommit
tally. But if she praised it, it might move closer. So she tried her best to ignore it. “There’s a building not far from here, shaped like a cone. What is it? I thought perhaps a mill, but it’s nowhere near water.”

  “It’s a gristmill,” Grant confirmed. “But it uses magic, not water.”

  She stopped short, looked at him. “It’s siphoning magic? That’s incredibly dangerous. And illegal.”

  He gave her an exceedingly bland look.

  “I don’t siphon magic,” she reminded him, and held up her palms. “I only touch it.”

  “The gristmill doesn’t siphon, either. As you’ll recall, I understand the dangers of magic as well as you do.”

  The image of Grant on his knees, shock and concern in his gaze, flashed in her memory.

  “Right,” she said. “How does it work?”

  “It doesn’t—not yet. But it will. We’re in the gods’ palm, you see.”

  That was one of the old stories—that the magic had been unequally spread across the world as the gods battled for supremacy. When Kanos, the god of water, finally bested Arid, the god of stone, Kanos had fallen to his hands and knees in the sea, grabbed at the earth near the shore, imbuing sea and shore with magic.

  “The soil in this area is thin,” Grant said, “the bedrock beneath it abundant in magic. The magic here has a vibration.”

  Her brows lifted. “Really?”

  “So I’m told,” Grant said. “Is there no vibration in the sea?”

  “There’s an energy,” Kit said. “But it flows, just as a current of water, and the speed and strength vary. How are you using the vibration?”

  “We’ve built a cellar,” Grant continued. “A wide well that goes down to the bedrock. A stone from the surface is placed on top. The vibrational difference between the two moves the top stone against the bottom and, we hope, will grind grain between them.”

  Kit considered that for a bit. “That’s rather ingenius, isn’t it?”