Chapter 8, Roberts

  I find Sonya in the galley, sleeves rolled to her elbows, carving the flesh from a split coconut with the steady scrape of a curved knife.

  She looks like a small woman, but she’s far from delicate. Her shoulder-length hair is the color of sun-bleached straw with silver running through it like threads of light and her brow carries a few soft lines, just enough to hint at her age.

  She doesn’t look up. “You lost, Captain?”

  I don’t have a reason to be here. Not really. But I step inside anyway, leaning against the doorframe like I belong. “What’s for supper?”

  She finally glances over, sharp-eyed, flicking her spoon at me. “You never ask what’s for supper.”

  I shrug my shoulders and open my mouth, but before I can answer she hums, turning back to her work, unbothered. “Fish stew,” she says anyway, as if I actually care. “Coconut broth, lime, little bit of spice. You’ll eat it.”

  She’s right. As long as it’s hot, filling, and doesn’t taste like rat piss, I eat what I’m given. The crew’s fed, the ship runs, the rest is irrelevant.

  Sonya, on the other hand, cares. Her stews are thick and briny but rich, the kind of meal that keeps us working long after our shifts are done. She knows how to stretch the stores, how to keep us full without wasting rations. More than that, she enjoys it. Not in a nurturing way, but like someone who understands the balance of hunger and strength, of work and reward.

  I drop onto the end of the mess table and pry off one boot, dragging my foot across the floorboards, feeling the rough grain catch against my heel. The thick, damp heat in here is suffocating.

  That might be because it’s just past noon, the hottest stretch of the day, when the sun has been bearing down long enough to sear the decks and bake the heart of the ship. The kind of heat that lingers, settling deep into the wood, radiating upward like a second sun. Either that or I’ve spent the last five hours keeping myself obsessively busy.

  Sonya walks over and sets a cup in front of me. “Drink this.”

  I glance at it, then at her. “What is it?”

  “Coconut water,” she says, already turning back to her work. “You need it. You’re sweating like a roast pig, and I’d rather not deal with your ass fainting in the middle of my dinner preparations.”

  I pick up the cup and take a slow sip. Sonya knows I love fresh coconut water. She also knows I never faint, but I do need a decent excuse to down more than my fair share of it. Can’t have myself looking indulgent. She hums in satisfaction at her own efficiency.

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  Jake appears in the doorway, carrying a large stone mortar and pestle, his muscles taut under the weight. He’s young and strong, built like a man who’s never known a day without work. But even for him, the shape of it makes the load awkward to carry.

  “Captain.” He nods respectfully, and I nod in return.

  He strides straight to Sonya, the weight of the mortar pulling his shoulders taut, forearms corded with effort. Sweat slicks the lines of his bare back, catching the harsh light that streams through the open door as he sets it down on the table beside her with a soft thud.

  His head tilts up, just enough to meet her eyes. Blink and you'd miss the way his attention narrows, the rest of the room fading because she’s near.

  "Is this the one you needed?" he asks.

  Sonya hums in approval. "Yes, that’s the one."

  Jake remains where he is, patient, waiting. "Is there anything else?"

  “That’s all, thank you.”

  Sonya watches him go, a lingering fondness in her eyes. I can see the way she cherishes his devotion. She sighs quietly to herself, thoughtfully, before turning back to her work. I lean back and pry off my other boot.

  When I first brought her on, the crew had their doubts. Not about her skill… anyone who ate one of her meals or got stitched up by her steady hand knew better than to question that.

  It was Jake that had them wary. A surgeon-cook with a much younger man who slept at her feet, did whatever she told him, and seemed to like it? That was… hard to ignore, even for me. But not for long. Anyone unsettled by it learned quickly to respect their way of things.

  I stretch my legs out beneath the table. Sonya doesn’t pause in her work, but I can feel her attention shift.

  “You hiding from something?” she asks.

  I don’t answer and she doesn’t press. I’m hiding. Of course I am. From Sarah. Now that she’s here, I feel stuck. And the longer I avoid her, the harder it gets to decide what to do, what to say, how to even start.

  I didn’t think it would be this hard. But she isn’t just a memory anymore. She’s real. Breathing. And those eyes… I can still feel them on me. She’s bound to recognize me soon. If she hasn’t already. I thought I was past this.

  I’ve survived far worse than losing her. Rebuilt myself from nothing. Earned a name so fearsome, so untouchable, that the girl I used to be became nothing more than a ghost of someone who was never really me. So why do I still feel like that girl when I look at her?

  “Captain, what did I say about taking off your boots in the galley?”

  I wonder how long she’s been clocking that and grumble as I shove them back on. I take off my hat.

  “And no hats on the table.” She says it before I can even set it down. I swear that woman has eyes in the back of her head.

  I rest my hat on my knee and adjust my damp headscarf. I changed clothes since all that swimming and bleeding earlier this morning… everything except the scarf. It never dried. Or maybe the sea water just got replaced with sweat, because I’m sweating more than usual. A lot more.

  Sonya wipes her hands hastily on her apron and presses the back of her fingers to my cheek.

  “Are you ill?” she asks, frowning. “You feel a bit feverish.”

  “I feel fine.”