Once the ship woke up, the deck became a flurry of activity. In the quiet of dawn, with wind billowing the sails and nothing but the rush of water below us, it was hard to imagine there’d be much to do. But once Rian’s crew got to work, I started to wonder how they have time to sleep. Torn sails have to be mended, and rigging repaired from what the captain identified this morning. The sail beams have to be adjusted for the changing winds and the river currents, and I quickly learned that every rope seems interconnected: if they loosen one, it requires tightening somewhere else.

I was serious in my offer to help, but it’s obvious that

this crew is close-knit and used to working together. There doesn’t seem to be a place to fit, especially with so much to be done. When Rian called for Gwyn and Marchon in his stateroom, it was clear they had important things to discuss, and I didn’t want to be in the way. Through the windows, I could see them going over maps and jotting notes—and I’m sure they were also discussing the newcomers on board. I didn’t miss their eyes glancing my way every so often.

I watch the crew, listening for coughs or rough voices, wondering if anyone has any complaints about chills or exhaustion. They weren’t in Kandala for very long, but I’m still worried that the fever sickness might break out on this ship—and I’m pleased to hear nothing of concern.

Brock and Tor are the men who were bickering on the deck last night, but it seems they don’t hate each other; they just love to argue. They spent the morning stripping rust from chains and setting the fishing nets, and then, once those were tossed overboard, they worked with others to drag the haul onto the deck. By then, Lochlan had come up, and I’d tensed, wondering if he’d start picking at me again, but he barely even met my eyes. He took the medicine I offered, then saw the other men at work and set to join them.

I guess he didn’t have a hard time finding a place to fit at all.

Then fish were being gutted and nets were being repaired and the decks were being washed. The whole time, I don’t see Corrick or any guards aside from Silas, who’s taken a position at the front of the ship, probably so he can keep an eye on everything at once. By the time morning gives way to midday, the waves have gotten rougher, occasionally splashing over the side, forcing me to stand near the mast because I’m terrified I’ll go over the railing. I’m wondering if I would be better served to return to my quarters.

But then one of the men shouts, another swears, and a flurry of activity erupts near where they were gutting the fish. They’re all on their feet, tension thick in the air. At first, I can’t tell what’s happening, but Lochlan shoves Brock square in the chest.

The other man draws himself up, but he doesn’t fight back. He’s talking, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.

There’s a fish knife clutched in one of his fists.

Lochlan shoves him again. Brock’s teeth are clenched, and his fingers adjust on that knife.

My heart leaps into my throat. All I can think about is Rian asking Corrick if his people are going to cause trouble, and we haven’t even been on the ship for a full day. “Hey!” I call, striding across the deck, praying I’m not going to lose my footing. “Silas!”

But Silas has seen the impending brawl and is starting forward himself. I’m distantly aware of booted feet behind me, but I don’t realize it’s Captain Blakemore until he puts a hand on my arm, drawing me to a stop.

“Slow,” he says. “Don’t make it bigger than it is.” “They’re going to fight—”

“No one fights on my ship. Not like this.” He lets out a whistle, and half the men startle, then exchange glances. Many of them take a step back from where Brock and Lochlan are glaring at each other. Even Silas hesitates, his hand on a weapon.

“Brock,” Tor hisses. “Brock, it’s the captain.”

It’s like Rian’s presence is magical, because Brock blinks slowly, then looks up. The tense readiness eases out of his frame. “Sorry, Cap.” He jerks his head at Lochlan. “We were just fooling around. I didn’t know he’d be so sensitive.”

Lochlan inhales, his fists primed like he’s ready to surge forward. I expect Brock to retaliate, but he doesn’t. He takes a step back, out of the way, and I see the rebel preparing to go after him.

“Lochlan.” Rian’s voice is low and lacking in force, but there’s something in his tone that demands attention. A confidence. A sureness.

It’s effective, because Lochlan sets his jaw and looks up. I don’t know if he expects a rebuke or a punishment, but

his eyes are belligerent, the way he looks at Corrick. “What?”

“I saw you hauling lines with the crew.” He pauses, looking at Lochlan’s wrist, which is still bandaged from when it was broken. “Your arm doesn’t give you any trouble?”

The question must be unexpected, because Lochlan blinks. “I do all right. I don’t mind the work.”

“Well, I appreciate the extra hands. I’ll make sure you’re compensated for your time.” Rian looks at the others. “The rest of you better finish with the fish or you’ll have Dabriel up here next.”

I only met the cook for a minute this morning, but the threat of her temper must be unifying, because the men grunt and edge around Lochlan and return to their positions, even Brock. Their tension seems forgotten.

Lochlan stands in their midst, but the belligerence has slid out of his expression. He glances from the men to the captain like he’s not sure how to proceed.

Tor looks up at him. “Come on, man. I’ll tell you about the time Brock was trying to convince a pretty girl to dance, and he nearly shat himself. Right there on the dance floor. Cleared the whole place out.”

