was always good company. Her husband wasn’t part of her crew, yet beloved by them. None of the aviators would have wondered why their captain had a soft spot for him, too.
They wouldn’t have wondered why…but they might have wondered whether that soft spot made her too vulnerable to properly command them.
She wasn’t. Yasmeen had no doubt of that. Still, she was shaken by the realization of how much damage Bilson’s scheme could do to her position. Perhaps she would have reason to kill him herself, after all.
But not yet. She wouldn’t risk Archimedes.
The second mate was waiting for her reply. Yasmeen came to a decision, shook her head.
“No, Mrs. Markel. Thank you.” She wouldn’t send her crew scuttling about in search of the device, driven by fear. Better to determine a course, to prepare. Both would be easier to do after Archimedes returned and her every thought wasn’t consumed by her worry for him. “As you were.”
She started aft, toward the galley kitchen. The aviators’ sighs of relief as she left the mess would have been inaudible to most people; Yasmeen heard them, smiled slightly—then wondered if she was too soft on them.
The galley was empty, except for the scullery woman. Of course it was. This late, Cook was already abed. She’d have to speak with him about securing enough provisions for a months’ long flight tomorrow.
The scullery woman glanced up, her hands red from the scalding wash water and the fringe of her brown hair curled by the steam. Yasmeen immediately saw the same discomfort that the aviators had shown, but held out her hand to stop the woman’s attempt to stand. “As you were, senhora. I’m only passing through.”
Though clearly uncertain, the woman eased back down on her cushioned stool. “Yes, Captain.”
The galley was spotless and in perfect order. Though there were likely more places to conceal the device here than anywhere else aboard her lady, Yasmeen suspected that Cook would have ferreted out any foreign object in his domain and made everyone aware of his displeasure long before Bilson’s associate had managed to use it.
Indeed, the only thing out of place in Cook’s firmly regimented kitchen was Maria Barriga de Lata—the scullery woman. It was a bit late for scrubbing pots, yet Yasmeen wasn’t surprised to see her. She’d heard that Cook had been allowing the woman to rest during the last dog watch. Typically, all cleaning duties would be completed before the eighth bell had been struck, but Barriga de Lata had difficulty sitting for long stretches of time, thanks to the blacksmith butchers in the Lusitanian mines. Yasmeen didn’t know what they’d been hoping to do to the woman—aside from making their own strong laborers who came cheaper than those abducted from Horde-occupied territories—but all they’d managed to do was replace most of her abdomen with a tin can filled with guts and useless clockworks. Only her nanoagents kept her alive.
By the time Yasmeen reached the end of the galley, Barriga de Lata was diligently scrubbing again. Out of pity or some other reason, Cook had relaxed the strict order of his kitchen for this woman—and Yasmeen didn’t care whether she worked the usual schedule, either, as long as her duties were completed every day.
But was Yasmeen being too soft on her, too?
Sense told her that she wasn’t. Still, the question of her softness nagged at her—and in turn, that nagged at her. She’d never been uncertain like this.
Perhaps it was impossible to be certain of anything when her life and emotions had suddenly been turned on their heads by one goddamn device, when the man she loved had been so devastated by it…and hadn’t yet returned.
Though she wouldn’t find the device before he came back, she could help him by making certain that Bilson’s associate had no reason to activate it again. Letters needed to be sent to Scarsdale, and to the Blacksmith in London—she didn’t want to see even a glimpse of New Eden, but by the lady, she would be prepared for it. Instructions had to be written for her steward, lead engineer, and quartermaster, ordering them to secure enough provisions for a long trip. She could help Archimedes best by returning to her cabin, by being the captain her lady needed.
And by being here when he came home.
* * *
Archimedes ran.
He ran the length of the dock that he’d danced down that afternoon, each step just as quick, quicker—but no partners now, except for those that veered out of his