The second the night hit my skin, my chest loosened enough to let me breathe. I don’t know what happened back in the tavern, but I’d never let it happen again.

I sighed in relief. When I looked up, three ragged men stared back at me.

“Are you Captain Lou Farrington, Nathaniel Farrington’s daughter?” the lanky, dirt-smeared blonde asked. He stepped forward as if he spoke for the group.

My hand automatically went to my dagger. “Yes, who’s asking?”

The man sneered, his teeth yellowed and crooked.

“I told you it was her, Pa,” the younger, pudgy boy said. He held a sword, broken at the tip, ragged like a dog bit it.

“Hush,” the older man said. “We’ve been looking for you.”

I rolled my eyes, remembering Rylander saying the very same thing when he boarded The Freedom.

“Well, here I am.” I opened my arms wide. “What can I do for you?”

All three men unsheathed their weapons. “You can die for killing our kin.”

Chapter thirteen

Rylander

The melody of the lyre’s music entranced even me. With each plucked string, the vibration through my fingers reverberated in my head, shutting out the world so that I could reshape my reality into anything I wanted. My hands moved of their own volition into the right chords, though I’d never been professionally trained. It was a treasured gift bestowed by my parents.

The song, “Cava’s Separated Lovers,” ended on a melancholy fade, like a mournful cry from a throat tired by years of sorrow. A shadow fell over the lyre, and I looked up into the face of a ravishing woman.

“That was beautiful,” she purred. Her dainty hands rested on my shoulders, her fingers playing with the ends of my hair. She smelled of orange oil and cinnamon. Her pursed red lips were full of sensual promise. “Would you play something else? Maybe something for just you and me?” She pointed her chin toward the back door. “Maybe somewhere more private?”

The crew—coming out of their own stupors—took notice of my new admirer. Bernard, the brothers, and Ketner’s mouths widened into foolish grins. They eyed the beautiful woman like a tasty meal of finely sliced elk. But it was Smitter, unphased by living art, who placed his hand on my forearm and spoke sobering words. “Lou left.”

“What?” My head swiveled around the room. Her spot next to Krinny, where she’d swayed with eyes closed, stood bare. Why did she leave? When did she go? I handed the lyre to Smitter then gently removed the woman’s hands. “Another time, possibly.”

Her demure smile thinned for a blink before she recovered with a forced grin. “Of course. Another time.” She batted her thick lashes.

I dipped my chin to be polite, and she walked away, taking her delicious scent with her. Then I slapped my palms on the table and asked, “Krinny, where did Lou go?”