A Swift and Savage Tide (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 2)

The next day, the third of their unintentional voyage on the damned Phoenix, the fog was thick as milk tea, and almost the same color. And it drove Kit very nearly mad.

Sailors may have feared fire, but they loathed fog. It took their control, their visibility, their foresight. Many a ship had misjudged a coastline or failed to see an enemy until it was too late, and timbers were dashed by rock or shot.

There was a little wind, but it did nothing to ease the miasma, and they’d furled the sails as a precaution against yesterday’s troubles. Otherwise, there was nothing to do but wait.

Kit stood at the gunwale, peering into the fog as if the narrowing of her eyes might be enough to disperse it and give them a clear view of their surroundings.

Grant joined her.

“I feel like we’re being watched,” Kit said without prelude.

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “Where?”

His unwavering confidence in her was another little twist in her heart.

“Port bow,” she said. “I thought I saw something, and then I thought I heard something. And then I wondered if I was merely seeing small creatures.”

He snorted. “I’m still fairly certain that’s nonsense. But where ships are concerned, I trust you implicitly.”

He stood by her in silence, and she thought it might be the first time they’d done so without squabbling since they’d stepped foot on this ship. Would that he’d never made that proposal.

“There,” she said, the word a whisper, at the flash of light.

“I saw it,” Grant said.

He followed her back to Donal, who leaned against the railing that overlooked the quarterdeck. “There’s a ship off the port bow,” she said.

He stood up straight. “Origin?”

“I’ve no idea. I only saw the light.”

Bells began to ring, a cacophony of sound.

“Report!” Donal yelled out, as sailors rushed to and from positions on the deck.

“Frisian ship off the port bow!” someone called out. “Fully rigged and headed toward us.”

At least three masts, Kit translated, each of them bearing columns of square sails.

“As I said,” Kit murmured, but Donal’s face had gone hard.

“You’re certain it’s Frisian?” he asked the sailor who came running toward him.

“Aye, sir. It’s not a blockade ship, but one of the Frisians. And it’s a big ship, sir.”

He swore. “Prepare the cannons, have the weapons at the ready.”

“Aye.” As the sailor saluted and ran back to give the order, Donal immediately turned for the companionway that led below.

Kit followed him back to his quarters. “Why are we preparing to fire? You’ve seen what I can do. I can get the Phoenix out of range.”

“First, because I’m a pirate. We rather like firing on ships. And second, because we have no choice.”

Kit looked back at him. “Why? Why is there no choice?”

He belted on a sabre with a complicated basket hilt and stuck a pistol into his belt. “Because we’re wanted in Frisia.”

Kit could all but feel her blood boil. “You asked me to help you run an Isles blockade to smuggle goods into Frisia, where you’re also wanted?”

Donal grinned. “I didn’t say it would be easy, did I? And remember—if I hadn’t come for you and your viscount, you’d still be sleeping in the sand and praying for fish.”

“You’re despicable.”

He looked back at her, fire in his eyes. This, Kit thought, was the pirate—arrogant, violent, and determined to have his way, and damn anyone in the way.

“I am,” he agreed, leaning close. “And don’t forget that.”

She waited until he was gone before staring daggers at his back. She’d have thrown one if she’d had one handy. She could forgive many sins, but not dishonor.

“He’s on deck?”

Grant stepped into the doorway with his vast overabundance of honor.

“Yes,” she said. “Just.” She pushed her hair behind her ears.

“What has he done?”

“He’s wanted in Frisia.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, muttered a curse. “Is there a bounty?”

“I don’t know. But that’s why he wants to engage them.” She stalked to one end of the room and then back again. She might as well pace her way across the damned Northern Sea, she thought.

“Well,” Grant said, “that and the piracy.”

Kit growled. “Running from an Isles ship is one thing—there’s no harm there. It’s not entirely honest, but giving over wine and silk to the Isles isn’t going to help our position in the war. But engaging Frisia? Even assuming they don’t have magic, and this ship and her crew are skilled enough, it’s still death. Still destruction. And we could avoid it completely!”

“And it’s beyond your agreement with him.”

“It bloody well is,” she said.

Grant moved inside the room, closed the door. Brows lifted, Kit watched as he walked closer, and pushed back against the desire that would only scorch them both.

“So what’s next?” Grant asked. “They’ve broken the agreement, so we break ours?”

“And, what, just swim to shore?”

“You’re Aligned, Kit.” He moved a step closer. “You’re learning more every day what that means, and what it will allow you to do. You are the captain of any ship you board.”

