When the mixture was warm and soft, Leo ladled it into a wooden bowl. He found a reasonably clean spoon and a chipped mug, which he filled with fresh water. He arranged these on a small tray, adding a pinch of the dried mint leaves he’d found in a jar—not for flavor, but because the green sprig made the humble al look more intentional.
Leo took a deep breath, picked up the tray, and stepped into the corridor. The ship creaked around him, the sound almost like encouragent.
The captain’s door lood ahead. No sound ca from within—no movent, no voice. For all Leo knew, Pierre might be dead in there, Valerio’s essence having consud him entirely.
He balanced the tray in one hand and knocked softly.
Silence.
He knocked again, more firmly.
"Go away." The voice was hoarse, barely recognizable.
Leo swallowed hard. "I brought food, Captain."
A rustle of movent. "Not hungry."
"It’s not much," Leo said, speaking to the unyielding wood. "Just sothing warm."
The silence stretched so long that Leo almost gave up. Then ca the scrape of a chair, footsteps across the floor. The door cracked open an inch.
Pierre’s face appeared in the narrow gap. His skin looked gray, his eyes shadowed and feverish. His red hair hung lank and unwashed.
"What is this?" he rasped.
"Breakfast." Leo lifted the tray slightly. "Or lunch. I’m not sure what ti it is."
Pierre’s gaze dropped to the humble offering, then back to Leo’s face. Sothing shifted in his expression—confusion, maybe, or the ghost of curiosity.
"Why?"
Such a simple question. Such a complicated answer.
"Because you need to eat," Leo said. "And I... I know how to make food."
Pierre stared at him for a long mont. Then, wordlessly, he opened the door wider.
Pierre gestured vaguely toward the table, then retreated to the corner of the room, keeping his distance as if Leo were the dangerous one.
Leo carefully set down the tray and stepped back. He tried not to stare at the captain, but it was difficult. Pierre looked both larger and smaller than he had in Porto Veloce—his presence sohow more imposing even as his body seed to have shrunk within his clothes.
"You made this?" Pierre asked, approaching the table cautiously.
Leo nodded. "It’s just hardtack porridge with fish. My father used to make sothing like it."
Pierre picked up the spoon, turning it over in his hand as if he’d forgotten its purpose. "Your father was a cook?"
"A fisherman. Before the debt."
"Hmm." Pierre brought a spoonful to his mouth, hesitating before tasting it. His eyes widened slightly. "It’s good."
The simple approval ward Leo more than he expected. "It’s nothing special."
"No, it’s..." Pierre stared into the bowl. "It tastes like sothing a person would make."
Leo wasn’t sure what that ant, but he nodded as if he understood.
Pierre ate another spoonful, then another, his movents becoming more certain. "Valerio had servants who cooked. Everything was perfect. Balanced flavors, artistic presentation." He gestured at the simple bowl. "This is better."
"Because it’s not perfect?"
"Because it’s real." Pierre’s gaze sharpened, focusing on Leo with sudden clarity. "You cleaned up the galley too?"
Leo nodded.
"And you’re still sweeping the deck every day, even though no one told you to."
"It’s what I know how to do."
Pierre set down the spoon, studying Leo with an intensity that made him want to shrink back. But there was sothing different in the captain’s gaze now—a flicker of the man Leo had glimpsed on the docks of Porto Veloce, before everything went wrong.
"Leo the Lion," Pierre said softly. "I rember now."
"I’m not a lion," Leo said. "Lions are brave. They fight."
"Is that what you think bravery is? Fighting?" Pierre shook his head. "Bravery is doing what needs to be done, even when you’re afraid. Even when no one asks you to." He gestured at the tray. "This took courage."
Leo hadn’t thought of it that way. He’d just done what felt right, what his hands knew how to do.
Pierre pushed the empty bowl away and rubbed his temples. "I can hear him in my head. Valerio. Always analyzing, planning, seeing the world as a collection of flaws to be fixed." He looked up at Leo, his eyes clearer than before. "But when I eat this food, when I taste the salt and the sweetness that don’t quite balance, I rember what it ans to be human."
Leo didn’t know what to say to that. He simply stood, hands folded before him, waiting to see if the captain needed anything else.
Pierre’s gaze drifted to the porthole, where sunlight stread in. "How are they? Raven and Alyssa?"
"They’re..." Leo hesitated. "They fight. Not with fists, but with words. Sharp ones."
"About ?"
"About everything. The ship. The course. Breakfast."
Pierre nodded slowly. "And you? How are you finding life aboard the Crimson Sparrow?"
The question caught Leo off guard. No one in Porto Veloce had ever asked how he felt about anything.
"I like it," he said finally. "I like being useful."
"Useful." Pierre rolled the word around, as if tasting it. "Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing."
He stood suddenly, swaying slightly. "I need to go above deck soon. The ship needs its captain."
"Yes," Leo agreed. "It does."
"Will you..." Pierre hesitated, a hint of vulnerability showing through his haunted expression. "Will you make more of this? Tomorrow?"
"I can make it every day, Captain."
Pierre nodded, his hand finding the sea-blue stone at his throat. "Every day," he repeated. "One day at a ti." He gestured toward the door. "Lead the way, Deckhand Leo."
Leo picked up the tray and headed for the door, feeling the captain’s presence behind him. As they stepped into the corridor, the ship seed to exhale around them, the timbers creaking in what almost sounded like relief.
A simple al. A small kindness. Not enough to fix everything that was broken aboard the Crimson Sparrow, but perhaps enough to begin.
Leo straightened his shoulders as they climbed toward the light.
For the first ti since leaving Porto Veloce, the ship felt just a little bit warr.
Reviews
All reviews (0)