The Bright and Breaking Sea

by Chloe Neill

“It will be if we can get it to work correctly. We’re still trying to find the right stone.”

  That explained the bevy of them outside the building, Kit thought. “I’ve never heard of anything like this before.”

  “That’s because it’s the first time it’s been attempted. There’s a water mill on the neighboring estate, but the river’s course changed, and the mill’s virtually useless now. If this effort is successful, it would mean a great deal to the village.”

  “I suppose even a viscount can have a good idea occasionally.”

  “Be careful you aren’t too generous with the compliments,” Grant said dryly. “Your crew may think you’re going soft.”

  * * *

  They reached the house, coming around the back this time, and Grant offered the horse to a stableman who ran out from a nearby building. They made their way inside, found Mr. and Mrs. Spivey in the foyer, staring through the front windows.

  Mr. Spivey turned back. “My lord, there’s a carriage coming up the drive.”

  “Oh?” Brows arched, Grant moved to the windows, looked outside.

  A carriage pulled in front of the house—glossy gray with crimson accents, driven by a pair of bay horses.

  The driver hopped down, opened the doors, and a man emerged, tall and thin as a rail, with pale skin, curly brown hair, and a cheerful smile. He wore all black, though his waistcoat was patterned with small dots and his cravat held a fluffier knot beneath his long face.

  “Well, that’s very timely,” Grant said, and moved to the door. “It’s the Howards. Mr. Howard is the inventor of the gristmill.”

  Curious, Kit followed Grant outside.

  “Grant!” said Mr. Howard when Grant reached him. He pumped Grant’s arm. “Good to see you again. So glad you’ve returned safely.”

  “Matthew. Good to see you as well.”

  Matthew turned back to the carriage, offered a hand to the woman who emerged. She took it in a gloved hand and stepped down. She was as petite as he was tall. Light brown skin with a cap of short, black hair peeking from beneath her bonnet.

  “Tasha,” Grant said, and bowed over the gloved hand she offered him. “You look radiant, as always.”

  “And you’re charming as always, my lord.”

  Then the pair of them turned their eyes to Kit.

  “Matthew and Tasha Howard, this is Captain Brightling of the Queen’s Own.”

  “A pleasure,” Matthew said, offering her a bow. “It appears the repairs on your ship are coming along.”

  “She appears to be in very good hands,” Kit agreed. “And it’s lovely to meet you.”

  “Your Diana is a beautiful ship,” Tasha said.

  “The queen’s Diana,” Kit said. “Mine only for the borrowing.”

  Tasha smiled. “Spoken like a true sailor.”

  “And Tasha would know,” Grant said. “You may know Tasha’s father. John Lawrence.”

  Kit blinked back surprise. “Admiral John Lawrence?”

  “He is,” Tasha said with a smile. “So I know how to judge a good bit of clinking and a neat bowline.”

  Kit smiled.

  “Let’s go inside,” Grant said, and extended his hand toward the door.

  * * *

  They moved into a parlor Kit hadn’t yet seen, with buttercup-yellow walls and wide windows facing the back garden. By the time they took their seats, Mrs. Spivey was wheeling in a tea tray.

  “You’re a marvel, Mrs. Spivey,” Tasha said, taking a cup and saucer and a thin golden biscuit. “Thank you so much.”

  Unable to decline fresh tea with milk, Kit took a cup, added an extra splash for good measure.

  “My father always said he couldn’t get enough tea with milk when he returned from a mission.”

  “It becomes a luxury one grows to appreciate,” Kit said, and sampled one of Mrs. Spivey’s golden biscuits, found it crisp and sweet and a perfect foil to the hot tea.

  “What brings you by?” Grant asked, when everyone had been served.

  “The gristmill,” Matthew said. “The granite wasn’t successful. It doesn’t turn so much as shiver atop the bedrock.”

  Kit considered that. “Where was the top stone from?”

  “The cliffs near the village,” Matthew said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Kit is Aligned to the sea,” Grant said, and she nodded.

