Part 17 (2/2)
The lights dimmed until only a soft golden glow drifted over their skin. Crimson faded back to denim blue, black silk to white.
The rose remained, as did his weight upon her.
The record player reached the end of the song one last time. The paper speaker hummed and crackled with the absence of music. Then there was a soft click and silence.
Bertie drifted into the blackout with Ariel's name on her lips.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
Suspicions and
Superst.i.tions
Bertie?”
She curled into a ball and tried to pull the covers over her head, but there weren't any blankets within reach. A tiny hand touched her shoulder.
”She's sleeping, but she smells funny.”
Bertie's nerves jangled, her skin crawled, and her eyeb.a.l.l.s felt three times too large for their sockets. When she tried to lift her arm, every joint creaked in protest.
Strong hands stood her upright and held her there as someone sniffed at her mouth. ”She's been drinkin' somethin'.”
The low whir of wings flapping near her ear. ”No fair! She didn't share!”
”We weren't here, stupid.”
Their voices. So shrill.
”What time is it?” Bertie tried to swallow the fuzz on her tongue, wished for a gla.s.s of water, and gagged.
”Time t' pay th' piper.” Nate's voice rumbled through her rib cage, but she still didn't open her eyes.
”It's also teatime!” Moth said. ”How about a nice fry-up?”
With a moan at the idea of greasy eggs and sausages, Bertie buried her face in the soft cotton of Nate's s.h.i.+rt, burrowing until she reached warm flesh and short, wiry hair that tickled her nose.
Apparently, it also tickled Nate, as he made a discomfited noise and set her down on the chaise. ”Leave off.”
”I must have fallen asleep.” Bertie winced at the late afternoon sunlight slanting through an upper window. The brightness slapped against her cheek in time with her pulse.
”You have to speak with the Hamlet Players,” Peaseblossom said. ”Call another rehearsal-”
Nate cut in. ”What were ye drinkin'?”
Bertie didn't want to answer, but the edge to his voice demanded the truth. ”Just a few sips from Alice's 'Drink Me' bottle. Ariel said-”
Mentioning Ariel was a misstep, as Nate's glare intensified. ”He was here wi' ye?”
She rubbed her hand under her nose, unwilling to discuss what had transpired.
Nate moved her hair aside and nearly burned a hole in her neck with his gaze. ”Where's th' scrimshaw, Bertie?”
”In my pocket.”
Nate brought his fist down on the arm of the chaise hard enough to splinter its unseen, wooden bones. The fairies scattered, squeaking with surprise at the unexpected a.s.sault upon the furniture.
”I told ye not t' take it off.”
Bertie held herself stiffly away from him, feeling as p.r.i.c.kly as a hedgehog and wis.h.i.+ng she had spines for protection. ”I was afraid I'd cry on it. Tears are salt.w.a.ter, Nate. Even a thickheaded pirate should know that.”
”It was meant t' protect ye,” he said, ”from people like him.”
”I don't need your stupid necklace for protection.” Bertie pulled the medallion out of her pocket and shoved it at him.
”No, ye obviously do!” Nate jerked it out of her hand to contemplate the broken chain.
Every word was like a smack to the head. ”Don't shout at me!”
”I'll shout at ye until some sense sinks into that thick rock ye call yer skull.” He pulled a leather thong out of his hair and used it to tie the medallion around her neck.
”That's tighter than necessary,” Bertie said.
”Ye ought t' be thankful I don't strangle ye wi' it.”
The scrimshaw's familiar weight settled against her skin, and though she didn't mean to, Bertie took comfort in its gentle warmth. Bone-magic seeped into her as though on an incoming tide, filling her with foam and insight. Peering up at Nate, she saw the insecurities that gnawed at his innards and fell out of his pockets like scuttling crabs. ”What are you so afraid of?”
Instead of answering, he shoved a carton of something inordinately foul into her hand. ”I want ye t' eat this.”
Bertie's stomach heaved at the smell of food, and she let go of the scrimshaw. ”What is it?”
”Rest.i.tution,” he said. ”Time t' start payin' th' piper.”
She sniffed at something that gave every indication of being soup.
The rice isn't so bad. I think that bit is chicken. But shrimp? Pickled something or other? And quite a lot of garlic?
Bertie closed her eyes and wished she would die just to be done with it. ”I'd rather eat my shoe.”
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