She slipped her dagger beneath the wax, unfolded the papers. And her heart beat faster as she saw what was written there. Nonsense, or so it appeared. Letters and numbers made up words that were incomprehensible in Islish or the little Gallic she could speak.
The message had been encoded. That alone would have been enough to confirm to Kit it was important, even though it wasn’t signed. But she knew the hand, as well—the letters thin and tall and slanting, here in ink the color of rust. She’d seen it. Studied it. Had captured more than one such message before the Treaty of Saint-Denis.
Gerard had penned this message.
She wasn’t surprised; this had, after all, been the purpose of her mission. But that didn’t douse her growing anger—not just that Gerard was sending coded dispatches in clear violation of the terms of his exile, but that conditions of his exile were comfortable enough to afford him the opportunity. He’d been an emperor, the monarchs had said, stripped of his crown and his glory. He would have known better than to try again. But ego and ambition were rarely so rational.
“Captain,” Jin quietly prompted, and she handed the packet to him, watched his face as he reviewed, and saw the light when he reached the same conclusion.
He looked up, dark eyes shining. “It needs decoding, but the handwriting . . .”
“Gerard’s,” Kit finished, and they looked at each other, nodded. They’d found something. They’d have to wait for the message to be deciphered, but they’d fulfilled their mission.
It was one more mark in her favor, added to the column of miles and missions and nights beneath lightning-crossed skies. One more chance to earn some part of the life she’d been given.
Kit was a foundling who’d been left outside the palace by parents who couldn’t care for her—or simply didn’t wish to do so. The ribbon now pinned to her uniform—silk and well-worn—had been tied to the basket in which she’d been found. It was the only tangible memory she had of her childhood, and it had become her talisman, her reminder.
She’d been taken in by Hetta Brightling, a widow who intended to use her wealth and connections to house and feed girls who had nowhere else to go. Kit had been fed, educated, and brought up to believe in her own skills and the importance of self-sufficiency. And to Kit’s mind, each victory for queen and country helped balance those scales.
But for every victory, there was a matching loss.
“This was bound for Pencester,” Jin said darkly.
Kit knew from his tone their thoughts were aligned. Someone inside the Isles was the intended recipient of this missive. Someone inside the Isles was receiving correspondence from Gerard.
At least one of her countrymen was a traitor.
Jin folded the papers, handed them back to her. Kit slipped the packet into her jacket and centered herself, reached down through wood and wave to the waters below, to the bright current of power and let its presence—powerful and inexorable—comfort her.
And when she was steady again, opened her eyes. She had a crew to congratulate.
* * *
A shrill whistle from one of the Diana’s lieutenants heralded Kit’s presence on the Amelie’s deck, and all movement and chatter ceased, on both the captured ship and the Diana, which rocked alongside her. The Diana’s hull was a deep and gleaming blue, with a smart stripe of ivory just below the gunwale. She was rigged as a two-masted schooner, square topsails on the foremast. One hundred and twenty-nine feet of canvas and rope and wood. Kit thought she was the loveliest ship she’d ever seen.
The Diana dwarfed the Amelie, which had a single dirty sail now hanging limply from its mast, and its decking hadn’t seen a holystone in years. Two months of searching, and the Diana had the boat in hand, crew contained, missive captured, in less than an hour. Anticipation hummed across the deck like a spark of magic, excitement rising as they looked at her, at Jin, watching their faces for a sign.
The senior officers gathered behind Kit and Jin near the helm. Joining them were Tamlin McCreary, Aligned to the wind (or so Kit believed), who stood beside Kit, red hair streaming in the breeze. Beside her, a man with dark brown skin and short, dark hair, and deep brown eyes behind round spectacles. This was Simon Pettigrew, the Diana’s pilot, navigator, and master of maps and intelligence. Simon charted the Diana’s course; Kit decided how best to get them there.
“Did we find something, Captain?” a brown-skinned and wrinkled man yelled from the Diana’s deck. August was the oldest member of the Diana’s crew, and wasn’t nearly as spritely as he’d once been, but he knew rigging better than any sailor Kit had ever known.
Kit reached into her coat, then held up the dispatch.
The decks of both ships erupted with screams of victory, sailors and officers alike jumping and shouting with glee. Well, all but the corralled crew of the Amelie, who stood in a morose lump on the foredeck, pouting like disappointed children.
“You’ve all done the Diana proud,” Kit said.
Some nodded, some touched their hands to the charms they wore on leather thongs around their necks. Their own talismans with bits of fire or grass or stone that had once been infused with the magic of their homes, even if the magic had long since drifted away. She slipped the papers inside her coat, fingers brushing the ribbon pinned there.
The cries of joy continued until a sailor called Banks shoved a sailor named Teasdale a little too hard, sending her tumbling to the deck. Teasdale popped up with an angry curl to her lip. But there was no room for anger among joy and relief and the exhaustion of the voyage. She put out a hand to Banks, and they shook firmly.
“Banks will probably pay for that later,” Jin said. “Teasdale is the one who sewed Cook into his hammock.”
“Cook had made hardtack tea,” Kit said. “That’s a punishable offense.” She was a citizen of the Isles, by practice if not birth. Tea was a serious matter.
“And yet, he was not punished for the transgression.”
“Not by me. He cooks our food. One must choose wisely. But Teasdale did the work for us.”
“So, you’re saying Cook is in charge of the ship.” Jin’s tone was dry, but he blinked, reconsidering. “Cook is in charge of the ship,” he said, surprise tinged with resignation. “Which is why you allowed him to keep a goat in the guest cabin.”
Kit found the word allowed a bit generous to her, but that just proved her point. She patted Jin’s shoulder. “Better you learn early.”
“And what shall we do with our prisoners?” Jin asked, gesturing toward August, who glared menacingly at the sailors and pulled a gnarled finger across his throat. Dramatic was August, but she couldn’t fault his skills with a marlinspike.
“Mr. Smythe,” Kit called out, and August jumped to attention.