Pastries and cakes were arranged in ornate patterns atop silver platters and stands, and fresh berries were piled into white porcelain bowls. My mouth watered at the smell of sugar and butter, but West and Clove kept their hands in their laps. I did the same.

“Like looking into the past.” Holland gingerly set her cup onto the saucer before her. “You’re a perfect rendering of your mother.”

“So are you,” I said.

That made her mouth twist a little, but it was true. I could see my mother in all of her angles, even with her years and silvered hair. Holland was beautiful in the same wild, untamed way Isolde had been.

“I take it she never told you about me.” Her head tilted to the side inquisitively.

“She didn’t,” I answered honestly. There was no point in lying.

“I admit, when Zola sent me a message saying he was bringing me Isolde’s daughter, I didn’t believe him. But there’s no denying it.” Her eyes ran over me again. “I’m still trying to figure out how you slipped my notice. Nothing happens on the sea that I don’t know about.”

But I knew the answer to that question. No one but Clove knew who I was, and I’d spent four years on Jeval, far removed from anyone’s curiosity. For the first time, I wondered if that was one of Saint’s reasons for leaving me there.

“Isolde was a stubborn girl,” she breathed. “Beautiful. Talented. But so very stubborn.”

I stayed silent, paying close attention to the corners of her mouth. The shifting of her eyes. But the surface of Holland gave away nothing.

“She was seventeen years old when she left on the Luna without so much as a goodbye. I woke one morning and she didn’t come down to breakfast.” She picked up her cup, and it shook in her hand as she took another sip of hot tea. “If her father hadn’t already been dead, it would have killed him.”

She selected a pastry from the platter, setting it onto the plate before her as the doors opened behind us. A man stepped into the room, his jacket buttoned all the way up to his neck and his hat in his hands. It took me a moment to place him. The harbor master.

West seemed to realize it in the same moment, turning just a little in his chair to keep his back to him.

He stopped beside the table before he handed Holland a roll of parchments. “The Luna is being stripped as we speak. There’s a good bit of supplies, but no inventory. Sails are good.”

“Well, we can always use sails,” Holland murmured, looking over the parchments. “The crew?”

“Down on the docks looking for work,” he answered.