The King's Cursed Bride

Drowning

Carissa's breathing calmed as the serving women let their coins clink onto the wooden table. She'd earned more than all of them, though one had come dangerously close to matching her.

The Cook twisted his lips to one side. She refused to think of him as 'Captain.' It seemed too noble a title for him. "Eh. Not bad, not bad. Carrots? What about you?"

Avril slid a smirk Carissa's way before stepping up to the table. She dug into the pocket of her apron, and her hand emerged with a fistful of coins. They flowed from her hand onto the table.

Carissa's stomach uncoiled. She'd managed to earn more tips than Avril.

And then Avril dipped her hand into her apron pocket again. And again.

With each bunch of coins she drew from her pocket, the tension in Carissa's chest tightened.

Avril plucked the last coin from her pocket, cupping it in her palm. She flipped her hand over and drew away, revealing its gold sheen.

How had Avril managed to earn tips in gold?

Carissa gripped the edge of the table and focused on breathing.

The Cook waddled over to her side. "Your turn, Tara dear. Let's see if you managed to out earn Avril."

Carissa withdrew her coins from her pocket and let them clatter to the table, her hands trembling.

The serving women peered around each other to glance at Carissa's mound of coins, compared to Avril's mountain. A coal dropped into the bottom of her stomach, making her gut boil with nausea. She was torn between retching and fainting.

"Well, well, well." The Cook arched his caterpillar brows.

She whipped around to face him and pressed her back against the table behind her, until she was sure the wooden ridges would be imprinted into her skin. "But... this is barbaric."

His thick shoulders lifted, and the flab on his arms swayed. "You agreed to it, Tara. I was quite content with punishing the boy." He turned to eye the subject of their conversation as the boy sloshed his mop in the bucket and scooted it along the floor. "In fact, I still am..." He faced her again. "But you stopped me, so it will be your choice."

She hauled in air past her constricted throat. "My... choice?"

He bobbed his head. "The bargain, as I recall, was that if I was not to whip the boy, then you would either earn more than any other serving woman or take his whipping. Or he could simply take his own whipping."

From the corner of her eye, the little boy had stopped mopping, and his bony arms stilled.

Carissa swallowed. What would a whipping feel like? Surely not worse than having your forearm slashed. But she desperately didn't want to be whipped. She'd heard the whimpers and grunts of servants in the street who had been the recipient of a whipping. Sweat prickled her palms.

The little boy had been whipped before. Perhaps he'd developed a sort of immunity to the whip's bite... It would probably hurt him less than it would hurt—

Her stomach lurched. No. As long as she worked at this pub, she would do whatever she could to protect the boy. The other employees had neglected him and allowed this cruelty. She would not.

She shoved off the table. Though her legs wobbled, they didn't buckle. "No. I can take his whipping."

The Cook's chin crinkled, pressing his lips together, as if an idea had been proposed that he'd never heard of before. "Well. It makes no difference. So long as someone pays for his insubordination." He flashed her a grin, as if he suddenly found the situation humorous. "Can't tolerate that aboard my ship, now can I?"