Song of Ramona (Book #1 in Pirates of the Cloudsea Trilogy) (Teaser)

VII. Cerulean Knight

Night fell, and the air grew choppy. It was my duty this evening to inspect the light bulbs throughout the ship. They burnt out constantly, but electric light was a luxury we could not do without. An open flame could kill us all. And so, each and every night, between the hours of four and five AM, the designated bulb mouse went through every passageway and common space, switching out the burnt bulbs, and turning off the lights so they would be ready for the next evening.

The ship lost altitude several times and sent my stomach lurching in my throat. I dropped my case of light bulbs and staggered up to the rail. I ate dinner too fast again. In the back of my mind, there was always an instinctive fear of starvation. Going hungry for days and weeks is a feeling the body never forgets, and I no longer believed any meal was guaranteed.

Some might say I became a pirate for the food, and they would be right. We ate well by our country's standards. Fresh fruit and vegetables filled the hold, along with sacks of grain, barley, and lentils. We had an array of meats packed with ice blocks from the Leffen Mountains. On this night, Cook had reheated frozen pigeon pies over our jerry-rigged electric stove. The first few times he tried this, he'd burnt the crusts, but tonight they had been perfectly crisped.

Now my pigeon pie took flight. I bent over the rail and hurled my guts out, lamenting the long and painful hours I would be yearning for breakfast.

I got that eerie feeling that was all too common out in the night sky. Perhaps it was our ship's dim electric lanterns glowing greenish in the fog, but it was more than just vertigo. In the abyss, I felt physically adverse to being in my own skin. The witch's curse had me nervous, and I could have sworn I heard a voice in the wind, something like the sad, sobbing sound of a child.

"They say spirits haunt the clouds up here, that there ain't no heaven. Only aimless mist," said Baker. He leaned his mop against the rail and tied back his dreadlocks as a gale rushed over the deck. He had a talent for finding me and hardly ever gave me a moment to myself.

"Shut up," I croaked. My vocal chords worked as well as my bow without rosin, and after a bout of retching, I could sound downright fiendish. "Ain't no ghosts up here."

"Are you scared, Clikk?"

"No." I closed my eyes, losing myself in my thoughts. "I'd rather like to see my dead. I'm an orphan, remember? Like every other bastard on this bird."

"Not every bastard. My mum's still alive."

"How nice for you."

An abashed grin crept across his lips, and he rolled his shoulders. "We're not on the best of terms."

"Why? You steal from her?"

"No. Nothing like that. I don't approve of the life she's made for herself."

"You mean whoring?"

He scoffed. "She ain't done that in years, not since she found herself a keeper."

"Is it the keeper you disapprove of?"

"Aye. He keeps her too often in bandages."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. At least I have a mother," he said. "Though that's not to say I didn't spend a fair share of my childhood in orphanages. Mum kept surrendering me. The orphanage was a bit like boarding school that way, with ever the possibility of going home with a new family." Baker often made light of the tragic events of his life. I always listened and chuckled along, but endured a buried, stabbing sympathy for the brute. He picked up his mop and dunked it in the bucket of water. "Anyway, I should get back to it."

"What are you doing? Since when are you a swabbie?"

"I got up to some games with Pierce and the cousins. We laid out the queens from a deck of cards and placed bets on which one Vincent would take as his wife."