Lang had told me the ladder to get below was tricky. But the ship was brand-new. How rickety could it be?

Besides, I wasn’t a helpless thing, dependent on other people to fetch and carry for me. I was the girl Momma and Daddy had raised me to be.

You’re a farm girl. You’re a backwater princess from a backwater colony at the edge of the world.

Perrault had reminded me of that.

I crawled along the floorboards until I found the trapdoor and popped it open.

There was even less light down here. But I put one foot on the first rung, and then another, and then another, until at last, my feet hit the floor. I nearly tripped over a sack of something before my eyes adjusted. My hopes rose, but I squatted and squinted down at the fabric bag and found it was labeled FLOUR in enormous block letters.

I moved to my hands and knees, weaving in the dark between barrels marked SALT PORK and SALT FISH and just SALT. Bags of OATS and SUGAR slumped against walls.

“Where are you?” I mumbled.

As if in answer, my head knocked into a barrel. I rubbed my head, mumbling, and squinted at the barrel. Its label wasn’t in English; they were some sort of East Asian characters, maybe Nihongo or Zhōngwén. I sat on my heels and sighed, still massaging my scalp.

The barrels with the unfamiliar labels numbered at least ten or fifteen, and there were crates, too, with thick cloths thrown over them; too many for soil. I heaved a sigh and pivoted away on my knees, then gave a surprised cry. “Hey there!” I blurted out, delighted.

SOIL sat in the corner behind the barrels, practically grinning at me.

The pale sun warmed my legs as I spread potting soil into a few bisected barrels and crates. Over and over I dipped my finger into the dirt, dropped a beige seed into each hole, and spilled soil on top. Then I jabbed the packet marked coriander at the edge of the row and repeated the process with basil, mint, rosemary, and everything else Godmother Althea had sent me. Now and again, my chest grew tight as I breathed in the scent of earth and the kitchen garden and home.

“Seneschal-elect, what on earth are you doing?” Perrault’s shadow loomed over the bare soil as he loped closer.

I sat back on my heels and grinned up at Perrault and the sailors behind him, all backlit by the sun.

Lang gave an odd half cough, shaking his head as if to gather himself. “Where did you get all that?” he suddenly demanded.

“From below,” I said simply, tweaking the label for the mint.

Lang stiffened. “You weren’t supposed to go below. You should’ve asked someone to get this for you.”