I stared into the dark, watching the image of her twist in the shadows. The shape of her moved with a bend of light coming from the deck, flickering like a lantern’s flame. She was a ghost. And for a moment, I thought that maybe I was too. That I was existing in some in-between space where Isolde had been waiting for me. That maybe I hadn’t made it out of the water. That I’d died with the cold sea in my lungs.

In that moment, I wanted my mother. I wanted her the way I had as a little girl, waking from a nightmare. In all the years on Jeval and in the time since, I’d hardened the way Saint wanted me to. I’d become something not easily broken. But as I sat there stitching up my leg, a quiet cry escaping my lips, I felt young. Fragile. More than that, I felt alone.

I wiped at my slick cheek with the back of my bloodied hand and made another stitch. The creak of floorboards sounded and I raised the lantern. Beneath the closed door, the shadow of two feet broke the light. I watched the latch, waiting for it to lift, but a moment later, the shadow disappeared.

I drew a few steadying breaths, taking West’s ring into my hand and squeezing. It had been six days since the morning I climbed down the ladder of the Marigold in Dern. Five nights since I’d slept in his bed. Willa, Paj, Auster, Hamish. Their faces were illuminated hazily in my mind. They were followed by Saint’s. I swallowed, remembering him in the tavern in Dern, a teacup in his hand. I would have given anything to see him in that moment. Even if he was cold. Even if he was cruel.

I tied off the last stitch and poured the rest of the rye over the wound, inspecting my work. It wasn’t the cleanest of stitches and it would leave a nasty scar, but it would do.

I stood, dropping the bottle. It rolled across the cargo hold as I took up the lantern and walked back to the door. I lifted my chin as I pulled it open and stepped into the empty passageway. When I came back up onto the deck, the deckhand whose voice I’d woken to was watching me with wide eyes from where he stood before the helm.

I shoved the lantern into his hands. “I need a new belt.”

He looked confused.

“A belt,” I repeated, impatient.

He hesitated, looking to Clove, who was still perched on the stool, weighing stones. I could have sworn I saw him smirk before he gave the deckhand a nod.