She just looked at him. He met her gaze squarely, a dare in his eyes.

“I should return to the deck,” she said, and pushed past him to the corridor. And felt like a coward for doing it.

She found them preparing muskets and cannons on deck. And when she saw Donal grinning with amusement, she realized he was no longer angry at the possibility of being caught or boarded—but entertained by the possibility of obtaining a Frisian ship as a prize.

“Bloody damned pirates,” she muttered.

“Chin up, Captain,” Grant said, and strode past her to the helm. “You’re going to engage the Frisians?” he asked Donal curtly.

“Of course we are,” Donal said, then looked up at him. “Are you going to help us or hinder us?”

“These wouldn’t be the first Frisians I’ve killed. But I see no point in engaging the ship. Why take the risk?”

“Because risk is rather the point.”

They could hear it now, the sounds of the ship growing closer—sailors yelling in Frisian as sails were shifted, sheeted home. The fog shifted as the wind picked up, revealing small images of hull and canvas. Even from those morsels, it was clear she was a very, very big ship.

“Straight ahead!” someone on the Phoenix shouted. “Hard to starboard!”

The Phoenix heeled as she was turned, and barely missed striking the Frisian vessel head-on. They skimmed past each other, barely ten yards between them. The Frisians were in uniform—green and tan—and loading cannons as the Phoenix worked to put space between the ships.

“Incoming!” came the answering call from the Phoenix as the explosion struck the air.

Kit closed her eyes and touched the current just enough to have the cannonball hit the water past the Phoenix’s stern.

“A miss!” a Phoenix sailor called out. “They missed us!”

“You’re cheating,” Donal told her, then went to the cannons on the quarterdeck to check the preparations.

“I feel very dishonorable,” Kit said dryly, as the Phoenix ran ahead, buoyed by the wind at her back, while the Frisian ship struggled to tack.

“Deservedly so,” Grant said, just as facetiously. “What with keeping that shot from tearing across their bow.”

“Bring her around!” Donal said. “I want a shot at them!”

She didn’t speak Frisian, but she imagined the cracking commands from their ship’s captain amounted to much the same.

The remnants of the fog dissipated as they came round again, prepared for a volley of shots as the ships passed each other once more.

“I revise my prior comment,” Grant said. “Sailing isn’t merely standing at an angle, but circling around and around.”

“Right as always, my lord.”

He snorted at the title.

“Ready!” Donal called out, and Kit touched the current.

“If you would,” she said to Grant quietly, eyes closed.

“Aim!”

“Nearly there,” Grant said.

“Fire!”

“Now, perhaps,” Grant said mildly, as dual explosions concussed the air.

Kit released her touch, and the Phoenix flew forward. The Frisian ship’s shot missed completely. Because of its new momentum, the Phoenix’s shot only skimmed the Frisian ship’s stern, throwing splinters off the gunwale.

Donal rose from his crouch on the quarterdeck, looked back at her with a glower.

“I believe you’ve made him cross,” Grant said.

“New ship!”

Kit looked to the sea. Having a bit of fun with Frisians and someone else’s ship—and keeping them out of harm’s way in the process—was one thing. But staring down two was a different matter.

Donal used the spyglass someone offered him, then turned to the helm, glowered at Kit. He took the stairs at a run, stared her down. “You reneged on your bargain. You’ve led us to an Isles warship.”

“What? I’ve done no such thing. I’ve ‘led’ you nowhere and, if you’ll recall, I saved your bloody boat in a storm. I also offered to get you past the damned Frisian ship.”

Donal just made a noise of disgust. “And right into the arms of the blockade.”

“Insult her honor again,” Grant said, “and I imagine she’ll skewer you through. And I might take a shot when she’s done.”

Grant’s voice was hard as granite.

“If she led us—”

“She wouldn’t,” Grant said, in an aristocratic tone that allowed no defense, no argument. “I suspect you know better by now.”

“See for yourself,” Donal said, and thrust the looking glass at her.

Kit peered through the glass. Then put it down, blinked, raised it again. And grinned wildly. “It’s not the blockade. It’s the Diana!”

The Frisian ship didn’t much care; the sight of the Isles’ flag was apparently enough, as it immediately trimmed the sails and turned back toward Frisia.

“Why are all my sailors wearing blue caps?” she asked, lowering the glass a final time. “No matter. We need to signal them.” She glanced at Grant. “How’s your semaphore?”

