Arwyn would love one of those tarts.
This year was the first year she and her sisters had spent their birth anniversaries apart. After all they had already endured, Seren hadn’t wished to remind Arwyn she was spending hers so far from Rose, but she was fooling herself if she believed Arwyn wasn’t already lamenting the fact. From their very first breaths, and perhaps before, those two had shared an uncommon bond, as twins always must.
A tart would put a smile on her face, but, unless she could convince Jack to slow down and part with a copper or two, there wasn’t any reason to linger.
She caught up to him at long last, and asked, “How long have you been sailing with your Papa, Jack?”
“Since I was a wee boy,” he said.
Tall for his age, with sweet blue eyes and hair as yellow as the blossom of the broom, he mustn’t be older than twelve.
Seren smiled at his choice of words. “You are still a boy,” she said warmly, and he blushed fiercely.
Truly, it wasn’t that she meant to disparage him, only that she wished to remind him that one day all-too-soon his opportunities to smash meat pies down his gob would be gone. He would be a man grown, with a man’s duties, and if sweet tarts held any appeal at all, he would be honor-bound to spend his coin far more sensibly.
Without slowing, he lowered a hand to his knee cap, and said, with his odd accent, “Since I was here. Now, I am three and ten—hardly a boy.” And he tossed her a backward glance, with want-to-be wayward eyes.
Seren was all-too accustomed to such glances, but, alas, so it seemed, even thirteen-year-olds were not immune to her gifts. His gaze fell briefly upon her bosom, and quickly darted away. But he deepened his voice, and his cheeks turned rosy. “I have seen more than most,” he said, straightening his spine, and Seren smiled, suspecting it could well be true, but she refrained from pointing out that he wasn’t even born yet when Stephen stole her father’s throne. Still and all, he seemed wise beyond his years, and he was responsible to a fault. Today, his Papa had tasked him with escorting Seren to the courier, and come what may, he hadn’t been willing to deviate from that task, not even for the promise of a sweet tart.
Ah, well. There would be time enough for treats later. Matilda was sure to have bakers by the dozens.
“Do you think we will be in Calais by nightfall?” she said, getting excited again.
Jack cast her a backward glance, and said, sounding too much like a chiding Papa, “Not if we are haggling wi’ every peddler we see.”
Alas, point well taken.
Avoiding eye-contact a bit more dutifully, Seren kept her chin down, following her escort, and so it was that she missed the smoke curling up into the mid-morning sky… until they rounded a corner and emerged onto the Marine Parade. But even then, she thought little of the unfurling smoke, or even the congregation, until she overheard a snippet of conversation:
“Pity that… new ship.”
“Can’t see anybody’s gonna make it out alive.”
It was only then she peered up, her gaze focusing on the angry column of smoke that spewed upward into the bright, sunny sky—the ominous image so incongruous with the day that it momentarily confused her.
And then she looked closer… spotting a congress of ravens, flying altogether in a swell, and her heart constricted painfully… Morwen.
Jack gave a holler, pushing through the crowd, shoving men and women alike as he abandoned Seren to the crowd.
Fueled by something else, not only the desire to keep up, Seren hurried behind him, her heart hammering painfully, as she, too, pushed her way through a thickening crowd.
Less than twenty minutes; that’s all it took to ferret out his smoked bird, part with another copper and swallow his supper whole. Swiping the film of grease from his lips with his sleeve, Wilhelm re-emerged into the marketplace, feeling replete. There was naught like a belly-full to clear the head. But he stopped cold, catching sight of the thick column of smoke rising into the afternoon sky.
It was coming from the docks.
Something like dread shot through him, spurring him into movement. Cutting through the mob, he ran until he could see the smoke’s origin, and there he froze again.
It was the Whitshed…
All ships were potential fire traps, but this one burned with a vengeance.
Even as he watched, a brilliant blue ball shot up from the ship’s bowels, spitting yarns and yarns of blue flame, like a dragon spewing fire.
God’s bones! Even at this distance he could hear the crackling of wood and the ocean hissing beneath the ship’s burning belly. It was unlike anything he’d ever witnessed. From stem to stern, the Whitshed was a raging inferno.
A sick feeling curdled his gut—something like indigestion, only worse, though it had little to do with the greasy turkey leg he’d just consumed.
It was all he could do not to chug it up as he stood watching… remembering… the stink of burning flesh. “Sweet Mother of Christ,” he said, under his breath.
Horrified, but drawn toward the flames, he moved slowly forward, pushing silently through the crowd, even despite that he stood heads taller than most men, and could see more than he wished to see.
The closer he came to the inferno, the hotter his face burned, until he could venture no closer.
There was only one thing he knew for certain: If the Pendragon sisters were aboard that ship, they were caught in a hell storm. It was not survivable—not even for witches.
Swallowing convulsively, his first thought was for his brother’s wife. Already, Rosalynde had suffered more than enough heartache, and this was bound to devastate her. He’d made her a promise—to find and return her sisters. He’d begged her not to worry, and every day of these past few months he’d dedicated every waking moment to locating her sisters. Only, once he’d managed to find them, he’d taken his sweet time about retrieving them, utterly failing his mission.
Twenty minutes, he thought. Twenty bloody minutes.
The ship was a pyre. Two hundred tons, and twenty five meters of roaring tinder, and even as he stood watching, the masthead cracked, then buckled, toppling straight into the burning bowels of the Whitshed, even as another roaring ball of blue flame erupted from the ship’s entrails.
Bits of material—God knew what else—rained down from the sky. The remembered stench sent his mind reeling and his stomach heaving. He leaned over, spewing his guts on the back of a spectator’s boots, then wiped his hand across his mouth. The man wailed in complaint, fists curling by his sides as he turned, then froze as he faced Wilhelm… and then Wilhelm saw her.
Seren Pendragon.
She was unmistakable, with that rich mane of golden-red curls—a tumbling cascade not unlike the shade of a pale, cool flame. Shoving the sour-faced lout out of his way, he bolted in her direction.
Seren stood frozen, her heart wrenching painfully as Jack bolted toward the fiery wreckage. Even as he ran, a host of men fell upon him, restraining him and he struggled in vain. “Papa!” he shouted. “Papa! Let me be! That’s my Papa!”
There was another thunderous explosion. Seagulls shrieked as a roiling ball of blue flame catapulted skyward, spewing a shower of bright blue flames. Bits of blackened debris rained down on the crowd. Ash kissed her lips. Even from this distance, she could feel the heat on her face. But it was another flame she tried desperately to locate amidst the burning tinder… that of her sister’s heart flame.