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CHAPTER SIX: "three things cannot long be hidden. the sun, the moon and the truth"
TWO NIGHTS LATER, MERCY couldn't sleep. She counted fifty-two hours since she'd last closed her eyes and had no intention of making that the number to beat.
There were worse ways to spend her nights than gazing out to the unbroken horizon until the sky and the sea seemed to bleed into one another. When she was nothing more than a stowaway on board this ship, Goldfinger relished in darkening the purple bruises under her eyes. He liked her drowsy, compliant, the way most Kerch businessmen kept their indentures to lessen the chances of runaways. She liked to think it was because she was powerful. But, perhaps he was just weak.
What did it matter? No degree of nostalgia would bring the old Captain back from his ocean tomb and no amount of remembrance would put his eyes back into his head. The dead were best kept that way. Ghosts had a habit of coming back to haunt her.
That was why she didn't sleep. The dull ache of drowsiness was nothing compared to the way her skin crawled after she dreamed of the Little Palace. So she kept herself occupied. Sometimes it was Alina, sometimes Sturmhond, even Tolya and Tamar kept watch at dusk. But most of the time it was Aarav. He'd drag a weary Mal from their hours of hand to hand combat or sword fighting or sharpshooting to where Mercy sat on the Helm of the ship.
It was as close to normality as they had gotten in the last few weeks, even with a different face moulded onto her own. These new features never seemed to get any more familiar, no matter how many times she caught herself in the mirror. She'd sharpen his blades and strengthen the steel while he told stories of their time on the seas. At first, Mal had just listened but eventually, he had a few stories of his own, ones of white Stags and two orphans of Keramzin.
Just four days ago, Mercy had been prepared to sell this boyoff to the highest bidder but suddenly, suddenly it didn't feel right. She used to think that all there was to life was keeping both eyes open long enough to catch someone before they stabbed you in the back but now, she wasn't so sure.
It felt all too familiar, the choice between what she wanted and what she needed. When her mother died, her mourning father had given the Fahey children a choice: stay in Novyi Zem and be loved, or go to the Little Palace and be powerful.
Jesper had begged her to stay, but she was a coward. She ran from the tree that blossomed over the grave of her mother and she'd been running ever since.
"Still awake?" Sturmhond called as he hoisted himself up onto the ledge where she perched.
"You know what they say, no rest for the wicked."
"Might as well give me some company then," The Privateer shortened the gap between them until Mercy could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. Tolya's tailoring was fraying at the edges, his chin was less protruded, his hair less ruddy. Sturmhond was beginning to look more and more like the smiling minx who had reeled her in with tales of more gold than she could carry. Gold couldn't seem less important now. "Feel like dropping the anchor?" He said, before giving her a cheeky wink.
