The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Nineteen

Margrete

An unbearably husheddinner took place that evening. Before taking their seats, Adrian and Bash exchanged peculiar glances Margrete couldn’t help but catch, and even Shade was noticeably quiet. A contemplative look graced the woman’s stunning face from the moment she entered the room.

Once everyone settled around the table, servants rushed to fill goblets with wine and plates with fresh seafood. But unlike the nights before, everyone dove for their drinks and swallowed the rich red wine with fervor.

Margrete drank as well, aiming to calm her nerves. The paste was tucked securely in her trouser pocket, the silk scarf barely masking the floral scent.

“We should go to the market early tomorrow morning,” Bay whispered in her ear, startling her. “I also was thinking we could run through a few drills afterward. I won’t be needed until late afternoon.”

“That sounds lovely,” Margrete murmured, feeling eyes on her. Glancing up from her untouched meal, she found Bash watching her from the head of the table, a curious look on his face. His smirk was noticeably absent tonight.

“Bay,” Bash broke his silence. “I hear you brought our guest to the Kardias Cave today. I can’t say I’m too pleased.”

Beside her, Bay stilled. “I did,” he admitted. “It is Azantian’s treasure, after all.”

Bay had rightfully predicted his king’s disapproval of her visiting the cave, but she was surprised when Bash merely gave a grunt of indignation in reply.

“See, I told you it would be fine,” Bay murmured. “The key is to never get caught in the act.”

Margrete shook her head at Bay as cautious chatter picked up around them. But when she glanced from her plate, two green eyes held her fast, the king watching from her above the rim of his glass. She swallowed hard.

The folded scarf in her pocket seemed to burn against her thigh, but there was no way Bash was aware of what Margrete had stolen from the beach. It was paranoia that caused her legs to jostle beneath the table. She hadn’t even been this nervous when she slipped the knife up her sleeve, probably because she hadn’t felt the ticking clock of her impending journey back to Prias so acutely.

“Bay.” She turned in her seat, knowing her time to strike was approaching. As much as she hated it, down to her very marrow, Bay was her best chance. “Can we go for a walk after dinner?”

Bay pushed his empty plate aside and tossed his napkin onto the table with a grin. He leaned over to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. “Only if that one over there allows it.” He tilted his head to the king, who had yet to turn away. “He’s all eyes tonight.”

“What’s the harm in a walk?” she asked demurely, forcing her tone to lilt in innocence.

“I’ll take you.” Bash spoke just above a whisper, but the command in his voice didn’t go unnoticed. The rest of the table fell silent.

Margrete’s palms were damp with sweat. “But I was hoping Bay—”

“I will escort you, Margrete.” Bash lifted from his seat, and every eye in the room raised in his direction. “I could use some fresh air myself.”

Margrete’s heart fell into her stomach. Fooling Bay had been her plan, but Bash? The spark in his eyes only burned brighter as he neared her seat, gently pulling out her chair to allow her to stand.

The silk scarf felt heavier in her pocket with every step she took away from the dining hall, the king trailing behind her at a leisurely pace. She bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood. She could still do this, right? Somehow?

“We’re making a stop at the kitchens first,” Bash said, picking up his pace until he was leading the way. Margrete followed nervously.

Her hands were clammy and sweat began pooling down her back, but Bash seemed unaware of her anxiety.

He brought her into the bustling kitchens, ignoring the startled faces of the servants he passed. After grabbing the neck of a bottle of wine and two crystal glasses, he turned to face her, his eyes dancing.

“What’s a good walk without wine?” The dimple on his right cheek popped up. She found it hard to focus when that happened.

Instead of answering, she snatched the bottle from his hands with a nod and clutched it to her chest. He had no idea that he’d just handed her the ingredients she’d need to make her escape possible.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Bash observed once they were beyond the kitchens and through the palace doors. He’d waved off his guards when they stepped outside into the night, the air mercifully cool. Sweat was beginning to line her brow, and the breeze was welcome.

“I would have thought you preferred me this way,” she answered. They walked side by side onto the soft sands of the beach, and she had to tilt her head to glimpse his reaction.