Brock picks up a knife and sighs with the weariness of someone who’s heard an embarrassing story one too many times. “You’re in front of a lady, Tor.”

“It was your own fault. I told you it weren’t safe to drink that spiced rum on Iris.” Tor glances at me and grimaces. “Sorry, Miss Cade.”

Lochlan sits down next to Tor a little uncertainly, but he picks up a fish and takes a knife when another crewman hands one over.

He looks up at Rian. “Thank you, Captain.” He hesitates. “Sorry for the trouble.”

I freeze. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a genuine apology out of Lochlan’s mouth.

But Rian just says, “No trouble.” His voice is easy.

Genuinely appreciative.

I almost want to stare at him. I think I am staring at him.

He finally turns away from his crew. “Miss Cade. I’m glad to find you still on the deck. I was wondering if you would—” He must catch my expression, because he breaks off. “What?”

“I—that—just—” I can’t form a coherent question. “I thought they were going to start stabbing each other. How did you stop that?”

He shrugs it off. “That was just a little bit of pride.”

I study him, considering the times I’ve seen Corrick and Lochlan face off. The prince is the one who first broke his wrist, but now doesn’t seem the time to volunteer that information.

I lower my voice. “I’ve never seen Lochlan back down. I thought you’d have to …” I rack my brains for a punishment I’ve heard of on a ship. “I don’t know. Chain him to the bow.”

He laughs a little, but not like anything is really funny. “And you ask why I worried about putting you in harm’s way.”

“What?”

“I imagine your King’s Justice very well would have chained him to the bow. He probably would have done worse. And for what? Getting upset over a few careless words?” His eyes flick to his crew. Lochlan is laughing at something Tor has said now. “We’re one day out of port. If I start hanging men overboard, it would make for a very uncomfortable journey. For my people and yours.”

I think of the way his men went back to their tasks so readily. The way he said no one fights on my ship. Even I was ready to break up the fight with force, calling for Silas automatically, but Rian defused the entire situation with a few words.

It’s not just that his people are loyal. They trust him.

Like this morning on the ropes, I’m in danger of blushing at him. I look away, just as the boat dips and sways, and my breath catches. I put out a hand automatically, catching his arm. It’s warm and sturdy, and again, I remember falling against him last night, in the rain.

Then I remember what he started to say. I have to clear my throat. “What … ah, what were you wondering?”

“Yes, Captain.” Corrick speaks from off to my right. “What were you wondering?”

Of course.

I turn and look at the prince. Last night, Corrick’s eyes were a little wild, every emotion plain on his face. Today, he’s locked down, as severe as ever. He’s wearing a hip- length leather jacket that’s such a deep brown that it’s almost black. Every button and buckle is in place, his vivid blue eyes sharp and expressionless. I think of the way he took me in his arms, and I want to shiver. That Corrick is nowhere to be found.

I don’t know what to say to him. Too much time has passed now. Do I owe him an apology? Does he owe me one?

His expression doesn’t change, but I see the tiny movement of his eyes as he takes in my hand on Rian’s arm. I unclench my fingers from the captain’s sleeve.

“Sablo cut his arm on a bit of rigging,” Rian is saying. “He’s refusing any stitching, but as we have an apothecary on board, I said I would ask you to look at it.” He pauses

and glances at Corrick. “With your permission, Your Highness.”

“If Tessa is willing,” Corrick says.

“Of course,” I say. Sablo. I remember the large, red- bearded man from dinner. He couldn’t speak. I didn’t realize until now that I haven’t seen him on the main deck this morning.

“He always takes the night watch,” Rian says. “But he should be awake by now. We can head below.” He regards Corrick coolly. “You’re welcome to join us.”

The prince regards him coolly right back. “Am I?”

“Let’s see to Sablo,” I say brightly, before the two of them can start a fight. “I’ll have to go to my room to get my bag.”

“I’ll escort you,” Corrick says. “Surely the captain would like to offer his officer a bit of warning. And Miss Cade can give me the details of her morning.”

Miss Cade would like to go back to sitting by the mast. Rian’s eyes shift to mine, seeking acquiescence.

I hesitate, then nod. “Maybe we can return here,” I say. “Or your stateroom, Rian—ah, Captain. For the sunlight. If it needs stitching.”

“Certainly.”

Corrick offers me his arm, and I don’t want to take it.

For him, it’s probably nothing. Courtly manners.

But for me, it feels personal. Intimate.

So much changed between us overnight—and unlike stitching up an arm, I don’t know how to fix it. I gingerly rest my fingertips on his sleeve, and it reminds me of my first day in the palace, when he was my worst nightmare and my greatest ally all rolled into one man.

When we turn away, I sense the eyes of the crew on us, but I can’t focus on any of that. I’m focused on the prince at my side, whose emotions are all a mystery.

Well, most of them. His emotions about the captain aren’t a mystery at all.

