"Thank you, Ember." She moved toward the near, empty cot and slowly unpinned her arm. Her wrist would grow stiff by morning.
The cot swung as she settled in, hiding her eyes beneath the crook of her good elbow. She crossed her feet- devils, they were swollen, too- and pushed her bad hand too her chest.
Her legs hurt.
Tay swallowed, relaxing the tension in her hot face.
The morning would not bid her joy.
(This’ll be quick so we can jump to morning.)
Save for the gentle lapping of water against the hull, and the shouts of bar-goers from the Cove, the
‘Silver‘s weatherdeck was silent in the moonlight.
As Cyrus descended to the officer’s cabins, the sound of a fiddle drifted up through the ship, accompanied by a distant crewmate’s baritone and his fellows singing with him.
That was one thing constant between Navy and pirate ships— if a man could fiddle, his presence would be twice as welcome aboard.
Cyrus neared his own cabin, pressing open the door to seek his medicine chest. The room was empty, the first mate absent. He frowned, but sense told him that the man wouldn’t stay out of sight much longer.
He stepped to the chest by his bunk, and with a soft click of the well-worn latch and a faint jingle of various vials, he had gathered a small bottle of iodine, bandages, and rags, arranging them neatly into his spare leather bag.
Then, with the chest closed, supplies returned to their previous order, and cabin door shut, Cyrus walked with medicines in tow to the opposing officer’s cabin.
He knocked at the paneled door, speaking quietly, “Miss Lyra? I’ve come to see to your wrist.”
)
