West watched from the bow with his hands in his pockets. He was always that way when we made port at Jeval, his shoulders drawn up and his jaw set.

I unwound the heaving lines and came portside as the Marigold drifted closer to the rocks. A string of Jevalis were already waiting with their hands out, ready to catch her from scraping.

I balanced on the crates as she came in slow and tossed the heaving lines to the boy at the end of the dock. He secured them one at a time and Auster unrolled the ladder just as Koy appeared up the harbor with a hand in the air.

“Marigold!” Koy shouted. “I don’t have you scheduled for another week!” He glanced at the log book in his hands.

Paj gave me a knowing look from the helm. Koy was right. But West always had a reason why we needed to head back to Jeval early.

“Don’t tell me you came through that storm!” Willa’s voice called out. I searched the docks, looking for her.

West leaned over the railing, grinning when he spotted his sister, and he instantly relaxed.

But Willa was incensed, coming through the crowd of dredgers and immediately inspecting the ship. She stopped near the bow, pressing a hand to a poorly repaired breach.

West watched her glower at it. “Got a few things that need seeing to.”

“When are you going to get a new bosun?” she grumbled.

“We haven’t found one yet,” West said.

Below, Koy eyed me, and I smirked. We’d tried six different bosuns in the last eight months and West had fired every one.

I came down the ladder, stepping onto the post to jump down beside Koy. He’d hired and paid only Jevalis to rebuild the docks with his coin from the Unnamed Sea, and now he was running them as the harbor master.

A few weeks after it was finished, he asked Willa to set up shop for ship repairs. Seeing them standing on the dock, they looked as if they both belonged there. Together.

My father had sneered when I told him we were building a three-port route that ended in Jeval. But just like Koy predicted, the barrier islands were filled with ships. In another year, we’d be using our license to trade in Bastian.

No gems. No fancy silver teapots or hair combs or silk for fine frocks.

We were trading rye and mullein—goods made by the bastards of the Narrows.

The sparkle of midnight still glimmered in my dreams. So did the sound of my mother’s voice. But we hadn’t been back to Fable’s Skerry. Not yet.