Hamish paused, awaiting Willa’s reply. But she said nothing. “All right. All voting members then, in favor of stacking our inventory with mullein and rye. Fable?”

I gave him a nod in answer. “I agree.”

Paj and Hamish echoed the same, followed by Auster. But West still stood beside me, his absent gaze on the closed ledgers.

“Has to be unanimous,” Hamish said.

West’s mind was at work. Whether he was running numbers or sorting through options, I didn’t know. But I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what he said next. “We could use the coin to buy Fable out of the contract with Holland.”

“You’re not doing that,” I said, fixing him with my pointed stare. “That is not happening.”

The others stayed silent.

“Why not?” West asked.

“We said we were going to use the Lark’s haul to start our own trade. We’re not throwing it away on Holland.”

“It’s not exactly throwing it away,” Willa murmured.

“She’s not going to take coin. She doesn’t need copper. There’s only one thing Holland wants and we don’t have it,” I said, more irritated than I wanted to be. They cared about me. But I wasn’t going to let Holland take the chance I’d given the Marigold. The chance they’d given me.

“West, we still need your vote,” Hamish said more gently.

West finally looked at me, his eyes running over my face. “Fine.” He swallowed, stepping around me and going for the door.

“West.” Paj stopped him. “There’s still repairs to deal with.”

“We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

Paj let him go, watching him disappear into the breezeway. Willa’s mouth twisted to one side as she looked to me, and I answered her silent question with a nod before I followed him.

The night was unusually warm, the air balmy, making the deck glisten in the darkness. West’s shadow passed over my feet from the quarterdeck. He pulled a strand of frayed rope from the barrel at the stern as I came up the steps. He didn’t acknowledge me as I leaned into the railing and watched him unravel it, shredding the fibers to be used as oakum. It was becoming familiar, the way he instantly went to work on tedious tasks when he was upset.

“It’s two years,” I said, trying to be gentle with him.

He didn’t answer, sliding the tip of his knife roughly between the cords.

“Two years is nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” He grunted, dropping another wad of rope. “We should try to buy out the contract.”

“You know that’s not going to work.”

“If you step foot on that ship, she’s never going to let you go. She’ll find a way to extend the contract. To get you under a debt. Something.”

“She’s not Saint.”

“You sure about that?” he snapped.