Page 83 of Captive of the Pirate King
“The bathing room is through there.” Thora nods to another door. “I trust you’ll be comfortable?”
“More than comfortable,” I breathe.
She hesitates in the doorway for so long that I turn and look at her inquiringly.
“He has never done this before. Saved a woman, brought her here. In fact, I can’t remember the last time he had a female guest. He usually goes out for his pleasure.”
“I see.” My cheeks warm. I’m not sure what to say, or why she’s telling me this.
“Wherever you’ve been and whatever horrors you’ve seen—you can trust him,” Thora says. “He can be cruel to the malignant, brutal to the vicious, and he’s hesitant to show mercy when others can see it, lest they think him weak. But he has a good heart.”
Biting my lip, I nod.
“Above all, the Pirate King prizes his own strength and power. And he has risked a bit of that for you, I think.” She nods, a tiny smile floating on her lips, a spark in her eye. “I believe this could be a good thing for him.”
“I’m his to command,” is all I reply. She seems to be a trusted manager of the house, but I’m not sure how open Locke would want me to be with her about our relationship. Not that there’s anything to tell. We seem to be caught in an eternal push and pull, with neither of us quite willing to yield entirely.
“If you need anything, come find me or one of the maids,” says Thora. “I’ve set out everything you might need for a bath, and there are a few clothes that may suit you in the chifferobe.”
“You are a goddess,” I tell her fervently, and she smiles again as she leaves the room.
The Pirate King’s mansion has running water, heated through magic or mechanics—I don’t care which. I fill the tub and strip hastily before immersing myself in the glorious hot liquid.
All I want is to luxuriate in a pleasant haze of warmth and fragrant soap bubbles—but now that I’m alone, reality crawls back into my brain, dark and sickening.
The storm is Mordan. Birthed by him, controlled by him. He’s killing people with it.
Unless it isn’t really him—in which case there is still hope…
But I fear that it’s him. I know in my gut that it’s him, even though I have no real proof.
If it’s him, and if we can make it to the island he’s on without being smashed to bits, and if I can talk Mordan into a calmer mood—then Locke can tattoo him, and prevent him from hurting anyone else with his powers.
That kind of enforced good would be like a living prison, like invisible shackles. It would keep my brother from doing further harm during his rages.
But it wouldn’t punish him for the lives he has taken. And he should pay. He’s my brother, and I love him as only a little sister can—but my sense of justice runs too deep and true to be denied.
He needs to pay for the death and destruction he has caused.
Tears are coming again, but I blink them away and focus on bathing and grooming myself in a way I haven’t been able to since I left Ivris. Among the implements Thora provided is a small pair of scissors, which I use to neaten my choppy hairstyle. There are creams and powders, perfumes and cosmetics laid out in small pots along the vanity in the bedroom. How Thora readied everything so quickly, I’ll never know. She must be an excellent manager with an adept staff of servants.
When I’ve groomed, polished, and perfumed myself, I stand naked before the large mirror and admire the effect. Of course I’m as speckled as ever, but I’ve lined my eyes and lashes, painted my lips, and dusted pink powder across my cheeks. My skin is smoother and softer, and my hair clusters in silky waves around my face.
Best of all, I distracted myself for a handful of precious minutes.
The chifferobe shelves hold a few pairs of underthings, ranging from plain to silken, and a couple of corsets. I’m pleased to see a pair of plain dark trousers as well. On the bar hang a few tunics and dresses—nothing too fancy, probably items hastily gathered to suit my size. I select the silkiest pair of drawers and the most daring corset, paired with a deep green tunic and the dark pants. The tunic I leave unlaced so my cleavage shows to full advantage, decorated by the black lace of the corset. Locke will probably protest that the outfit is too simple, not salacious and garish enough. Then again, he’ll probably be too busy to bother with me tonight. He has all his paperwork to manage, and then that outing to Riddle Street…
An idea forms in my mind—a way that I might be able to get Locke alone and talk more about the situation with my brother.
Locke won’t like my plan, of course. But that’s part of the fun.
65
I emerge from my room in my fresh clothes, with my thigh-high boots laced on over the dark pants. My plan is to find a servant or someone of the household who can show me around. But the first person I see when I reach the end of the hallway isn’t a servant—it’s Puckley.
He looks drastically different now. Instead of the black clothing and black crown, he wears a flamboyant scarlet coat with a blue ruffled shirt, open at the throat. A jingling, sparkling array of lockets, medallions, and chains cover his chest, and his fingers are laced with rings. There’s a gem in his nose, and more gemstones drip from the lobes of his ears.
The sight of him eases me. The luxury here—the honorifics and the throne room, the servants and the well-spoken friends of Locke’s—it all reminded me too much of home, and I was beginning to feel anxious and trapped, as if I’d never escaped that world of social norms and niceties. But Puckley’s outfit is so garish, so outrageouslypirate. He’s a thief dripping with his own loot, and I can’t help a giggle, despite the gnawing ache in my heart.
