Tru’s neck with the hem of my shirt. “Come on.” I put my arm around him and started walking. “You’re okay. We’re not going to hurt you.”
He didn’t look convinced, glancing over his shoulder to the dark alley where Ezra and Murrow had disappeared.
West followed on our heels, not looking the least bit phased. This was all so simple to him. Order the crew to Yuri’s Constellation. Lie about the deed. Sign the contract with Holland. Kidnap and threaten to kill a child.
What else is he willing to do?
Willa’s words echoed in tandem with my footsteps on the cobblestones.
Auster had warned us not to trust the Roths, but I’d still put all the power into their hands. Now, West had taken some of it back.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The color Holland chose was the deepest shade of emerald, the strands of silk moving in the light like threads of green glass. It ignited a memory, like breath on embers, but I couldn’t place it.
The seamstress carefully ran her fingers over the edge of the hem, pinning it into place at my waist so the fabric draped over my legs like a sweep of wind.
My eyes kept drifting to the closed door, watching for a shadow. Holland’s seamstress was already waiting when we got back to the ship, as promised, and West had gone straight up to the quarterdeck to help Willa fit the new anchor. The crew had looked between us and Tru in question, the icy silence deafening.
I’d left the boy in the care of Hamish, who I figured was the least likely to throw him overboard.
“Almost finished,” the seamstress sang, pulling a needle from the cushion at her wrist and threading it with her teeth. She fixed the corner with three stitches and trimmed a few threads before she stood up, standing back. “Turn.” I reluctantly obeyed as her eyes scrutinized every inch of me. “All right.” She seemed satisfied, picking up the bolt of cloth and setting it onto her hip before she lugged it through the door.
I turned back to the mirror Holland’s men had hauled up onto the Marigold, running my hands over the skirt nervously. It had the look of melting butter, soft and smooth in the candlelight. But that wasn’t what made me uneasy.
I swallowed, remembering. This was the dress my mother wore in the portrait in Holland’s study. I looked just like her. I looked just like Holland. As if I belonged at a fancy gala or in the private booth at the tea house.
But the Marigold was the only place I wanted to belong.
A knock sounded on the door before the handle turned. When it opened, West stood in the breezeway. “Can I come in?”
I wrapped my arms around me self-consciously, covering the waist of the frock. “It’s your cabin.”
He stepped inside and let the jacket fall from his shoulders. He didn’t say anything as he hung it on the hook, his gaze moving over me. I didn’t like the look in his eye. I didn’t like the feeling of the space between us. But West was shut up tight. Closed off from me.
I watched him step out of his worn boots one at a time. The wind pouring into the cabin turned cold, making me shiver.
“You’re a stubborn bastard,” I said softly.
The shadow of a smirk lit on his face. “So are you.”
“You should have told me you were signing the contract.”
He swallowed. “I know.”
I picked up the skirt and stepped toward him, but he kept his eyes on the floor. He was still pulling away. “I’m not one more person you have to take care of. You have to stop doing that.”
“I don’t know how to,” he admitted.
“I know.” I crossed my arms. “But you’re going to have to figure it out. I have to be able to trust you. I have to know that even if we don’t agree, we’re doing this together.”
“We are doing it together.”
“No, we’re not. You’re trying to make decisions for me, just like Saint.”
He bristled at the words.
“When I made that deal with Holland, I did it on my own. You were never supposed to be a part of this.”
“Fable, I love you,” he breathed, still staring at my feet. “I don’t want to do any of this without you.”
The anger I’d felt was suddenly washed out by sadness. West was doing the only thing he knew how to do. “Will you look at me?”