His teasing smile merely widened. “I prefer to be able to read people.” He paused before they reached the shoreline, his gaze cast out to the waters. “I certainly didn’t expect you to be some knife-wielding botanist with a penchant for scaling buildings.” His eyes flickered to hers. “You’re full of secrets, Margrete Wood.”

Her breath caught in her throat as her name rolled off his tongue, and heat blossomed across her cheeks. She was thankful for the cover of night, because he had no idea what secrets she happened to be hiding tonight.

“And you, pirate, are one to talk.”

He gave a light scoff. “A king without secrets is not a king.” He climbed up the sands, forcing Margrete to follow. “Now, tell me, princess.” He took a seat, staring up at her, the moon caressing his rugged face. “Are you sure you wish to know all of my secrets?”

Something dark flickered across his features, something borne from the rawness of truth.

“A man can only bear the torment of his secrets for so long before he has one of two choices.” She turned toward the waves and slid her hand into the pocket of her trousers. With nimble fingers, she undid the wrapped bundle and dipped a finger inside to scoop out the sedative.

“And what might those be?”

Margrete shifted to face him before dropping to the sands at his side, careful of the sedative on her left index finger. Their thighs brushed against one another, but neither of them made a move.

“Either he succumbs to the weight he refuses to share…” She uncorked the wine and secured the bottle between her legs, then motioned for him to hand over the glasses. She took them both and hastily wiped the paste below the rim of his glass before pouring the wine. The liquid washed the sedative down to the bottom.

“Or?” he asked, barely a whisper. He didn’t look anywhere but her face, seemingly captivated by whatever words might leave her lips next. When he looked at her like that, she almost regretted what she was about to do.

Without breaking eye contact, she handed him his wine. When he accepted his drink and brought it to his lips, she had to stop herself from smacking it out of his hands. Why did it feel like a betrayal? Bash was going to use her. Return her to her father. She shouldn’t feel guilty, but she did. Gods, how she did.

“Or he finds the courage to allow another to shoulder the burden with him.”

Bash took a long drink, his throat working as he swallowed. She watched the movement as she sipped from her own glass, intending only to steady her nerves.

Long moments passed before he spoke, but when he did, the very waves seemed to calm, eager to listen.

“Your father killed my father when I was a child.”

The words rang into the night, his crushing gift of truth causing Margrete’s wildly thumping heart to still. Bash continued to stare straight ahead, the glass of wine clutched tightly in his grasp. Deep grief lived within this man, the kind that would always steal his air. She was familiar with this pain and had the sudden urge to reach out. To take his hand in hers. To do anything to wipe that desolate look off his face. But her hand remained at her side.

“Captain Wood’s trading ship went down one day, a grand vessel carrying over one hundred men. He was the sole survivor, clinging to the wreckage. My father was coming home from a sacred hunt when he spotted a man floating amongst pieces of the splintered hull and sheared sails. My father was kind—too kind for his own good—and he took pity on Wood, scooping him from the waters and bringing him back home to Azantian.”

Margrete tried to envision a young captain, a man rescued by a mythical people. What she couldn’t imagine was his ship wrecking at all. For as long as she could remember, he’d been one of the luckiest captains in the realm. His fleets never suffered from the wrath of storms or pirate attacks. Her ears perked up as Bash continued.

“Wood stayed in Azantian for three years, and my father, the king at the time, took a liking to him. He bestowed favors and riches and lavished him with whatever he desired. Your father wanted for nothing. He even married one of our women, although she was lost to us after…” Now Bash’s tone grew glacial, and his eyes darkened. “His new wife stood by his side as he betrayed us, and we never saw her again.”

Margrete’s blood ran cold. She had no idea that her father had been married before meeting her mother. Adina always told her that her mother was a noblewoman from Marionette, that her father was lucky to have wed such a beauty.

“After he murdered my father, he took the only thing that can reinforce the gates imprisoning the sea’s children, which left Ortum to…” He paused, looking at her as if debating whether to continue.

“I know Ortum is the reason the beasts haven’t escaped,” she said, “and that he was the cause of the barriers. I just don’t know how or why.” She left out the mention of Bay’s name, not wanting to get her new friend in trouble. He said it was Bash’s story to tell, and she would honor his request.

