Zola seemed to consider it as he picked up the linen napkin on the table and wiped the grease from his fingers. He stood from the ornately carved chair and went to his desk against the far wall, reaching into the neck of his shirt. A moment later, a gold chain surfaced from the collar and a black iron key swung in the air before he caught it in his palm. It clicked as he fit it into the lock of the drawer and slid it open. The ring glinted on the twine as he lifted it from inside and handed it to me.

He picked up the knife next, turning it over in his hand before he held it out. “I’ve seen that blade before.”

Because it was West’s knife. He’d given it to me before we got off the Marigold in Dern to trade the haul from the Lark. I took it from Zola, the pain in my throat expanding as I rubbed my thumb down the worn handle. The feel of him appeared like a wind blowing over the decks: there one second and gone the next as it slipped over the railing and ran out to sea.

Zola took hold of the door’s handle, waiting, and I tucked the knife into my belt before I stepped out into the shadow of the passageway.

“Come on,” Calla said, irritated.

She disappeared down the stairs that led belowdecks and I hesitated before I followed, looking back to the deck for Clove. But the helm was taken by someone else. He was gone.

The steps creaked as we came down into the belly of the ship and the air grew colder in the dim glow of the lanterns lining the hallway. Unlike the Marigold, it was only the main artery in a series of passages that snaked belowdecks to different rooms and sections of the cargo hold.

I stopped short as we passed one of the open doors, where a man was crouched over a set of tools, writing in a book. Picks, mallets, chisels. My brow creased as the newly fired steel gleamed in the darkness. They were dredging tools. And behind him, the cargo was black.

My eyes narrowed as I bit the inside of my cheek. The Luna was a ship made for large inventories, but her hull was empty. And it had to have been offloaded recently. When I’d seen the ship in Ceros, she was drifting heavy. Not only was Zola headed into the Unnamed Sea, he was going in empty-handed.

The man stilled when he felt my gaze on him and he looked up, eyes like broken shards of black tourmaline. He reached for the door, swinging it closed, and I clenched my hands into fists, my palms slick. Zola was right. I had no idea what he was up to.