most once a year—but Ramson hadn’t been back since his father had shown up on his doorstep and taken him away in the middle of the night.
He still remembered the look on his mother’s face, a simultaneous mixture of terror and dread, as though she’d known this moment would come—her brown hair, already laden with wisps of gray from a hard life, and her hazel eyes, the ones that she’d passed to him, pleading at the door.
His father had turned from her and never looked back.
And so had Ramson.
He tore from the breakfast hall. His legs were pumping so hard that he thought he’d never stop running—past the iron double doors, through the open-air archways, until he was at the jetty, the ocean waves glimmering like jewels beneath a blistering sun. He needed to get away—to just do something mindless for a while.
Ramson dove into the ocean and swam.
When he resurfaced, a boy was sitting on the docks, waiting for him.
“Anything you’d like to share?” Jonah dangled a foot in the sea, making lazy circles.
Ramson sprawled out on the sun-warmed jetty and told him. His hair dripped with water, and the sun dried him until his body was sticky with salt. The waves lapped at him, bringing the briny scent of the ocean, and gulls circled the air, their cries drifting in the wind. It was almost cruel, how beautiful this day was.
“I know where you can get medicine for that,” Jonah said, after Ramson had finished.
The waves surged, slamming against the wooden post. Ramson felt breathless. “How?”
“The Rose Fever. They called it the Poor Man’s Sickness back in my town. Comes from dirty food and water.” Jonah tilted his head back, his eyes narrowing like a cat’s in the sun. “The Blue Fort has medicine for it. It’s just too costly to send to all the towns and villages. They hoard it for the Navy. The ones worthy of it. It’s all stored up in a warehouse facility of theirs.”
Of course Jonah would know. Jonah, with his uncanny interest in Bregonian state affairs, his research into the economy and trade and distribution of supplies.
A bud of hope unfurled in Ramson’s chest. “My father,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “He’ll know where it is. He—”
Jonah grabbed his ankle. “Your father doesn’t give a damn about your mother.”
“He’ll do it for me,” Ramson snapped.
“Don’t be naïve.”
“Don’t be so bitter!” Ramson shouted. “You don’t understand, because you’ve never had a family!”
Jonah’s eyes darkened; his brows furrowed. “I do understand. You’re my family, Ramson. My sea-brother and my best friend. I would do anything for you.”
Ramson snatched his foot back as though he’d been burned.
“Wait, Ramson,” Jonah began, but Ramson had already taken off. He ran past the alder trees in the Blue Fort’s courtyard to where he knew his father’s office was. The Naval Headquarters was an adjoining building to the Blue Fort Academy that recruits seldom visited—Ramson would sometimes walk past with his classmates and sneak glances into the shaded courtyard and latticed windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of his father.
A figure hovered by the door; Ramson’s heart ballooned at the sight of his father’s sandy hair and solid frame.
“Admiral!” he called. His father never answered to anything else. “Admiral—”
His father turned, the shadows of the alder trees dappling his features. Ramson saw now that he’d been speaking to someone—the dark-haired Commander of the First Fleet. The one Ramson’s father wanted Ramson to impress. If everything worked according to his father’s plans, Ramson would join the First Fleet aboard Commander Dallon’s ship.
Roran Farrald’s face remained stoic, even when he caught sight of Ramson.
“I need to speak to you,” Ramson panted, slowing when he drew within a dozen steps of his father. He added, “Please.”
Roran Farrald’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m very busy.”
“Please, sir!”
“Another time.” Roran Farrald was turning away, striding after Commander Dallon.
“My mother is dying!” The words burst from Ramson. “Please, she needs your help.”
Roran Farrald froze. His back was to Ramson, but even beneath the shade of the trees in the courtyard, Ramson could tell his outline had gone rigid. Farther ahead, Commander Dallon watched impassively.
Roran Farrald barely turned; Ramson could just make out the profile of his face, cleanly cut and square, utterly ascetic. “And why,” Roran Farrald said softly, his words slicing through the slight breeze that stirred the leaves in the yard, “would your mother have anything to do with me?”
Ramson stood there a long time after his father was gone, beneath the swaying alder