  “The flavor of magic can be quite different from one geographic area to another, even from county to county,” Kit explained. “If you use a stone from another part of the Isles, that difference may produce a stronger effect.”

  “Well,” Matthew said, putting his teacup on the table. “I hadn’t known there might be such a nuance. There’s a boy Aligned in the village, but he’s new to the, well, practice, I suppose you’d call it. If we can get it to work—and I’m feeling quite energized now—we could build mills all over the Isles.”

  “I understand you’re just getting started,” Kit said, “so there’ve been no ill effects from the mill. But more of them, all operating together, could have a more profound impact on the current. It could be dangerous.”

  “We’ve yet to get one to work,” Matthew said. “So we’re a long way from a mill in every county. But I take your concerns to heart.” His expression sobered. “I wasn’t in the war, but I’ve friends who were, and of course Tasha’s father knew much misery. I don’t take magic lightly.”

  Kit nodded, knew there was little else to say about it now, but still unable to shake that lingering unease.

  “So, Kit,” Tasha said, turning toward her, teacup balanced carefully on her lap. “How do you entertain yourself when you aren’t at sea? Or perhaps on board the ship, as there must be slow times between fights and battles. Do you draw, or perhaps play music?”

  “Neither, I’m afraid. My sisters have the talents there. I tried embroidery once, but put the needle through my sister’s finger, and that was the end of that. I do enjoy reading,” Kit added. “Especially penny dreadfuls and romances.”

  “Oh, I love a good dreadful,” Tasha said with a grin. “Murder and drama and perfidy. They’re absolutely delicious. Everyone deserves a bit of adventure now and again.”

  “Hear, hear,” Grant said.

  Tasha looked at Grant. “And what do you like to read? I’ve seen your beautiful library; you’ve plenty to choose from.”

  “I’m not a great reader,” he said. “When I do, it’s usually to do with the finances of the estate.”

  “That sounds like dull stuff,” Matthew said.

  “There are more interesting tasks,” Grant agreed. “If I’m lucky, Mrs. Spivey lets me count the rutabagas.” That got a chuckle from the Howards. “And lest Captain Brightling give herself insufficient credit, she may not be much with embroidery, but she captains a ship very creditably.”

  “A compliment from Rian Grant,” Kit said, sipping her tea. “That must have exhausted your entire reserves.”

  “Oh, surely you’re being too hard on Lord Grant,” Tasha said. “He always has a lovely word.”

  “Captain Brightling and I are acquainted by our professional connection,” Grant said, watching Kit over the rim of his glass. “There is a certain required formality.”

  Mrs. Spivey came to the doorway, then moved to Grant, whispered something in his ear that had him smiling. “A lovely suggestion,” he said, and looked at the others. “Mrs. Spivey has inquired if you might stay for dinner?”

  Tasha looked hopefully at Matthew, but he shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, but we should get back. There’s work to be done before the day’s out—and I’d like to pen a message to some friends in New London about stone.” He looked at Kit, smiled genially. “I think you might have something there. And I thank you for it.”

  Kit nodded, and hoped she hadn’t just set in motion a wave that couldn’t be sto
pped.

  * * *

  Friendly goodbyes were exchanged, and Grant waved away the carriage as it scritched down the rock drive.

  “They seem like lovely people,” Kit said.

  “They are,” Grant agreed. “Given her father’s position, Tasha could have every convenience in New London, but she decided to stay near the village where she grew up. They have a house not far from town.” He looked at Kit, brow furrowed as he studied her face. “You needn’t worry. He wouldn’t harm anyone intentionally.”

  “The soldiers at Contra Costa didn’t mean to harm their own,” she pointed out. “That mattered little to the thousands they killed, which is why manipulating magic was banned.”

  “And you know as well as I that the tide will turn again,” Grant said. “Such things are inevitable, particularly if some enterprising soul figures how a bit of gold could be made.”

  “You think the mechanization of magic is inevitable,” Kit said.

