My hand hangs, half split, the salt wind stinging at it, the blood drawing a splattered line on the deck as I near. The closer I get, the harder Malachite’s face sets, and the lower his eyelids get again. He crystallizes, ruby irises glittering in the sun. Maybe he understands. He has to. That’s why, I think, when I near him and reach out to take his broadsword forcefully from his hand, he lets me with a gentle ease.

I hold both swords and look up at him. Just at him, and he stares back. He’s so tall, so different from anyone I’ve ever met. And to him, so am I. I can see that, see the difference reflected in his dark pupils—see me reflected there. His strength is being strong. Stronger than a human, faster than a human. He can hear better, smell better. Fireproof. Those are his strengths. And mine?

Well, he says mine for me.

“You’re real good”—he croaks, finally, a smile on his lips—“at getting hurt, aren’t you?”

I smile back up at him. “Kind of.”

This is who I am.

This is how I’m strong.

“Oy!” The captain’s shout echoes, fracturing the ring of sailors around us. They scatter, and she marches up to the two of us, finger in my face and a cigar in her mouth. “What did I say? No fightin’!” She glances down—looking past my cleaved hand uncaringly. “And you bled all over my deck!”

“I’ll swab it right away, Cap’n!” I blurt, making my posture straight and respectful, my half-healing hand already saluting at my forehead.

“We’ll swab it, Cap’n!” Malachite echoes me, saluting too. “Together!”

Her dark eyes cut over to me, to him, and then she scoffs around her cigar.

“Damn right you will. And when you’re done, you’ll be showing me that little backhand move of yours again.”

Swabbing the entire deck as punishment leaves me sweatier than I’d like—which is any. I stayed in Nightsinger’s forest because I had no physical choice, yes, but also because it was cold and wonderfully dry in terms of body moisture. Sweat is the enemy. But sweets? Sweets are the ally. Gods, I hope a polymath quotes me on that one day.

When the last bucket of mop water is exhausted and the last inch of ancient wood scrubbed clean, we collapse on a pile of salt-stained ropes, panting. Malachite offers me his waterskin, and I pour a bit on my face and rub it around.

“Think she noticed you healed up right away?” he asks, jerking his head to the captain at the helm. It’s a pointless question. Of course she did. The whole crew did.

“Impossible,” I drawl. “Otherwise I’d be getting burned alive right now.”

“Bet she’s used to seeing all types, Heartless notwithstanding.”