We’re barely down the steps and out of earshot when I whisper, “He just stopped a fight, and I thought you were going to start one.”

“Good morning to you, too, Miss Cade.” Corrick isn’t whispering at all. “It sounds as though you are about to start one.”

I scowl. “Of course not.” I try to make my voice as cool as his, but I just sound like I’m mocking him. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

“And by he, do you refer to Rian?” He pauses dramatically. “Ah, do forgive me. Captain Blakemore.”

My cheeks are flaming entirely against my will. I let go of his arm.

“What fight did he stop?” Corrick asks. Some of the chill has slipped out of his voice, and genuine curiosity has slid in to replace it.

“Lochlan had a bit of an altercation.” Corrick’s eyes flick skyward. “You don’t say.” “It sounds like a crewman started it.”

“See? I won’t need to throw him overboard. The captain will end up doing it for me.”

I frown and say nothing. “I’m kidding,” he says.

“Well, forgive me for not being sure.” We reach my door, and I push through.

Corrick follows me in, letting the door fall shut behind him, closing Kilbourne in the hallway—and us into this room. He leans back against the door and folds his arms, looking as darkly dangerous as ever.

I ignore him.

He doesn’t return the favor. “Kilbourne told me you were climbing the masts with the captain this morning.”

“I was.” I find my apothecary kit by the end of my bed, and I take a moment to eat one of Karri’s peppermints. The bag is all I really came here for, but Corrick doesn’t move away from the door.

I set my shoulders and look at him. “The captain was checking the sails, and I was wondering how difficult it was. Do you find that hard to believe?”

“That you were curious, or that you were fearless?” “Both.”

“I watched you stop a revolution.” His eyes hold mine. “I don’t find either option hard to believe.”

Something in his tone makes me shiver.

“You don’t like him,” I say. “I don’t understand why.”

“It doesn’t matter if I like him. I’m not sure I can trust

him.”

“You don’t trust anyone,” I scoff.

Those words hit him in a way I don’t expect, and I’m not entirely sure how I can tell, but they do. Maybe it’s a little flinch in his eyes, like he’s taken a blow he wasn’t ready for.

“I didn’t mean that as an offense, Your Highness.”

I say it lightly, but a muscle twitches in his jaw, and I regret calling him that. He says nothing.

With a start, I realize that maybe I’ve found myself on the list of people he doesn’t trust.

I pat my bag. “We should go up.”

He straightens, drawing the door open, ever the gentlemen. “After you, Miss Cade.”

I move to stride past him, but the prince catches my arm, drawing me to a stop. My breath stops and my heart kicks, but his hand is gentle, warm against my sleeve.

“Wait,” he says quietly. “Please, Tessa.”

He said it last night, too, and I didn’t listen. I was too flushed. Too embarrassed. Too angry.

Today, I stop, and I look up. The prince’s eyes burn into mine, but his voice is low, even and formal. “We allowed Lochlan to come because Harristan believed it would be seen as a gesture of goodwill—and would also prevent him from organizing another rebellion in my absence.” He pauses. “So Lochlan is right that our invitation was not wholly altruistic. But I did not bring him with the intention of killing him conveniently. Last night, I was apprehensive about the trip, about the captain’s motives, about my brother and his … Well.” He frowns and runs a hand back through his hair. “I saw Lochlan looming over you in the hallway, and my temper got the best of me. Forgive me. Please.”

It’s a good speech—and I believe every word. The

apology is profound, because I know he means it.

But I can’t stop thinking of Rian’s voice in the wind this morning. Lochlan is one of his people, is he not?

Or the way Lochlan backed right down when he was allowed a moment of dignity, instead of rebelling against dark threats and armed guards. Even Kilbourne slammed him into the wall last night.

My thoughts don’t know where to settle, because I’ve found Lochlan pretty frightening myself. But I know what it’s like to be backed into a corner. Choices never seem like choices when the world only offers us bad ones. I once told the king that I would have been lighting the fires of revolution right alongside Lochlan if I hadn’t found myself in the palace with Corrick. We stopped a war—but the feelings of disdain and scorn are still alive and well. On both sides.

“You need to find a way to get along with him,” I say.

“I’ve been perfectly cordial to the captain.” “I’m talking about Lochlan.”

“Why.” Corrick doesn’t even say it like a question.

“Because you dragged him onto a ship to get him out of the way. It’s no better than locking him in the Hold, Corrick. If you want to fix things in Kandala, you and your brother can’t keep putting your opponents in prison.”

He stares back at me, but I tug my arm free before he can say anything else. I have a patient to treat, and I need to get away from the intensity in his gaze. When we stand in the shadows, he reminds me too much of Weston Lark, who was kind and good and would never hurt a soul.

As usual, I need to remind myself that Wes was a part of the man in front of me. That goodness is inside him.

But it’s just a part.

Sometimes I worry that it’s not quite enough.