I walked to the railing, watching the deck of the Sea- dragon. Holland’s crew was already up and working, and the melodic brush of holystoning echoed over the water. I used to sit cradled in the jib on my father’s ship, watching the deckhands scrape the white bricks over the deck, grinding the wood pale and smooth. Back and forth, back and forth. My father liked his decks sparkling clean, like any good helmsman, and it was the job dreaded by everyone onboard.

White as bone. Not until it’s white as bone.

My father’s voice snaked through my mind, like the hum that rattled the hull of a ship in a storm.

Not until it’s white as bone.

The grind of sand on the wood was as warm under my skin as every memory I had of those days. When Saint would lean into the railing with his elbows, watching the crystal blue water for my mother to surface from a dive.

I hoped that was how my memories of the Marigold would stay, there within reach when I needed them for the next two years.

Willa came up the steps from below, her boots in her hands. Her twisted locks were tied away from her face, falling down her back like cords of bronze. The scar on her cheek was flushed pink in the cold.

“Where are you going?” I asked, watching her button her jacket.

“Into the village to see the smith. Can’t get back to Ceros without an anchor.”

I looked over the rooftops in the distance. Something inside of me was holding its breath, and I realized it was not being able to lay eyes on West that was bothering me. I’d been thinking about that cool look in his eye since the night before. The quiet that had come over him when I said I was going to sign Holland’s contract.

“I’ll come with you.” I went back to West’s cabin and fetched my boots and jacket, raking my hair up into a knot on top of my head.

A few minutes later we were climbing the steps out of the harbor, the sun on our faces.

Willa walked the streets in a grid, looking for the smith’s shop, and every time someone caught sight of her scar, their steps faltered a little. She was a fearsome thing to behold, her small frame corded with muscle under her tawny skin. Glinting blue eyes were rimmed in dark lashes, making them almost ethereal.

She was beautiful. And that morning, she looked free.

“This is it.” She stopped beneath a red painted sign that read IRON SMITH.

The door jingled as she pushed inside, and I watched her through the glass as she went to the wall, where baskets of nails and rivets were hanging from hooks.