  Grant considered that. “I think humans look for every advantage they can find.” And before she could argue, he took her hand, looked at the dark dots across her palm. “Every advantage,” he said, lifting his gaze to hers.

  “I don’t manipulate,” she said, and pulled her hand away.

  “You don’t,” he agreed. “But neither will you be the last to use it for your benefit—even if the benefit is the safety of others.”

  Kit didn’t like it, but knew he was right. Which was precisely why she needed to get out of Queenscliffe, to return to New London. She needed to talk to the queen and Chandler about the warships possibly commissioned for Gerard, how they might use magic, and what the Isles could do about it.

  “There’s business I should see to,” she said. “Logs and correspondence to write. I should go take care of that.”

  She gave him a nod, but didn’t wait for his response. And as she strode to the majestic staircase, rubbed her fingers against her tingling palm.

  Seventeen

  Another day passed, with more logs and messages and unsuccessful visits to the sickroom. Teasdale and Phillips healed enough to return to the ship. Cordova’s arm became worrisome, so they sent him back to New London, accompanied by the physick, for care by the Crown’s own medical staff. Hetta sent a message about Louisa, indicating she’d be pleased to meet the girl upon her return to New London and requesting they stay safe in the meantime.

  Kit had paced her way through Grant Hall, walked every corridor in each wing three or four times over, waiting for the Diana’s completion. She’d even considered going back to New London with them, but couldn’t—and wouldn’t—leave her crew to fend for themselves when the Diana was repaired, especially if the gun brig was waiting for them offshore.

  And she didn’t think the physick would let her in the carriage.

  On the morning of her third day in Queenscliffe, the message arrived from the village. The repairs were complete, and it was time for the Diana to sail.

  Her relief was as physical as it was emotional, a weight lifted from her shoulders. She could return to New London, to her family, put Dunwood’s death behind her, and prepare for what came next. She was ready for her next mission.

  Still.

  There’d been memorable moments in Grant Hall, with the whiskey and the cliffs and the little dog, the conversations she’d shared with Grant. She could admit he’d surprised her; he wasn’t the type of titled gentleman she was used to meeting. That wasn’t to say that she liked him, or that she needed more adventures with the Beau Monde. But she’d almost become accustomed to his being a member of her crew, and she could admit to a bit of sadness that she was leaving this place and what she’d found here. It had been, she thought, a kind of interlude. A lifestyle she hadn’t experienced before in the bustle of New London. And one she wasn’t likely to soon forget.

  She traversed the foyer, found Grant in his study, standing before a lectern with a ledger propped upon it. He scanned the contents, Sprout cradled in the crook of one arm like a baby, utterly content now that its master was home.

  Grant didn’t look back. “Over here, if you would, Mrs. Spivey.”

  “I’m not Mrs. Spivey, but if you’re having tea, I’d love some.”

  He showed no measure of surprise, cool as he was. But smiled at Kit as Sprout eyed her narrowly. “Brightling.”

  “Grant. I’ve come to let you know the Diana is ready. I’ll be leaving to the village as soon as the carriage is ready.”

  “Horses?” he asked, setting the dog on a chair. It turned once, returned promptly to sleep.

  “Trunk,” Kit explained. “I’ve no interest in dragging it four miles back to town.”

  Grant nodded, frowned, seemed to be adjusting his thoughts. “To be honest, I thought the repairs would take a bit longer.” He looked up at her. “I suppose this would be goodbye.”

  Something about that tightened her belly, and Kit refused to think overmuch about it. That was Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 3: Plan for the future, but live in the present.

  “It is,” she said, and stepped forward, hand extended, all courtesy and proper etiquette. “Thank you again for everything you’ve done.”

  Grant watched her for a moment, then offered his hand. “You’re quite welcome.” They shook, and all but jumped apart when Mr. Spivey stepped into the doorway, paper in hand.