He grinned back at her. “Exceedingly nonexistent.”

“Then this will be very entertaining.”

They either signaled “Kit aboard” or “angry cat.” Either, she figured, would be enough to get Jin’s attention, and was. The Diana streamed toward them, and Kit could hear the shouts of excitement from the crew.

Donal, for his part, glowered. “We haven’t made it to Frisia.”

“No, we haven’t. But given you reneged on your bargain, I have no need to stay.” She looked at him. “Come with us. You could help us fight Gerard in this very formidable ship.”

“We cannot,” he said. “We don’t all have the luxury of reaching for what we desire, Kit.”

If he thought she had that luxury, he was sorely mistaken, and she had to work not to look at Grant. But that was no matter. So she looked at Jean.

“No,” Jean said with a mirthless smile. “That life is not for me.”

“So you’d rather be under the thumb of Gerard and Frisia?” She knew that was hardly the truth, but also knew Jean needed to keep up the appearance of being Donal’s sailor.

“I’m under no man’s thumb,” she said. “I make my own decisions, and lining up a ship so we can have our turn at the cannons shall not be one of them.”

“Seconded,” Donal said, “to the extent I’m allowed to have a say in the running of my own damn ship.”

“Apologies, Captain,” Jean said, but with no contrition in her voice.

“In that case, we’ll take our leave.”

“Shall we lower a boat?” Donal asked dryly, with obviously no intention to do so.

“No,” Kit said, glancing up at the Phoenix’s rigging. “We’ll go the fun way. On the line!” she called out, then jumped onto the gunwale—four inches of railing—and loosed one of the mainmast lines.

She grabbed it with both hands, pushed off, and swung over the ten-foot breach across the roiling water below.

Sampson waited on the other side and extended a hand to her. Kit grabbed it, caught her balance on the Diana’s gunwale, and glanced back at Grant.

“Be ready!” she told him, and shoved the rope back.

She could hear him cursing across the gap and bit back a smile. He was owed a bit of frustration, she thought.

She jumped down to the deck to give Grant room, then turned back to Sampson, found his grin was fierce, his hand still clenched around hers. She half expected him to pump it in a hearty shake. “Welcome back, Captain.”

“Thank you, Sampson. It’s good to be home.” She heard the whoosh of air as Grant flew out behind her, but before she could turn was ensconced by her commander.

“It’s good to see you again,” Jin said, arms like steel bands around her.

“You’ll see me collapse in a moment if you squeeze any harder.”

He let her go, and this time did shake her hand. The traditions of the Isles were difficult to break. “Thank all the gods. Do you have any idea how much damnable paperwork I’ve had to do?”

“Of course that’s the only reason I was missed.”

“And your tea is better than ours,” Cooper said helpfully. “Welcome back, Captain.”

“Thank you,” Kit said.

Simon stepped forward, a clean uniform jacket folded neatly over one arm. “Captain,” he said, and extended his arm.

The sun was warm, and she didn’t especially need the coat for warmth, and knew it would look strange over the clothes she’d borrowed from Jean-Baptiste. But she needed the coat for comfort and for authority, so she transferred the ribbon from one to the other, pulled it on, and immediately felt more like herself.

“What should we do with them?” he asked.

Kit looked at Grant, got his nod. “Let them go. They have their own business to attend to. And they did save our lives.” Perhaps through extortion, Kit thought, but few privateers would have stopped.

She turned to Jin. “Perhaps the most important question, other than how you came to be here, is why everyone is wearing a cap.”

“Tamlin has taken up knitting.”

She looked at Tamlin. “You’ve taken up knitting.” She repeated the words as if they made no sense to her, because they made no sense to her.

“My mother had shipped a bit of wool and needles. She has concerns about my domestic skills. I took them into the tops with me; I don’t have to look while I do it.”

“There are just . . . so many,” Kit said.

“I was nervous while you were gone.” Tamlin looked at Jin with warmth. “You made a very good captain. But you’re not really the captain.”

“I understand,” Jin said kindly.

Now that she was closer, she could see some of the caps slumped a bit, and others were a bit lopsided. But no sailor had taken them off, and a few looked as if they’d seen some things between their making and Kit’s return.

“And how did you come to be here?” Kit asked.

“We’ve been searching for you since you left. Tamlin sensed a bit of your magic near the Alemanian coast, and we’ve been following it.”

“There was a very large storm,” Kit said. “And a very handsome captain who wasn’t aware if his vessel carried staysails.”

