A snore startled me as I passed the first shroud. Tucked near the stairs leading to the quarterdeck, a cabin boy had nestled himself on an empty crate. He sat with a sword draped across his knees, a fallen whetstone and polishing rag near his ankles, and his hat tipped down to hide that his eyes were closed. I strode forward with confidence, hoping I seemed like an older sailor going to scold the little slacker when really, I was angling for the cabin doors a few feet to the right.

When the knob on those very doors wiggled, I froze. I diverted to the rail and dug my fingers in the wood. As Rylander sauntered onto the deck, I shook off the change in plans and made a new one. The fool hadn’t closed his door. I could slip inside and lie in wait.

Peeking around my jacket collar, I saw him nod to the burly man, then the lookout in the crow’s nest. The cabin boy gave a grating snore that made everyone jump.

“Why the little—” The burly man started to gripe, but Rylander put a finger to his own lips. The man’s boots paused before they stomped close enough to wake the boy.

“Long day, Bernard. Let him sleep.” Rylander let out a faint chuckle. “Might give himself a nasty cut though, if we leave him like that.”

Rylander tiptoed to the boy and, like a practiced pickpocket, pulled the sword safely from the boy’s fingers without stirring him.

My gaze flicked around the deck. I was at a loss for how I would reach my destination with all their attention turned toward the quarterdeck steps. Maybe I could backpedal, loop around the foresail, and—

Thought fled.

Rylander had shirked out of his coat and was laying it gently over the boy. He gave the boy’s hat an affectionate flick and straightened, admiring his handiwork.

Hot tears pricked my eyes as my father’s rumbling voice drifted out of a hazy half-dream.

There ya are, little gem. Wouldn’t want ya catching cold.

Rylander retrieved the oiling rag, sat on the steps, and set to work completing the boy’s tasks of protecting the blade from rust and corrosion. Tomorrow, the boy would probably think he’d done a fine job and that his snooze had been well deserved. My chest tightened, and I gripped the rail again, certain I’d be seasick. How many mornings had I found freshly braided ropes or polished blades I couldn’t remember finishing myself? How many times had I startled awake beneath a coat that smelled of Father’s spiced oils?

My arms trembled with what I at first mistook for rage. How dare he remind me of my father? How dare he pretend to care for a child when he’d robbed another of her father?