  “Er, pardon me, sir, ma’am,” Mr. Spivey said, looking between them. “There’s a message for the captain. A sailor brought it; he’s waiting outside. He says his name is Sampson.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Grant said, and stepped back, put space between them.

  Kit took the paper. It was heavy and thick and sealed with maroon wax stamped with the outline of a sea dragon. Probably her new orders from the queen, and more excellent timing.

  “Thank you, Mr. Spivey,” Kit said. “Please ask him to wait.”

  She slipped a fingertip beneath the wax, walked to the window as she opened the folded pages, scanned them.

  The queen first acknowledged the intelligence they’d gotten from Dunwood, expressed her regret over his death, and offered her condolences to Grant.

  “The Guild denies any aggression against the Diana,” Kit read. “They say the gun brig was not an authorized vessel of the Guild or its constituent merchants or countries. That’s nonsense, but not unexpected given the care they took to make it unidentifiable.

  “They also decoded the dispatch from Gerard,” she continued, then lifted her gaze, looked at Grant. “The one we delivered just before you came into the throne room.”

  Grant nodded, crossed his arms, brow furrowed as he listened.

  “They’ve not provided the details but for one reference that didn’t make sense, even with decoding. It discussed a university on Forstadt.” Forstadt was an island just off the Frisian coast.

  “There is no university on Forstadt,” Grant said, “or much of anything else. The island is held by the Frisian throne in trust so kings can hunt there in peace. Other than a lodge, there’s nothing but trees and game animals.”

  “So we are led to believe,” she said. “But there’d hardly be a point in coding the discussion of an island if it’s not being used for some secret and nefarious purpose.” She thought of the conversation she’d had with Grant her first night in the manor house, about Gerard and war and ships . . . and shipbuilding.

  “You said Forstadt had trees,” Kit said. “It’s close to Frisia, but separate from it. Secluded. Gerard knows of its existence, and found it important enough to discuss—coded—in a dispatch to a foreign ally.”

  She watched understanding dawn in Grant’s eyes. “Shipyard?”

  “Possibly,” Kit agreed. “Entirely speculation—but the queen appears to be of a similar mind.” She held up the message. “We’re to sail to Norgate, where we’ll be met by a trio of frigates.” Norgate was a village on the tip
of the peninsula that jutted into the Narrow Sea below New London. “Once we’ve rendezvoused, we’re to sail to Forstadt, with the Diana using whatever magic will aid us to arriving swiftly, and investigate activity on the island.”

  Grant went very still. “Did you say ‘we’?”

  She inclined her head. “You’re to sail with us.”

  “With you,” he said, and held out his hand for the papers. She wouldn’t normally have handed over an assignment from the queen, but given he was part of the mission, there seemed little point in hiding it from him.

  She offered it, and he read in silence in front of the window, his fingers clenched around the letter so tightly she thought he might simply rip it up. “I can’t leave again. Every time I leave, something falls apart. My home, my family.”

  Kit stayed quiet, as she could think of nothing comforting to say.

  “I’ll tell her now,” he said, half to himself. “I’ll pen a response, tell her events are too important here, and I cannot go.”

  “And she’d have you at the palace to answer for your refusal,” Kit said. “Which won’t help your estate.”

  Grant cursed, tossed the letter onto a side table, strode to the fireplace. He rested an elbow on the mantel, ran fingers through his hair, put the other hand at his waist. “We aren’t supposed to be at war, and I’m not supposed to be a soldier. Men aren’t supposed to die in my arms. Not any longer.”

  She’d seen death before Dunwood, as had he. And she knew how wrenching it was. How each death seemed to rip away a bit of the soul. But there was a reason that price was paid. Duty, obligation. And she’d learned enough about Grant in the last few days to understand those qualities were as important to him as they were to her.

  “If we succeed in this mission,” she said quietly, “we may stop a war. We’ll save lives.”

  “A direct strike,” Grant said quietly. “Right across the heart. You have excellent aim, Captain.”

  “And as much as it pains me to say it, you make a relatively credible soldier.”