The Merry Men Masquerade

Epilogue

With his legs dangling over the edge of his bed, Ronan stretched his arms high to soothe his aching back and yawned so wide his eyes watered. His bedroom was dark and swayed with the waves; it had been a disorienting way to wake up for a while, but he'd had more than enough time to get used to it.

He bumbled to the cabin window and saw that he had woken up early. Good. Plenty of time to get himself presentable.

In the small offshoot of his quarters that he'd claimed as his vanity corner, he sat at his dressing table and lit a lamp.

"Good grief," he grumbled over the state of his hair. He rubbed the crust from his eyes and patted water onto his face. The quilted rag he used to dry had been a gift, a memorial from Czabata. He freshened up slowly, sipping water until he felt less like a washed-up crustacean.

Today was a big day, and Ronan loved any excuse to dress up. He didn't powder his face this time around (if he looked close, he could still see his summer freckles). But he lined his eyes and touched pink onto his cheeks, the nice rouge he had traded for in Masen City, and he dotted a bit of color onto his lips. Petroleum jelly through his lashes, of course, if only for the reaction he knew it would earn him.

And lastly, the hair.

The braid had to go. It had been...he didn't want to think about how many days. But it was the easiest way to keep his hair on the water, and they'd had a busy week of sailing.

The waves it left behind were nice, at least. He would probably regret this after a few minutes of salty hair whipping into his mouth, but today, he only tied it half-up. The rest rippled down to his waist. He carefully pulled out a few white strands at the front to fall into his face. Wearing his hair down also got him a very...gratifying reaction. Worth it, winds be damned.

The ship thrummed with energy, anticipation that purred through the floorboards beneath his bare feet. Ronan gave himself to it. He danced to his closet, the silk of his shirt brushing his naked thighs, remembering how it had felt to stand on the deck of the Bella Mourre. He was delighted to be foolish. It had led him here.

Ronan had been many people in the twenty-two years since he first set foot on a ship. A locksmith and a watchmaker, an apprentice, a journeyman, a master. He had been a blacksmith one day, a silversmith the next, a weaponsmith where the demand was high. He had worked as a deckhand and he had learned to navigate. In dire straits, he had been a thief.

When asked his occupation, he found it easiest to label himself a traveler. Though nowadays, some preferred to call him-

"Captain!"

Only half-dressed in a button-down and pale blue stockings, Ronan squawked and hurried into his pants. He was still fumbling with the button when Azzie hurtled into his line of sight.

"What have I said about letting yourself in?" he reprimanded, but it fell short. Azzie was buzzing where she stood, she was glowing, and there could only be one reason. Wild yellow curls bounced around her head like a halo.

"Are you positive?" said Ronan. "Already?"

His helmsman nodded hard enough to dislodge her hat. She was excitable on a slow day, but he had never seen her so electric. The leftover baby fat on her cheeks was more noticeable like this, beneath a splotchy pink flush.

"Land ho," whispered Azzie in her romantic accent, quieter than she'd ever been.

Ronan grabbed the first coat his hand landed on, satin the color of the Nevic sky. He tugged on boots with one hand and tucked in his shirt with the other as he ran, only managing both halfway by the time he made it up the steps. Azzie was hot on his heels and light on her feet, swerving deftly out of the way when Ronan stopped in his tracks.