A Pirate's Life For Me

Prejudice

The sun set hours ago, and the night is crisp and cold, but for some reason I'm melting in my jacket. I tell myself it's just nerves, which wouldn't be too far off. My stomach is revolting against dinner and my rash decision, bonding with my heart to scream that it's not too late, that I could easily head back right now and they would never know, that Jackson would still send me one of his crooked smiles and Colette would grudgingly pass over the next piece to my puzzle. But I know that it doesn't matter if they know or not.

Hazelton would know. And that's all that matters.

I press my back against a cobbled wall and wait for the few night guards to pass. There aren't many in the city, which probably means there'll be a thousand crawling over the docks.

My teeth move back to the dip in my already torn lip, worrying away at the skin as I dart across the street in the direction of Hugh's shack. Sure, guards will be swarming the public docks, but Hugh pays off guards for so much as looking in his direction. If I snatch one of his boats and hightail myself off shore, I'll be all the way across the Grenn Sea, dragging Blythe back the way he'd come. Maybe then he'd leave them alone. Maybe then he'd catch up to me. Maybe then Dad'd find me.

I almost slip on a cobbled step, stumbling to regain my balance and booking it twice as fast down the alley. I can't afford to let myself get distracted here. No thinking about what could happen; that only gets me killed.

Good boy. You're learning.

I grit my teeth and push forward. By pure force of will, I'd blocked out his voice, sent it on repeat to the back of my mind. I let Kiirn's voice flood my brain instead, and as the weeks wore on I almost wasn't sure which was better. But sometimes I slip. And as soon as I can hear him, I know that it'll be over.

Soldiers laugh, metal clanks. It's my cue to hide. Clumsily, I dive into a hay bale, ducking down against the old wood on the barn on the outskirts of town. From here, if it was day, I would be able to see Hugh's tin roof shining in the sun. But it's not. It's night, and the sky is as black as my prospects of getting out alive.

But that's okay, really. I never did expect to live this long; and if I die tonight, it'll be by Hazelton's hands. My death, to save the two who did nothing to deserve this. And I do deserve this.

Of course, I'd prefer to live, so I race across the wide open cobble to the last street, flattening myself against the wall of a smithy and peeking over my shoulder. The break in the wall only has two guards. I can probably curb up a bullshit excuse and trot my way through. Or I could dump some mud in my hair and act homeless. It worked when I went to see Hugh before. Now, though, I'd have to stuff the sack down my shirt, but my jacket should hide its bulk. And if I get stopped while acting homeless, I can definitely throw out an excuse. Soldiers don't like to touch the peasantry. They're told by royals that they'll get sick with diseases.

If I sneeze hard enough, they'll back away, afraid they'll catch poverty.

A deep breath in, deep breath out, and I pull myself away from the wall, rolling back my shoulders to become commanding, dropping the sack to my side, knot clutched loosely in my fist. The guards seem almost asleep. If I walk with enough purpose, perhaps I could breeze by and no one would be the wiser.

Obviously, the best option would be to scale the wall, but my shoulder hurts. I don't want to tweak it.

Another deep breath, and I step forward to walk around the wall.

Something yanks me back.

Hands clench my biceps and waist, an elbow dropping around my neck, knees thudding against mine, pulling back my legs, tripping me backward until my shoulders hit the smithy, startled cry barely filtering through the fingers wrapped around my mouth and nose.