Behind me, the expanse of sea reached out in an endless blue. The only way off this ship was to find out what Zola wanted, but I had no cards to play. No sunken ship of gems to barter, no coin or secrets that would buy me out of the trouble I’d landed in. And even if the Marigold was coming for me, I was alone. The heaviness of the thought sank deep inside me, my fury the only thing keeping me from disappearing with it. I let it rise, filling my chest as I looked back once more to Clove.

It didn’t matter how he’d ended up on the Luna. There was no forgiveness in Saint’s heart for treachery like that. I couldn’t find any in mine, either. I had never felt so much of my father inside of me as in that moment, and instead of scaring me, it flooded me with a sense of steadying power. The tide-pull of strength anchored my feet as I remembered.

I wasn’t just some Jevali dredger or a pawn in Zola’s feud with West. I was Saint’s daughter. And before I left the Luna, every bastard on this crew was going to know it.

TWO

The door to the helmsman’s quarters was an ashen wood burned with the crest of the Luna. A crescent moon cradled by three curling stalks of rye. Calla pushed it open and the damp, stale smell of old paper and lamp oil encircled me as I followed her inside.

Dust-filled light cloaked the room in a veil, leaving its corners inked in shadow. The uneven color of the stain on the walls gave away the age of the ship. She was old and she was beautiful, the craftsmanship evident in every detail of the cabin.

The mostly empty space was only disrupted by satin-draped chairs gathered around a long table, where Zola sat at its head.

Silver trays filled with food and gilded candlesticks were neatly arranged down the center of the table. The light danced on glistening pheasant legs and roasted artichokes with blackened skins, piled haphazardly in an opulent feast.

Zola didn’t look up as he plucked a round of cheese from one of the bowls and set it onto the edge of his plate. I followed the flickering candlelight to a rusted chandelier that hung above him. It swayed on its hook over Zola’s head with a soft creak, most of the crystal baubles missing. The entire scene was a poor man’s attempt at majesty, though Zola didn’t seem embarrassed by it. That was the Narrows blood in his veins, his pride so thick he’d sooner choke on it than admit to his masquerade.

“I think I have yet to welcome you to the Luna, Fable.” Zola looked at me, his mouth set in a hard line.