Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

It spans at least a hundred feet, its worn wood roped by boats that bob alongside its straight-laced reach. It’s been built right into the sloped shore, so the start of it has an angle of sand right at its base, the perfect size for someone to hide.

So I do.

Inside deep divots of beach sand, I sit with my knees bent in front of me while ocean waves curl and flatten. I lean against the post, watching the ships in the distance. The one with the yellow sun in the middle of bright cerulean sails is practically gleaming, like it’s beckoning to me.

But I stay here in my hidden spot, anchored to Derfort, slumming in the shadows on stolen time. Every breath I take in is the brined air of a sea breeze, tainted with the scent of bogged-down ships and netted fish. And man. I can smell the man I was with like he’s saturated my pores, stained every place he touched.

Repressing a shudder that has nothing to do with the cool air, I yank my eyes away from the ship. I can’t recall how many times I’ve come here over the past several weeks, looking out longingly toward the sea.

It’s always in the late afternoon that I come, when I’ve finished with my customer at The Solitude. I return to Zakir’s under escort and then slip right back out again by sneaking out a window and climbing the rain gutter to the roof.

I’ve become surprisingly nimble at jumping the waterlogged shingles before climbing down three buildings over where I then slip into the alleyway and head to the beach.

The rampant rainstorms always help me to sneak out here without too much attention. When rain falls, most people look down, face shielded from the onslaught, so they don’t notice the golden girl beneath her ratty hood hurrying by, because everyone else is doing the same.

Right now though, there’s only a slight drizzle, and the noise of the drops hitting the wooden boards above me is almost soothing.

I let my hands dip into the soft beach sand, watching it fall between the cracks of my fingers as I pile it up again. Here beneath the dock, it’s cool to the touch, little sprinkles of iron peppered in the grains.

I’ve gotten lucky in this spot, with no one bothering me except for the old beggar woman who sometimes sleeps here, curled around the beam beneath layers of raggedy clothes. But right now, I have the small wedge to myself, mostly hidden by the curve of the hill at my back, while the sounds of the port roar as steadily as the crash of the waves.

At this time of day, the dock is far less busy. The fishermen have all come back in with

the tide, the docked ships have lowered their gangways, and the sailors are already in the heart of Derfort Harbor to eat, drink, sleep on a bed that doesn’t rock with the waves, or find a saddle to ride.

I’ve stayed too long today.

The sun is kissing the sea, the clouds in front of the horizon singed around their billowed edges, burning bright orange and pink. Such a pretty sunset in Derfort Harbor is rare.

So here I sit, soaking in the sight, hoping it can heal my weary spirit.

It doesn’t.

I clump the soft sand in my palm again, watching the grains pour down while I ignore the shouts from the people and the caws of the gulls. My mind isn’t on them. It’s on the small pouch lying heavy against my thigh where it’s been sewn beneath my skirt.

Hidden there, tied with twine to ensure it doesn’t jingle, lies tips from pleased customers—thirty coins to be exact.

Even there, in a hidden pocket, they feel dirty.

But every time I add another coin to it, I feel the weight of its added presence like a watchful stare. Like it’s waiting. For Zakir to find it or for someone on these rabid streets to steal it or...

Or.

It’s that or that keeps me up at night.

It’s that or that drags my feet to sit beneath this dock and watch the bobbing ships as they draw anchor and set sail toward the sunset.

Somewhere behind me, there are bodies hanging, fleshly flags of warning to thieves and murderers and stowaways.

But still, I consider that or.

Shouts from above draw my eye, and I see the shadows of heavy boots passing over the cracks of the boards, hear the thumps of steps as they walk down the dock.

I envy those people. They get to hop on a boat and leave this place. “Got it all?” a gruff voice asks.

“Yeh,” someone else replies, an accent thick on his tongue.

“Good, I wanna get the fuck out of this place.”