Gild (The Plated Prisoner 1)

Quarter frowns at the captain before replacing the empty vial on the hawk’s leg. As soon as it’s secure, the bird takes flight, shooting up into the sheet of rain and disappearing from view without a sound.

“Who’s going to be here?” Quarter asks.

Instead of answering, Captain Fane holds out a hand. “Give me your sash.” Quarter blinks for a moment before he reaches beneath his furs and begins to loosen the white sash tucked around his torso.

Captain Fane turns his attention to me. Without a word, he starts to wrap my ribbons around my torso, pulling them so taut that it makes me grit my teeth in pain. He wraps them around and around, until their long lengths are completely bound around my middle, and then he ties the ends all in a knot, so tightly that I can’t move them at all.

“Get all the saddles in the kitchens and put them to work. Cook needs to get a dinner ready to be served within the hour. We have guests coming.”

He holds out his hand again, and Quarter quickly passes over the sash. The captain wraps it around me, just as tightly as he wrapped my ribbons, and ties that off too. Another deterrent in place to keep my ribbons immobile.

The captain spins me around and lowers himself so we’re eye-to-eye. His expression is angry, severe. “If any of the saddles try anything or disobey in any way...I want them stripped, whipped, and tossed overboard.”

Quarter nods at him, though his eyes are on me. Even with his red band over his face, I can tell he’s grinning. “Aye, Cap.”

With one last lingering glare my way, Captain Fane shoves me toward Quarter before storming off to the front of the ship, shouting orders about changing course.

“Alright, come on, you. And don’t even think about fucking up with those puppet strings of yours, or I’ll slice them clean off your back.”

The skin along my spine flinches, like the ribbons heard the threat.

With a grip on my arm, Quarter leads me down to the main deck again, straight over to the huddled saddles. “Right, you cunts! Follow me!”

Quarter doesn’t wait to see if they listen as he turns us, heading for a set of stairs in the middle of the ship that leads below deck. I can hear footsteps trail after us as Quarter and I make our way down the creaking stairs.

We pass through a narrow corridor, and then we go deeper into the back of the ship where we enter a long galley kitchen that reeks of potatoes and smoke.

At least we’re out of the storm and the kitchen is warm, thanks to the cast iron oven with roaring flames inside its belly. The walls and floors are made from the same white wood as everything else, except it’s been stained, black with soot in some places, splatters of old food stuck on others.

Standing over the iron oven is the cook, the only pirate I’ve seen so far who isn’t dressed in the same white fur as everyone else. He’s in a simple white leather vest and trousers instead, his meaty arms bare and littered with sloppy tattoos. He’s stout and short, with a crooked jaw that juts to the side, and a low brow that makes me wonder how well he can see above the pot he’s stirring.

A scowl crosses his ruddy face when he notices us enter. “What the damned hell I got women in my galley for?”

“Cap’s orders, Cook,” Quarter replies. “We got guests coming, apparently. We need a meal served up deck.” He jerks his head in our direction, where all of us are grouped together near the doorway. “They’re your help.”

Cook lets out a garbled string of curses, but Quarter pays it no mind. “Cap wants it ready by the hour.” Cook sends him a crude gesture but starts to yank out tinned supplies from the cupboards.

Another pirate comes in and leans against the wall, a dagg

er held in one hand as he stares at us. A guard dog to watch us and attack, if necessary.

Quarter looks back at us. “I’ll warn you now. Cook’s the meanest bastard of all of us. Getting whipped and tossed overboard will be the least of your worries if you fuck up in here.”

With those lovely parting words, Quarter pushes past us and walks out, leaving us alone.

Cook takes one look at us and narrows his eyes, using a rag to swipe over his sweat-lined face. “Well? What the fuck are you waiting for? I’ll boil your fucking hands if you don’t get to work. This meal ain’t gonna cook itself.”

I tense and so do the others, but then Rissa strides ahead, leading the way once again, getting the others to follow suit.

I stay at the back of the group, trying not to flinch every time Cook screams at us or tosses food our way. We hustle to do everything he says, even with our teeth chattering, our clothes and hair sopping wet. When one of the saddles accidentally makes a puddle on the floor, he kicks her down and makes her sop it up with a tiny, useless rag.

And all the while, as I chop and stir and wipe, with Cook snarling and the pirate guard watching, I try to work my ribbons loose, try to get the knots undone bit by bit without anyone seeing.

I have no idea who sent that messenger hawk to the captain, or who’s coming here, but I know the options are bleak. No one good would come to dine with the Red Raids.

Yet no matter who’s coming, I’m grateful for the interruption. If it weren’t for that letter, I would be in the captain’s clutches right now. The thought makes me shudder.

Even so, I know that this reprieve is temporary. Fleeting. I know that before this long, horrible night is through, I’ll be stuck in the captain’s clutches again. So all I can do is try to work my ribbons, and hope I don’t get caught.