Jin cocked his head. “Are we certain it was his vessel?”

“It was recently his vessel,” Kit said. “Very stolen. What about you? The battle?”

“No casualties,” Jin said, “and the burn injuries are healing nicely, thanks to March.” He grimaced. “Well, we don’t know about the dragon.”

“The dragon was fine,” Kit said. “We freed it beneath the water, washed up on one of the channel islands. Then we were rescued by the pirate king. And how was your week?”

“We helped push back the Gallic ships, ensured the rest of the troops were taken safely to Auevilla, although what good they’ll do now we don’t know.”

“Does he intend to fight the war fully at sea?” Kit asked.

“Yet to be determined,” Jin said. “At least partially at sea. Although they’ll find that more difficult with three lost ships.”

“Good,” Kit said. “We heard Doucette survived.”

“He did,” Jin said, “and we’ve a new assignment.”

“Oh?” Kit said, and had a feeling she knew what it was.

“Find Alain Doucette, and bring him in. Whether he’s breathing at the time is entirely up to us.”

They met in the officers’ mess. Simon spread a map across the table that showed the position of major Isles activity and the available information regarding Doucette’s locations.

“Now that you’ve finished your run of piracy,” Simon said, adjusting his glasses and giving her a warm smile, which she’d truly missed, “we can move back to the business of war.”

“Technically, it was privateering,” she said.

“It’s all at the expense of the common man,” Cook called out from the kitchen.

Gods, but she’d missed her ship. Even the irritating bits.

“His last known location,” Jin said, ignoring the outburst as they all did and pointing to a spot in the Bay of Vizcaya, the curve of water nestled between the rounded coasts of Gallia and Hispania. “Known,” he continued, “because he sunk a frigate.”

“Bloody bastard,” Kit said. “Which?”

“The Formidable. Forty-two hands lost. Eighty-four survivors.”

“Captain Thornton?” Kit asked.

“Below now, with the ship.”

“Tiva koss,” she murmured, the phrase repeated around the table.

“Donal said he’d been spotted in Sarnia.” She traced a finger between Auevilla, Sarnia, and the bay, along the other two locations where he’d been sighted. “He’s sailing south along the coast.”

“Yes,” Jin said.

Kit looked at Grant, who met her gaze, nodded. “I think he’s going back to Contra Costa.”

“It was his greatest victory,” Grant said, and they all looked at him. “He managed something no man has ever done before, and he survived it. Perhaps he wishes to revisit that moment.”

Kit nodded. “That may play a part. But I think it may be even simpler. When I’m in the water, the magic is . . . it—it’s welcoming,” she settled on, thinking it was difficult to describe this without sounding addled. “It gives a sense of peace, of comfort. Of home.

“Doucette does not appear to be a happy man,” she continued. “He was not helped by others after his injuries at Contra Costa. He was taken back into Gerard’s army by force, it appears. Perhaps he’s looking for that peace, that comfort. And thinks Contra Costa—the place it all began for him—is where he’ll find it. So we’ll go south,” she said. “And when we reach Hispania, we’ll see what we find.”

She found, of course, ample paperwork on her small desk, along with a pretty box. Surprised, she opened it, pulled away the paper. And found nestled inside, in more paper, a necklace on a bit of thin gold chain. As Mathilda had promised, there was a bit of red coral, bits of dried greenery, and silver.

She pulled the dragon’s scale from the pocket of her other coat, then sat down at her desk, used a bit of needle to press a hole into the edge. She added it to the collection and pulled it over her head.

She was moderately disappointed not to feel some shift inside her, some transition to a phase in her life in which she understood magic in a new way, and could wield it accordingly. It didn’t feel uncomfortable, certainly. It didn’t really feel like . . . anything.

“What’s this?” Grant walked into her cabin—because gods forbid she have privacy on her own ship—and lifted the necklace from her uniform, used fingertips to flip through the charms.

“An amulet,” she said, and felt a bit silly saying that aloud. “I’m—I’m not entirely sure what it’s intended to do. Mathilda said the amulet ‘would know.’ ”

“Hmm,” he said noncommittally, and let the necklace go again. “That’s the one you bought in Portsea.”

It was only then she recalled they’d talked about it on the island. They’d left it only a few days ago, but it seemed like a world and a million years away. The loss of his camaraderie was potent and made her wish, not for the first time, that things were different. That they were different. That they could change the rules.

“Yes,” she said.

