Chapter 13, Sarah

  I wake to the sound of steel grinding against stone. Sonya is sharpening a knife.

  “What time is it?” I say, pushing myself upright.

  “One in the afternoon. Saved you some coffee,” Sonya says, nodding toward a mug near the stove. “It’s cold, but it’s something.”

  I stare at her, uncomprehending. That’s not possible. I don’t ever sleep like that. I rub my eyes, trying to piece together how I lost that much time.

  "With all the noise you slept through, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Gotta be dead tired to sleep that hard." She adds.

  I was tired, sure. But I’ve been chronically sleep-deprived for years. I should have woken up. Something isn’t right. I take a sip of the bitter coffee, waiting for it to stir me awake. It doesn’t. But the sound of that blade on the stone draws me in, centering me.

  I reach for the pocket on my belt that holds my riverstone. It’s still there, unlike my dagger. I stand, making my way across the galley.

  Sonya stands over the prep table with a narrow blade in her hand, pulling it along the whetstone in long strokes. She’s angled it well, about fifteen degrees. But her passes are uneven, and the surface of the stone looks worn, slightly dished. She notices me watching.

  “What?” she says. “Think you can do better?”

  I don’t answer. I just hold out the pale, bone-colored stone in my palm.

  She squints at it. “What is that?”

  “May I?”

  She hesitates, but then sets the knife down and steps back. “Be my guest.”

  I pick up the knife and inspect the edge. Not dull, but not singing either. I splash a little water from the bowl on the table onto the whetstone.

  Then I take the riverstone and begin working it in circles against the whetstone, until the water thickens into a pale grey slurry. Sonya leans in, watching.

  I set the riverstone aside and take the knife again, aligning the edge with the now-slickened stone at a precise angle. Short, even strokes. Ten passes on one side, then ten on the other. The slurry adds a fine-grained abrasion, smoothing out imperfections smaller than the eye can see.

  When I’m done, I rinse the blade with a splash of water, and offer it back to her. She dries it with a cloth, brows drawn tight.

  “Wait—” I say, stopping her as she reaches for a carrot. “This is the true test…”

  I pluck a strand of hair from my head and hold it with two fingers so that it hangs vertically.

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  “Because the hair offers no resistance, anything less than a perfect edge will just nudge it aside.”

  With a look that says she’s only humoring me, Sonya tries it. The hair splits in two at the slightest touch of the blade. Her expression doesn’t change. Either it went over her head, or she just isn’t impressed.

  “Alight, try the carrot.” I sigh.

  She makes a slice, and another. Then, as if she can’t believe her eyes, she slices an onion.

  “It’s magic,” she mutters. “No one should have a blade this sharp. What are you, an assassin?”

  I chuckle under my breath. “Believe it or not, I learned it from a baker.”

  “What does a baker need a knife this sharp for?”

  “He came from a long line of butchers. But where I’m from, there hasn’t been game or livestock in decades. So he made bread instead. Still sharpened his knives the way his family did, though.”

  “Where can I get one of those?” She says, eyeing the riverstone as I slip it back into the pocket.

  “I don’t know. The baker kept it a secret. He gave me this one at the start of the war. He said if I was going to cut down my own, I better do it clean.”

  Sonya looks at me intrigued. “So it was a civil war then?”

  I nod. “Mhm.”

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I need to step out.”

  “Here, take this.” She says, reaching into her apron and handing me a scrap of cloth. “Don’t fall overboard.”

  “I’ll try.” I say, taking the cloth.

  Stepping out onto the deck is jarring at first, and I blink as I adjust to the afternoon sun. I should be thinking about where the hell I’m going, how long until we reach land. But sometimes, sharpening a blade and taking a walk is the only way life makes sense again.

  I start walking, not really aiming anywhere, just stretching my legs. But as I pass the latrine, my body makes the decision for me. Huh. Guess I would need that cloth.

  The forecastle is empty, thank the gods. When I’m done I chuckle as I remember last night, being here with Roberts, the shit-water bucket between us. How she felt the need to explain the rules while I stood there pressing my thighs together. Absurd.

  And yet, my mood is lighter. It doesn’t make any damn sense.

  Maybe I was drugged last night. That would explain why I slept so hard, why I still feel slow and strange. The thought makes my skin crawl. I hate being under the influence of anything. Ever.

  I try to summon anger, let it settle back into my bones where it belongs, but it feels hollow. Maybe I’m too tired to be mad. Maybe I just don’t care as much as I thought I did.

  I head back to the galley and report to Sonya. More work. More coffee. Then…

  The thought slams into me like a fist to the gut. The mug slips from my hands and shatters on the floor. My pulse hammers in my throat, my breath shallow as the unease coils deeper. It wasn’t just a dream. It was trying to tell me something. I should have known.

  Sonya startles at the sound. "That’s the thanks I get for letting you sleep all day? Covering for your ass? You’re cleaning—"

  "Where’s the captain?" I cut in, raising my voice.

  Sonya narrows her eyes at me. "Why?"

  But I’m already halfway out the door. Where is she?

  Heat floods my face, burning hot with shame, like I’ve been caught in some humiliating mistake.

  Darlene is Captain Roberts.

  They are the same person. And yet, they’re not. Because I don’t know her anymore. The girl I once knew, the girl who loved me, wanted me, would have done anything for me… she’s gone. And in her place is someone else entirely. Someone who took me onto her ship under false pretenses.

  Did she know the whole time? Of course she did. A wave of cold sweeps over me, a sharp contrast to the heat still prickling my skin. I feel exposed, raw. Like she’s been watching me this whole time, knowing I didn’t know and enjoying it.

  What does she want from me? Why didn’t she tell me? It doesn’t matter. I’m going to end this charade.