“I see,” Bash said. “I won’t ask how you know, though I do suspect whose lips were loose, but Ortum is a story for another day.” He brought his drink to his mouth. Margrete grimaced as it went down his throat. “In any case, Ortum can’t keep the monsters back any longer. He already lost control over the barriers, and if the gates fall, too…”

Then the sea’s children will have nothing to stand in their way of escape.

“Gods, this wine is hitting me tonight.” Bash peered at her from beneath his lashes, his heavy lids fluttering. The nearly empty glass in his hand trembled.

The sedative. She’d been so captivated by his story, so lost in the rawness of his voice, that she hadn’t realized how much time had passed.

“When I look at you, I see the water,” he said. “The wild waves that refuse to be tamed.” His voice took on a dreamy tone, the words growing slurred. “I hate that you make me feel like this.” Her brows furrowed, and he let out a delirious chuckle. “Don’t frown.” He raised his hand to wipe at her forehead, his movements sloppy. “Am I that awful at compliments?”

He tucked her wayward curls behind her ear, then brushed his fingers along her cheek. Barely there, a hint of a caress. It nearly undid her altogether.

“Bash—” she said his name as he swayed, as his hand dropped to the sands to steady himself. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, and the sight of him, weakened and dazed, had her reaching out to grasp him, her fingers digging into his muscled bicep.

He’d just reopened an old wound. The agony of reliving that night was painful in itself, but he’d still shared it with her, the daughter of his greatest enemy.

And she had drugged him out of his wits.

Bash tilted his head, struggling to keep himself upright. A look of hurt crossed his face. “Margrete, what did you do—”

He barely got the words out before he collapsed, his face turned to the moon and the clear skies above. Margrete froze, stunned at how well the Liander Blooms actually worked.

She leaned over his body. His chest rose and fell steadily, and she placed a finger to his throat to feel the rhythm of his pulse. She might have lingered there, her hand on his warm skin, for longer than necessary. She might have gazed down on him and wished she’d heard the rest of whatever secrets he’d been willing to share. But that time had passed, and regret was not an option.

Still, her heart fell as she cupped his cheek, the stubble rough against her smooth palm. “Sorry, pirate, but I can’t let you decide my fate.”

She stood, hovering above the sleeping king. You need to do this, she reminded herself. Now, move!

The wine bottle lay upon the sands, the red liquid soaking into the sand. With no other weapon at her disposal, Margrete grasped the neck and swung the bottle against a piece of driftwood. It shattered soundlessly, the green glass glinting in the moon’s light.

Using the scarf she’d smuggled the sedative in, Margrete carefully wrapped the broken bottle neck and tucked it in her pocket. She felt better knowing she had something with which to defend herself. Who knew what she might encounter?

Taking off on unsteady limbs, Margrete raced across the packed sands and along the coastline to where she’d glimpsed the tethered boats earlier. No guards had followed them to the beach, but she stayed close to the tall reeds just to be safe.

A rickety dock jutted into the waves, the vessels she aimed for a welcome sight. Margrete thanked the moon goddess, Selene, for hiding behind the cover of the clouds. Even if a guard found himself close enough, they wouldn’t see her easily under the heavy shroud of gray.

Her boots thudded against the mildewed planks as she sprinted across the deck and got to work untying the knots securing the small craft. Tossing aside the rope, Margrete hurled herself onto the fishing vessel, where she attended to the lone sail and readied herself for her journey. Adrenaline coursed through her as an image of falling overboard stole her thoughts, but she refused to allow herself to think about her inability to swim. Not when she was so close to succeeding.

As if to torment her, a band of lightning streaked across the sky as she shoved off from the dock, gray clouds forming to blot out the gleaming stars. Surely not again, she thought, but then rain started to fall. Gods. This damn island seemed to have it out for her.

Without another thought, desperate to craft her own fate, Margrete ignored the jagged lightning and booming thunder, pretending her skin wasn’t being soaked through by the rain that ensued. She had battled storms before, and she would do so again.

It was a minute later, when a vicious wave crashed over the side of the skiff, that she realized she was in over her head.