Starsinger

Barriers

Aaron hoisted himself up the ladder onto the main deck. A fog rested low across the ocean, and the morning chill was already working into his fingers. It was too cold out now to sleep on the decks comfortably, and Aaron was grateful for the spare hammocks they'd been offered in steerage. He was even more grateful when the crew returned his bow and his scope, along with Gavran's book and all their other weapons. Katrina swore she'd only been saving them to sell at the nearest port. She slept with the crew now, unwilling to return to the strangely empty bed in her captain's quarters.

Aaron tucked his hands under his armpits and made for the galley. Cook spied him a moment before he jumped down and passed him a bowl of porridge and a mug of coffee, then set to work preparing two more of each.

Cally was sitting by herself on one of the barrels that served as seats. She'd set her brother Beau on the table, in a basket stuffed with woolen blankets. Between every bite of her own breakfast, she tried to tempt the infant with a spoonful. Beau was uncooperative.

Aaron plunked his bowl down next to the girl and sat. "Maybe he doesn't like porridge."

"He likes living," Cally said sternly. "So he'd best learn to like what I give him."

"What about you? You liking things here?"

Cally nodded. "They let me climb the rigging now. I'm too small to help with the sails, but I can be lookout. Until I get bigger. And they're teaching me to fight."

"Fight with what?"

"With my fists. Zak says once I can give him back as good as I get, he'll let me learn weapons."

Cally leaned over to feed Beau another spoonful. A few wisps of flaxen hair had sprung free of her horse's tail. Beau giggled and swiped at them, knocking the spoon from her hand and tangling his tiny fingers in her hair. Cally glowered.

Aaron smothered a grin. He tried not to think of his own sisters, still so far away.

Cally eyed him skeptically. "I'm glad Captain Hawkins didn't kill you."

"Me too."

Cook called him and Aaron stood up. He traded his empty dishes for two sets of full ones, balancing them carefully on each arm. Rachel had taught him how to do that, after she got a job working with an innkeep down the road.

In the lower cabin, Delia sat propped in the bed on one side of the room, and Jace lay in a makeshift cot against the opposite wall.

"Our jailer has returned," Jace observed. He pushed himself upright, revealing the still mottled bruises on his arms and face.

Aaron passed him his mug and porridge. "You ever been to a dungeon that serves coffee?"

"May as well ignore him." Delia wrapped her long fingers around the hot mug. Her skin was still ashen, but Aaron thought the circles under her eyes were fading. She sipped her coffee. "He's only getting more insufferable."

"At least I can walk," Jace shot back.

"Can, but shouldn't," Aaron interjected. "Doc's orders."

"You're a tyrant," said Jace.

Delia snorted derisively. "Don't be such a child."

Jace flinched, and Aaron rubbed his eyes. It had been smart to set up a recovery room. Both Jace and Delia needed rest and support for their injuries that the hammocks couldn't provide. Still, Aaron couldn't deny that the cabin often felt more like a cage fight than a sick bay.