She looked up at Grant, found him studying her. And saw something in his eyes she couldn’t name. Something that disappeared before she could study it in return. Instead, she returned to the something she needed to ask him.

“Are you all right sailing toward Contra Costa?”

He paused for a moment. “It’s not ideal. You cannot dwell on the horrors of war. Otherwise, you’d think of nothing else. But Contra Costa was . . . different. It was a surprise. The mechanism, I mean. The devastation and death were on a scale no one had seen before. It’s not a weapon, not really. But it was as if there’d been one. A terrible weapon of remarkable power. It was beautiful.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She could see in his face that he was surprised she hadn’t recoiled in horror. “The blue-green fire.”

Grant nodded, ran a hand through his hair. “So many images of the war were permanently recorded in my mind. And they revisit me. Not often, and rarely, unless I’m exhausted or overly concerned about something. The flames are one. The victims are the other. So, no, it is not ideal,” he said again. “But needs must.”

“Needs must,” Kit said, and felt a stab of guilt that she’d caused, or contributed to, his concern.

“We can find you another ship,” she said. “Every member of the crew would help you get aboard it, and none would judge you for the act.”

His laugh was mirthless. “I’d judge me for the act. Even if not cowardice, it would feel remarkably akin to it.”

She nodded and told Grant about the mistake she’d made before as a midshipman, when she’d nearly sunk an Isles ship.

“Did you trust your captain?” he asked.

“It was Perez,” Kit said. “Of course I did.”

He nodded. “She would have understood the risks, believed it was worth it, and let you proceed. There is nothing under the sky that does not carry risk, Kit. Nothing,” he added, and Kit had a sense he wasn’t speaking of magic any longer.

Kit walked to her windows, looked outside at the sea, glassy and calm now. “As captain, I take risks. But not all of them. I didn’t try to touch the current again for another year.”

“But you did try.”

“I practiced on a jolly boat pulled behind whatever ship I was on.”

“How many times did you end up in the drink?”

“All but the last,” she said, and looked back at him. “Perhaps, if I’d done better that first time, or hadn’t been so afraid of hurting someone afterward, I might have learned more techniques. I might be as advanced as Doucette. We’d have captured him in the first battle, and that chapter of the war would be closed. But I didn’t, so you’ll be sailing toward a place that hurts you.” She looked back at him. “I’m sorry for that.”

He moved toward her, reached out a hand to touch her, but dropped it again. “You owe me no apologies, Kit. Not for being true to who and what you are. As for the magic, Contra Costa scared the Isles, as it should have. But it should have driven them to do more. That’s an oversight the queen is trying to remedy. But she may not have time.”

She may not have time.

Kit sat with those words for a long, quiet time, thinking about what she could and couldn’t do with magic. And what the Isles needed from her, and from every other Aligned soldier and sailor on the islands. She rubbed the dragon scale as she considered, thought of Mathilda and what teaching she’d gotten there, and thought of Doucette. She thought of the damage he might cause, and the risks they’d all have to take. Being able to use the current as a shield had worked, which was its own miracle. But that wasn’t enough to capture Doucette, much less to win a war.

Because they had days of sailing yet, she settled herself with the pile of dispatches and began to leaf through them. And was nearly ecstatic when a knock sounded at the door sometime later.

She pushed the papers aside, linked her fingers on the table. “Come.”

Jin opened the door, came inside, and closed the door quickly. “Why did you say no?”

Kit blinked. “I’m sorry?”

He came to the table, folded his arms, and gave her a very cross expression. “Why did you reject Grant?”

She actually felt her cheeks warm, which just ignited her anger. “I didn’t reject Grant. I merely declined his offer of marriage.”

After a moment of staring, Jin pulled out a chair, sat down. “Why would you have done that?”

“He spoke to you about it?”

“He was joyful when he left the ship. He was not joyful when he returned. I asked him the reason. He said you rejected him.”

She wasn’t comfortable with that word—rejection.

“What’s wrong with a bit of romance without commitments?”

“What’s wrong is it’s simply not done.”

“Women in service ‘wasn’t done’ a generation ago,” she countered. “And men have leave to court whomever they wish without the bounds of marriage. Why aren’t women entitled to that option?”

“Because it’s not done,” Jin said again, crossing one long leg over the other. “At least, not in polite society. Men can have mistresses. Women can have . . . schnauzers.”

“I don’t want a schnauzer.” But she thought of Sprout, Grant’s little white terrier, who’d trotted after him at Grant Hall like a tiny soldier, and that made her a little sad.

