Chapter 17, Sarah

  I carried her things to the room like I was told. And for the few seconds I paused to press her doublet to my face and breathe her in, I did want to stay. To surround myself with the scent of her, searching for a trace of the person I once craved.

  But I quickly shook off the moment of weakness and returned to where I left her. Soaked, fearless, and risking her life without hesitation. Did she really think I was going to stay in her cabin while she threw herself overboard to keep us alive?

  Disasters at sea may not be my forte, but I know how to put my back into it. So I got my bearings and started pulling my weight. Now I’m part of the pulse, moving in rhythm with the bucket brigade. We’re shoulder to shoulder in the dark hull, standing in knee-deep water. Filling buckets and passing them along a human chain that climbs toward the deck, where the water is thrown out through a hatch.

  But I’m not really here. All I smell is her sweat mixed with leather and smoke, still clinging to me. It drowns everything else out. I know there are buckets. I know my arms ache. I know there are voices droning in a mournful shanty. But it’s muted like I’m underwater.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  “She’s too soft,” someone mutters, pulling me back to the present. “Would rather risk all our lives than do what needs doing.”

  “No one can outsmart the sea when she’s determined to test them. Navigator or not, we were meant to wreck,” another voice says.

  “It was fate that did us in. We should be on our knees thanking the Captain for saving us all,” someone adds.

  “Aye,” a few echo in unison.

  My fingers tighten around the frayed bucket handle. What do they mean she’s too soft? The way I see it, she risked her life, not ours, doing what needed to be done. It’s the first time I’ve heard her referred to as anything short of revered.

  A few hours ago, before learning who she is, hearing this wouldn’t have stirred me at all. But now I’m fighting the pull of the past. My subconscious tells me that I know her, trust her, even. That she’s the same girl I once envied for being braver and freer than me.

  But that line of thinking is dangerous. I can’t mistake her for something familiar. She is still a pirate, still Roberts.