She shouldn’t have said what she did—it irked him enough that she was the one they sang about back in Albion, but to say it? To acknowledge it out loud?

It had always been a silent spectre in the room. If they didn’t talk about it, it couldn’t hurt them.

But now she’d said the words.

He’d driven her to it, though. Lords, she could wring his bloody neck.

She clenched her hands until the knuckles ached and the nails threatened to split her palms. She needed to get out of here before she said anything to piss him off even more.

And he needed to cool off. Once he did, he’d come around, and they’d pretend this whole conversation never happened.

He’d promised her a captaincy with witnesses—Perry and Saba and at least a dozen others. Eventually, he’d grant it to her. In the meantime, it’d be best if she gave him some space.

Still, she couldn’t let him think he was right.

Lifting her chin, she gave him a withering look Perry would’ve been proud of and stalked out, slamming the door.

A Prize

Arm looped through the shrouds, Vice closed her eyes, letting the breeze, the spray, the sun rush through her hair. Beneath her, beneath The Morrigan, the sea breathed its rhythm, pushing them onwards under her direction.

Opening her eyes, she smiled at the prize she’d spotted half an hour ago. It had been a week since her fight with the Captain, and they’d continued in a cool, professional manner. She’d spent more time than necessary on watch from the main top. That’s how she’d spotted this merchantman with its fat belly. It was positioned perfectly to allow The Morrigan to approach with the lowering sun at her back, covering their approach with its dazzling glare.

Rather than go to FitzRoy directly, she’d reported it to Perry—a schooner, just eight guns, and more full of cargo than crew. Vice let her propose the rich, easy target.

Vice urged the currents, the winds behind their sails, eager to be in battle or on the receiving end of a surrender. Either way, once they took the prize, Perry would be honest and reveal her involvement—she’d be loath to take credit that wasn’t due. It would go some way to repairing the Captain’s opinion.

Call it a peace offering.

They swiftly closed in on the schooner, her gift holding the merchant ship dead in the water near a hilly island as surely as it pushed The Morrigan onwards.

Below, on the main deck that stretched from bow to quarterdeck, her crewmates armed themselves. Bricus doled out pistols, rifles, pikes, and sabres, his dark beard split in a jolly grin. The gunner teams readied the port cannons.