Her knuckles ached as she squeezed the rope.

He hated her. And she hated him. Laughter and warm touches were all firmly in the past where they belonged. She didn’t want any of it, didn’t want any of him, didn’t have any regrets.

Dragging in a long breath of burning-cold air, she forced her hands to resume. Coil and twist, coil and twist, coil and twist.

No regrets. Indeed, she deserved a medal, really, since somehow, she’d made it all this way without murdering Knigh or Fitz. That was mostly because she’d taken on extra watches, working long, hard hours.

Lashing, tightening, splicing, coiling, and knotting lines. Checking water barrels. Mending sails. Keeping watch until late into the night. Taking Barnacle down into the hold to hunt rats. Any job that had come up, she’d taken on, pushing her body harder and harder until she could collapse into Perry’s bunk and sleep the long and dreamless sleep of the exhausted.

As for her thoughts, well, she’d kept them occupied, too.

Twist, turn, loop, and pass the end through—she tied off the line, nodding to herself.

Perry would have called it stewing, but she called it planning.

She continued it as she blew warmth into her stiff fingers, then went on to the next line and the next.

Fitz had promised her a captaincy. He’d failed to deliver.

Was it any surprise? He’d been jealous of her for almost a year. It was clear he was never going to make good on his promise.

What a fool she’d been. She’d forgotten she didn’t need him—or anyone—to give her anything. She didn’t need him to make her captain. She was going to take it.

As soon as they returned to Arawaké, she would find the Venatrix, take her, and declare herself captain. She’d already crept aboard once to sabotage and steal—it had been easy. She could do it again.

Damn waiting for Fitz to choose her—she chose herself.

She finished the hitch on another line and straightened, stretching her back. “Huh.” She frowned astern, rolling her shoulders. The Covadonga was peeling off to the north, but The Morrigan continued her course east.

Pulling her coat tighter, Vice peered along the coastline they’d been following. Low, grassland with bare trees gave way to a wide, natural harbour. To starboard, they passed Eddystone Lighthouse. Plymouth? Why was Perry docking there? And where were they going on to? Southampton, maybe?

No sign of Fitz to ask. He’d spent most of the voyage avoiding her as much as she avoided him, and he’d locked himself in his cabin all this morning. Whoever was on the helm would know.

Still watching Perry’s ship sailing towards the harbour, she trotted down the steps. “Where are we—”