“We can make it as far as Algarve and find passage from there to Porto,” Yarrow said. “Abilio will help us with the necessary supplies. We’ll need weapons, at the very least. Horses.” Their eyes flashed toward Theo, who was cradling his arm. “Perhaps some medicine.”
Zander tried to gauge the distance from Algarve, at the pointed tip of Portugal, to Porto. He suppressed a sigh by biting his tongue. This was going to take forever. He felt time slipping through his fingers like sand. The familiar tug in his chest grew ever fainter as Ace drifted farther away.
Chills ran down Zander’s arms from the wind outside, echoing the cold feeling in his gut. The fire damage above deck where Zander had last seen Theo and Yarrow fighting had opened a small crevice in the far wall and ceiling of the captain’s quarters. The ocean air drifted in, rustling loose papers.
“Speaking of repairs,” Zander said, gesturing to the fissure. “What happened there? One moment Ace was calling for surrender, and the next it sounded as if a bomb had gone off.”
“Enough,” Yarrow said. “That was what Ace said. ‘Enough.’ It was a code word meant for me and Theo. Ace knew we likely wouldn’t win this fight, and she warned us we’d need a backup plan. She wanted us to get out and take you with us, and she wanted to make sure Sanz left The Valerian behind. She’d rather it sink than end up in his hands.”
“What was the plan?” Zander asked.
“A distraction. Something explosive enough that me and Theo could bail overboard and be presumed dead. She was supposed to use it to get you to safety.”
“We didn’t know she was going to hit you over the head, mate,” Theo clarified.
“After that,” Yarrow continued, “we’d stay with The Valerian and make sure she didn’t sink, or if it fell into the hands of Sanz’s men, we’d stowaway and make a new plan from there. She’d hoped there would be a crew left behind as well. She didn’t predict he’d take survivors with him.”
“And what was the distraction?” Zander asked. “A bomb?”
“A rough version of a grenadier,” said Yarrow. Seeing Zander’s blank expression, they clarified, shrugging. “A bomb. A small one, usually made with an iron ball and gunpowder, and lit with a fuse. But if you know what you’re doing—and I do—anything can be turned into a makeshift grenadier with enough gunpowder and a bit of pitch.”
“It can, if you have a partner with excellent aim,” Theo said, pulling out his pistol and twirling it playfully in circles. Yarrow winked at him in response.
“I made one shortly after we encountered the Marin vessel. I had a bad feeling.”
Zander nodded as the story started to make sense. The item Theo pulled from Yarrow’s satchel was a makeshift explosive device. Theo must have thrown it to the ground before shooting at it with his pistol, triggering the explosion. The two of them would’ve needed to jump first, then set off the bomb in midair.
Zander smirked. “That was risky.”
“Aye,” Theo said. “But it worked. We stayed out of sight in the water until Lord Prick’s men cleared out, then we climbed back on board to find you lying there.”
Zander nodded, silent. He tried not to let the fact that Theo and Yarrow were in on Ace’s plan from the beginning bother him, but it gnawed at the pit of his stomach, nonetheless. When he found Ace and rescued her, he had some serious questions to ask her about their relationship, secret husband aside.
He looked again toward the crevice in the room—his bedroom, as he’d come to think of it. It felt empty now. Through the broken wood he could see the colors of sunset painting the sky. He wanted to leave now, wanted to never sleep again until he laid eyes on Ace, but his exhaustion was bone-deep. Looking at his friends, he could see they were also at the end of their reserves.
“Algarve it is, then,” he said. “At first light we’ll tend to the sails and other necessary repairs. Then we’ll sail.” He looked between his two friends for confirmation. They both nodded.
Zander took several steps backward, plopping down onto the bed with a sigh. Yarrow moved toward him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Get some rest, dear,” they said.
“You, too,” he told them as they made their way out of the room.
When the door closed behind Theo and Yarrow, Zander let out a long sigh. He felt his body and soul sag under the weight of his sadness.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out Ace’s compass. He turned it over and over in his hands, his thumb stroking the wood appreciatively. He unfastened the hinges, opening the lid and staring at the dial inside.
“We’ll find her,” he whispered to the compass. She was his North Star. He had to find her.
He looked again at the destruction around him. The bed where Zander had held his love for so many nights was littered in debris. He couldn’t help but think of it in a poetic sense—the soft, warm cushions where he’d spent the most peaceful moments of his life, littered with the wreckage of that comfort as it was torn away from him.
He looked at the floor. Just by his foot was a green seashell Ace brought on board from Azores. A pile of crushed purple petals Zander recognized as a flower she picked in Bermuda lay just beside her desk. Small rocks and pebbles of all sizes slid or rolled back and forth with the soft waves. Her favorite book—the one she’d been reading to him—lay open on the floor, dangerously close to a puddle of water forming nearby.
Painfully, Zander hauled himself up and crossed the room to the book. He picked it up, carefully skimming through the pages, looking for damage. The dried leaf Ace used as a bookmark was still tucked securely between them.
He placed the book gently on the built-in shelf behind Ace’s desk. He stooped, retrieving a large piece of dead coral from the ground and putting it back in its place as well. He said a silent prayer of thanks that so much was left behind. Ace’s money, a few jewels, even some clothing had all been taken. But the important things—the things Ace truly loved—had been left behind, discarded as trash.
Zander spent the next hour carefully collecting Ace’s treasures and putting them back in their places. When his head finally hit the mattress, a wool blanket fastened against the hole in the wall to keep the cold at bay, he was asleep in seconds.
13
“Fuck,” Zander muttered, shaking his hand to dispel the pain that blossomed on his fingertips. He resisted the urge to plunge his burning fingers into his mouth to soothe them. They were coated in pitch.
Yarrow made a tsking noise under their breath, reaching for Zander’s hand so they could inspect it.
“I’m okay,” Zander said, shaking his head. “You warned me.”
“I did,” Yarrow agreed.
Zander took a deep breath, resolved to ignore the pain in his hand, and reached for the container of viscous liquid again. He scolded himself internally for not being more careful. He was rushing, his anxiety over getting to shore and finding Ace growing by the second.
The three of them had been awake since dawn. After hauling buckets of water from the bilge that had leaked in overnight, they began work on the sails. Zander made hasty repairs that made him cringe to look at, but the sails were functional. Still, they’d been sailing painfully slow since then. It wasn’t yet noon, but Zander felt like time was slipping away from them.
There was not but a light breeze pushing them toward shore, and a heavy fog surrounded them the closer they got to Algarve. Zander anxiously checked Ace’s compass every few minutes. Theo, who was at the helm, joked that even if they ran straight into a cliffside in the dense fog, they were moving so slowly it wouldn’t feel like much more than a tap.
He carefully painted more pitch over the large canvas ball, his hands shaking. The pitch would soon harden the outer edge of canvas, protecting the store of gunpowder inside. A fuse made of yarn soaked in linseed oil stuck out at one end.
Yarrow had explained the glass bomb they’d detonated with Theo’s gun the day before was far more difficult to make. It was meant to be detonated immediately and from afar. They spoke of it as if it was made with a secret formula, and Zander wondered where else they’d used the signature device before.
