Page 10 of Of Magic and Rum
Ragnar clucks his tongue and bends sideways to watch Truffles lap at his milk. “Intend to bed her, do you?”
“Perhaps. But I thought more about how much easier it’d be to orchestrate her to our will. It isn’t often I can ensure someone won’t turn on me from sheer charm.” I scratch the coarse hair on my chin.
“Oh, yeah? You mean like youcharmedMary?” Ragnar does a snorting chuckle.
“Mary is different. She stood in line for recruitment, and I told her there was no sense in disguising herself. Only after she was on board did the little hellion reveal that meat and tackle weren’t her preferred variety of sport.”
Ragnar absently stares into the distance. “I swear I’d propose to that woman if that weren’t the case.”
“Marriage,” I grumble, all but gagging at the prospect.
Ragnar nudges me. “You’re telling me a decade from now when piracy becomes but a distant memory, and believe me, it will, you never see yourself settling down?”
Me? A husband? The idea seemed borderline absurd.
Moving to one of the porthole windows, I press my forearm above it and stare at the unusually calm blue water. “The sea is my mistress, Ragnar. And she can be a jealous wench.”
“Three pieces of silver says you’ll be settled down within two years, conventional sense or not.” Ragnar’s massive, tanned paw appears in front of me, the brown leather band around his wrist etched with old runes taunting me.
I glare as I turn to face him, sneering at his palm. “You’re out of your mind. And do you evenhavethat many pieces of silver?”
“What do you care? You’re going to win, right?” The skin beneath his left eye twitches.
And this is why Ragnar is my second in command.
“Fine. Agreed.” We smack our hands together, shaking right as the ship lurches.
“Better get thesefjolserworking the sails, the lazy maggots.” Ragnar pulls his tunic taut, a slight wince pinching his features.
After snatching my frock coat and slipping it on, I exit my cabin with Ragnar at my side.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to confront this person? Flat out ask what they’re doing and if they’re a woman?” Ragnar asks as we make our way toward the helm.
“It’s all about giving them a false sense of security.” I spy our crow’s nest man sitting with his legs dangling from the edge. Pointing at this, I elbow Ragnar in the ribs.
Ragnar grunts but looks up, his entire demeanor changing within an instant. He waves his arms, waiting for him to look down. “Squid, what the hell do you think this is, a tea break? Get your ass moving on those topsails.” His words travel across the deck, and he gestures at the topsails.
After Squid focuses on Ragnar’s face, he jerks to attention and scrambles across the riggings, his bare feet gripping the wood as he passes.
“False sense of security, Captain?” Ragnar repeats.
Twirling one of the several rings on my fingers, I squint at the horizon. “Yes. Right now, they’re probably thinking, I did it. I’m on board, leaving port, and haven’t been found out. And if it’s a woman, she must feel even more victorious that no one has discovered her.”
Ragnar adjusts the twine holding his hair back. “And this is why I’m a quartermaster.”
“And a bloody good one at that. Far better than I ever was, I assure you.” I ascend the stairs to the wheel, resting my hands on the knubs.
Ragnar gives a half grin and drums his fingers on the hilt of his cutlass. “You also hated Vane as your captain.”
I scratch the corner of my brow with a knuckle. “True words, friend.”
The oars pull us from port and closer to open water. As the sails unfurl and the crew ties and readies them, I watch intently for the wind to pick up. Once the fabric snaps taut, catching the breeze, I bark, “Pull in the sweeps.”
A wide grin graces Mary’s lips from nearby as she helps the crew with the rigging before diving into her role as boatswain, directing what each crewmate should do with the lines. Despite her edgy nature, Mary insists on wearing skirts over trousers. She also wishes to keep her skin porcelain with no chance of tanning and wears long sleeves and a brimmed hat to always shade her face.
Memories of the day we recruited Mary Read still surface all these months later. She’d dressed herself in baggy clothes and a wide-brimmed hat, which she pulled over each side of her face. Her hair had been lopped off by a ragged blade and haphazardlyshaved in the back, scattered tiny scabs where she’d nicked herself on the back of her skull. With her wide-set, sharp jawline, and thicker eyebrows, she could pass as a young boy at first glance given enough dirt. She’d gone so far as to smear manure on her clothes, masking her scent, but her voice, as deep as she tried to make it, gave her away for me.
She’d become instantly afraid and defensive, pulling a knife on me that I countered with, blocking her arm and hiding the dagger from the view of anyone else. Her fear morphed into surprise, laced with confusion and anger. I’d asked her two simple questions: Can you fight for your life? And are you willing to swear by my ship’s code? Given she answered yes to both within seconds, I told her she was more than welcome aboard and that disguising herself wouldn’t be necessary. No superstitious nonsense allowed on The Revenge—at least to the point of disrupting the crew.