“What do you want?”

“Not marriage.”

His lips thinned. “Because marriage is so bad?”

“Because I’d have to change. I’d have to be someone else.”

Jin just stared at her, and the pity in the look made her squirm a bit. “Have you considered the possibility that Grant accepts who and what you are?”

“He may. But the Beau Monde? The weight of societal expectations? Surely relationships have foundered under less.”

“So your concern is the man—a viscount, I might add—cannot stand up for himself, or would not stand up for you?”

Put like that, it sounded . . . unreasonable.

Cook stepped into the doorway with a biscuit tin in hand. “Welcome back,” he said with a sneer, dropping the tin on the table with a thud before turning on his heel and walking out again.

Kit lifted the tin top. Found four pale butter biscuits. Or so Kit guessed they’d been, as they were crushed into angry little pieces.

“He’s angry, too?” she asked, and felt her cheeks heat. “Does anyone on the ship not know? It’s been”—she checked the wall clock—“three bloody hours.”

Jin snorted. “A quarter hour would have been enough time for news like this to travel. And, yes, Cook’s angry, too. About Grant, and Louisa.”

Kit lifted her eyes skyward, asked the old gods for patience. “I’m still not going to allow a nine-year-old girl—much less one now guarded by Hetta Brightling—to work on a warship.”

Sighing, she plucked a largish crumb from the tin and crunched into it. “Would you have ever believed you’d offer me romantic advice?”

He snorted. “Yes.”

“What?” There was no little insult in her voice. “You believed no such thing.”

“Your interest in Kingsley, may he find no comfort in damnation, indicated you’d be amenable to a man, should the right man come along. Grant is the right man.”

She made a disdainful sound, mostly because she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the certainty in his tone. “Grant is a man. That’s all I can agree to at present.”

“Amenable,” Jin continued, unperturbed, “to a man who was your equal. A man of integrity and honor and strength—to deal with your stubbornness.”

“I’m hardly the more stubborn between us.”

“You’re proving my point.”

His long, dark hair was braided at the crown today, and he absently twirled a lock of it, as he often did when he was consternated. Which wasn’t terribly often. Kit guiltily realized there was more concern in his eyes than could be attributed to her romantic concerns.

She leaned forward. “What else is wrong?”

Jin sighed. “The crew is . . . uneasy.”

“About me and Grant?” She put a little horror into her voice, and it had his lips curling, just as she’d intended.

“Well, that, too. He’s handsome enough, they say, and probably has ample funds to keep you in pretty gowns.”

“In pretty gowns. That’s quite a recommendation,” Kit said.

“Women have been known to enjoy gowns.”

“And I’m occasionally one of those women. But it’s hardly a valid basis for marriage.” She waved it away. “Regardless, that’s not what the crew is uneasy about.”

“No,” Jin said. “They’re nervous about facing Doucette. They have concerns we’ll be outmatched by a power that we barely understand and cannot equal. They don’t question you or your abilities,” he added. “But they thought they lost you at Auevilla. That type of fear is difficult to overcome.”

Kit didn’t like this. Didn’t want her crew worrying—that was her job, her responsibility. To lead them to danger and through it, and assure them they’d survive—or would make an honorable show of it for gods and country.

She knew exactly how they felt, because she felt the same. Outmatched by Doucette’s skill, and bound by rules to which he didn’t subscribe—morality, honor, responsibility.

“Thank you for your honesty,” she said. “It’s on my mind as well.”

“As to Grant,” Jin said, and she scowled at him. But his smile was wide. “Do you remember the first night we stepped on board the Diana?”

She blinked at him. “Of course. You hated it.”

“I did. I thought it was a wee bit of junk beneath you—and me, of course—and better suited to packet work. Not even a single cannon aboard. But the Crown Command was adamant it was the best ship for you, new captain that you were.”

“And young, and female,” Kit said, recalling the disdain of the departing captain, an older man greatly offended that his ship—which he’d hardly cared for—was being delivered into the hands of a girl. “He was insistent the Diana needed a man’s hand on the wheel, as no woman had ever sailed her before.”

“The Crown Command was right,” he said, and put a hand against the hull, smoothed it lovingly. “And he was wrong. She is a good ship. If occasionally an ornery one.”

“Is this tale leading to some point?”

“You and the Diana rose to meet each other. She is, in many ways, your match. In Grant, you’ve met another. And it would do you not a bit of good, Captain, to pass up that opportunity just because it’s not been done before. Someone always must be first.”