SECOND DRAFT: Hard Bank Left

12

The husk of the Helmstaar still smoldered orange against an indigo sky as Krys gathered the survivors onto the WindSong. The sun had set only an hour ago. It had taken all day go salvage what they could from the wreckage. Most of the important things had been loaded into the hold: food, clothing, a repair kit, some medical supplies. Whatever cargo they had been hauling was lost entirely, crushed under the weight of the crash.

The crew was sparse; Nannette and Adrianna were with Raide aboard the Ahmsraad. Steven, Estelle and their two small children had been at the stern of the ship, making it out with little more than soot stains. Krys had ushered them into her room where there would be plenty of space to rest. Alasier, Christian and Asper had gathered in the WindSong's pilotry, conferring about something, possibly taking stock of recent events.

Of her own accord, Ve had started brewing tea in the kitchen. At least she was doing something helpful. Krys walked the length of her little ship, the sound of chattering voices and the bustle of bodies making her slightly uncomfortable. She had been raised in a large family, so it wasn't as though having people around was anything new to her. But having them here, on her ship? The WindSong wasn't made to be full of people.

The tall, bulky form of Asper approached as she descended the narrow stairs, he seemed to be in a rush. She didn't bother asking where he was going; in the year and a half she had known him he hadn't spoken more than three words to her. She squeezed herself flat against the wall to let him by. He nodded at her and moved on.

The door to her room was shut, giving Krys the impression that the children were being tucked into bed. She would have proceeded to the pilotry to get a situation report from Alasier, to let him know what had happened to Graham, but she was caught off guard by a figure sitting in Graham's chair: Jarreth.

He was taller than she remembered, thinner. His hair, usually quaffed back, hung in curled tendrils over his eyes. Knees tucked to his chest, he gazed out the porthole to his left. His bare feet hung over the edge of the chair, his toes curling around the the cushion. All Krys could think was how disgusted Graham would be, not only at the bare feet, but at the fact that they were on his chair. Still, she couldn't help but empathize with Jarreth. It was the empathy that pulled her into the sitting room.

Krys sat in her beaten old chair, crossed her legs, watched Jarreth stare out the window. The chair made a groaned in protest as she leaned back. Jarreth whipped his head around, took in Krys's dark form in the corner. He glowered at her and she could feel his hatred.

"Go on and hate me all you like," she said.

Jarreth turned his gaze back to the porthole.

"I don't regret saving your life."

Jarreth didn't speak.

"Were you and Maggie very close."

Jarreth grunted. "You could say that."

"I take it you loved her."

Jarreth shrugged. "What does it matter?"

"It matters." She fell silent for a long while, watching the back of his head as he continued to stare. When she did speak again it was as though speaking to the room more than to Jarreth. "I know how it feels, losing someone you love."

"I doubt that. You live a charmed life, Krys."

The words stung. She had forgotten how little he knew about her, how little they had spoken since she had left Cadence. Jarreth had once been someone she could talk to, someone outside of all the death and violence and intrigue of the Caste. He must still think her to be some charming rogue out to save the world by stealing from major corporations. He still saw her as her mother's daughter.