As Vladim moved to turn the locks, I heard Genya whisper. "You definitely owe me a kiss after all this, Don't think I won't hold you to it."
I laughed lightly. "We'll see."
"There is no seeing, you will, if I have to be the one to do it then so be...
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THE WEEK WORE ON, AND ON THE SIXTH DAY, Genya woke me up early. As I gathered my wits, I realized it was barely dawn. Fear sliced through me. Maybe the Darkling had decided to cut short my reprieve and make good on his threat. But Genya was beaming, and it was the first time since we kissed that I have seen her look genuinely happy.
"He found something!" she crowed, bouncing on the soles of her feet, practically dancing as she helped me from the bunk. "The tracker says we're close!"
"His name is Mal," I muttered, pulling away from her. She gave me a stricken look, "Someone's grumpy this morning." I scowled, "It's barely the crack of dawn, Genya."
She rolled her eyes, "Yes, yes, the little girl needs more rest." she reached for my arm, but I swatted her hand away. She let out a sigh and said, "Don't be stubborn,"
I snorted, "I'm not being stubborn." Genya rolled her eyes but whispered, "Whatever you say, princess."
She reached for me again, but this time I didn't try to fight her. She lead us out of the cabin and to the latter, where we climbed in silence. I was the last one to emerge out and when I did I was met with the dim gray light of the early morning. The deck was crowded with Grisha gazing out at the water while the Squallers worked the winds, and Sturmhond's crew managed the sails above.
The mist was heavier than the day before. It clung thick against the water and crawled in damp tendrils over the ship's hull. The silence was broken only by Mal's directions and the orders Sturmhond called.
When we entered a wide, open stretch of sea, Mal turned to the Darkling and said, "I think we're close."
"You think?" Mal gave a single nod. The Darkling considered. If Mal was stalling, his efforts were doomed to be short-lived, and the price would be high. After what felt like an eternity, the Darkling nodded to Sturmhond.
"Trim the sails," commanded the privateer, and the top men moved to obey. Ivan tapped the Darkling's shoulder and gestured to the southern horizon. "A ship, moi soverenyi."
I squinted at the tiny smudge. "Are they flying colors?" the Darkling asked Sturmhond. "Probably fishermen," Sturmhond said. "But we'll keep an eye on her just in case." He signaled to one of his crewmen, who went scurrying up the main royal with a long glass in hand.
The longboats were prepared and, in minutes, they were being lowered over the starboard side, loaded with Sturmhond's men and bristling with harpoons. The Darkling's Grisha crowded by the rail to view the boats' progress. The mist seemed to magnify the steady slap of the oars against the waves.
