Page 118 of The Sea Witch
“Not quite.” Twin stains of pink rode high on her cheeks, yet she didn’t glance away. “They were left behind. By guests.”
“Guests.”
“Myguests. I send them packing soon after their usefulness is over. Items are forgotten in my haste to get them down the gangplank.”
He stared down at the garments. “Whichusefulperson did this coat belong to?”
“Don’t remember.” Still, she returned his regard boldly, without apology.
He looked into the mirror again. “Whoever owned these clothes before, they likely didn’t wear them half as well as I do.”
“There’s something else you need.” She set down the mirror, and then unlocked a cabinet. From it, she pulled out a finely tooled leather baldric, which she handed to him.
She grabbed a cutlass from the cabinet, with an ornate bell guard.
“A gift from a Spaniard?” he asked.
“Taken from a galleon with too many guns but not enough brains.” After taking a deep breath, Alys held the baldric and cutlass out to Ben.
His hands remained at his sides.
“You’ll need this,” she said. “At the enclave.”
“You’re arming me.”
“If you set foot inside Lambert’s without a weapon,” she said flatly, “you may as well bid a fond farewell to your life.”
Slowly, he reached out and took the items. They made satisfying weights in his hands. He unsheathed the sword, revealing intricate etching along its curved blade, and gave it an experimental cut through the air.
“You wield that blade well,” she said.
“During combat, sailing masters are stationed on the quarterdeck. We don’t fight. Too valuable to risk. But I practiced every day.”
“Thirsting for action?” she asked.
“Perhaps it’s better in theory than practice.” Heaviness settled in his chest. Only a few hours had passed since he’d first ended someone’s life.
“The only blade I’d picked up was the one I used to gut mackerel and bass. Turning pirate, you’ve got to be skilled with a sword. I thought I’d hate it but...”
“You do it so well.”
She didn’t say anything, but pride radiated from her like sunlight.
He sheathed the cutlass and buckled on the baldric. The missing part of himself slid into place.
He gave her a simple nod of thanks. She returned the nod.
“Let’s hope you won’t have cause to use it,” she said.
“I—” He straightened. “Dupont or Sanchez or Best might be at Lambert’s refuge.”
“Ben.” She stood in front of him. “Tread carefully at Lambert’s. Ask too many questions of the wrong people—”
He dragged in a breath. “And risk our mission.”
“And riskyourself,” she corrected. “A misplaced word or hint to a hotheaded buccaneer means you’ll quickly join your father in the afterlife.”
“If you’re looking for my promise that I won’t seek answers,” he said, “I can’t give you one. I owe justice more than that.”
