The Orphan and the Thief

Chapter 18: Piddleton

Toad's hair tickled Melena's nose. She kept her eyes shut; opening them was pointless. They were adrift, floating on an icy sea. There was no land in sight, not even a passing iceberg. There hadn't been for what had felt like hours. Like days. Like years.

It had seemed miraculous — a good omen even — that Toad managed to hold onto her knapsack with everything still safely (though thoroughly drenched) tucked inside. They'd pulled out the two flasks of Mirg water, nearly dropping them in the ocean from the violent tremors racking their bodies. The only reason they were alive, Melena was sure, was because of those two small heated bottles and Hazel, sandwiched between them.

Melena listened to the gentle splash of ocean against their raft. So peaceful. So tranquil. So unlike what it had been as it shook the Firefly like a giant with a toy sailboat. The tears that had fallen at the sight of the sinking ship were still there, frozen to her cheeks. She couldn't say that she had been fond of the pirates, but they had given up their lives for them. They had been decent, when they hadn't needed to be. They had, without question, embraced them as their own. A pirate had knocked her clear from a blast of fire. She didn't known his name, but his face was etched upon her memory like a chiseled stone. Melena's empty stomach clenched as if a hand twisted her insides. It was all their fault — no, it was all Melena's fault that Horace and Mabbott and Smedley and Booth and all the rest were dead. If she hadn't pressed Toad into trading Joe ... but would there have been another way to reach Mirg if they hadn't gone to the pirates? Would they have been able to reach the place on foot?

Melena didn't want to think about this. She didn't want her final seconds to be reliving the guilt and horror of the Firefly like a stuck gramophone. So she listened to the ocean. The rocking of the raft reminded her of a cradle. Her mother must have done this for her, before the fire. Soothed her to sleep while she was tucked inside warm blankets, humming a lullaby. Melena could see her mother's face smiling down at her. Milo was leaning over the crib's edge, tickling her to make her giggle. And now her father was there, his hair flaxen, his short beard and mustache trimmed neat. Melena could see them so clearly, though she'd never owned a picture of any of her family; even inside her mother's iron cold locket frozen to her chest, there wasn't a picture, just two snips of worthless hair. Everything had burned, burned with the fury of a Slinkwing. It would be so easy to believe the dream was true — that she really was the giggling baby in the crib, wrapping a tiny hand around Milo's teasing finger ... it would be so easy — so easy — if she wasn't so cold.

Melena and Toad were as close together as physically possible, their stiff, gloved hands wrapped around the two bottles of Mirg water. Hazel was squeezed between them, giving off the little amount of warmth she still possessed, but the warmth was becoming not enough. The cold slipped into Melena's lungs, inching steadily closer to her heart. She had lost feeling in her legs and feet. It was as if she were a sketch on a pad of paper and the artist, finding fault, had erased them.

How much longer until the cold reached her heart? That question, she realized numbly, should trouble her, but she felt nothing. Even the unbearable cold was growing not so unbearable, slipping away from her consciousness like water through hands.

Why would anyone ever live here? The memory of Toad's incredulous voice made the muscles around her cracked lips twitch.

She forced her eyes open. The sky was the pale, dusted gray of predawn, but her eyes burned from the light. Her breath came out in a shaking, frigid steam. Death couldn't be far away for surely hallucinations were the next step toward endless slumber ... or perhaps she had already half-stepped into that abyss, for of course her mind in its last throes of life would be cruel enough to materialize a ship.