Unsinkable

Constellations

Jacin stared out at the waves, allowing for the churning body of water to draw his thoughts away from her. He didn't know how or why he had become so infatuated with someone who was clearly far out of his league in every way imaginable, but he had.

He didn't know exactly what his heart felt toward Winter Hayle, but he did know this: he felt alive when he was with her.

Heaving a great sigh, Jacin stepped away from the railing, mentally chastising himself for thinking about Winter. She was engaged— to be married. And even if she weren't, he had nothing in the world to offer her. He was a poor artist, son of an American nobody in Wisconsin. He didn't even have dreams of grandeur— something to promise her for the future. He was happy with his drawings and his life under the stars. But those kinds of aspirations didn't win over girls like Winter Hayle.

His feet carried him down below deck. He wandered aimlessly throughout the hallways, unsure of where he was going, but knowing that it was definitely somewhere.

Paintings of vibrant scenes decorated the hallways, artwork that he would have normally examined in a careful manner, marking different techniques and contrasts, but he was too distracted. Her words filled his head, yelling you are wrong, you are wrong, you are wrong. But if he were wrong, why did it feel so right?

When he arrived before Channary Blackburn's door, he wasn't surprised. Of course seeing her hadn't been his goal— and still wasn't— but he didn't know another soul upon this blasted ship. Well, he didn't know anyone else and also their room, though he was quite sure that Cinder and Kai, along with Mr. Prince would only be a door or two away.

He stared at the door, knowing that there was no force in heaven or hell that could make him knock upon it. Because no matter how his feelings for Winter tore at him, he still had some semblance of pride. He hadn't chased after her once she'd left him, and he wasn't going to chase after her now. But if help just happened to stumble his way, it wouldn't help to be a bit closer to it.

As if he had willed it, the door opened with a great, flourishing swing that could only be accomplished by Channary Blackburn herself. She stepped into the hall, wearing a deep navy dress with long sleeves and a plunging neckline. Her brown hair fell in ringlets about her made-up face. She was beautiful: an older version of her daughter. But to Jacin, she was just another woman; just another person who wasn't Winter Hayle.

"Mr. Clay," Channary said, astonished. "What are you doing, loitering about these halls? That's rather ungentlemanly, I must say."

It was funny how in the five seconds after Channary opened her door Jacin realized just how much he disliked the woman. The way she dressed and the way she looked at him as if he were someone who had to be pitied. And above all, he hated the way she talked— the way she somehow forgot to add letters to the end of words, or slurred vowels into one cohesive mesh of sound. Of course, he himself had a subtle Wisconsin accent, something that had slowly melted from his speech during his time in Europe, but it couldn't possibly be as bad the syllable-losing, slurpy southern accent.

"My apologies," Jacin said, attempting not to sneer. "Perhaps I'll just go now."

"Oh, nonsense!" Channary exclaimed, extending her elbow in Jacin's direction. "Come now, you can walk me up to the deck. I been needing to stretch my legs, and a lick of fresh air won't hurt, now won't it."

"Uh, I guess so."

Reluctantly, Jacin linked his arm through Channary's, allowing her to lead him down the hall, and back out to the deck of the ship. She chattered the whole way, filling his ears with nonsense concerning business back home and the rage of Kingsley Thorne and her speculations on what would be served for dinner. Jacin wished to saw his arm from her grasp and run away, but there was a burning question within him— one that he knew Channary could answer.