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A bonfire tries to claim the sky as if to rival Galen’s crew, who’ve just plundered the sea. Hazel sits by one of the smaller fires, its heat reminiscent of her forge back in Altadellys. Her tankard sits beside her. It’s not swill, but it can’t hold a candle to Rosie’s.
Smoke carries the smell of grilled fish. Barnabus’s expertise masks the raw stink of the sea, a smell that has become almost invisible to Hazel. Her blood pumps at the thought of how easy it is to immerse herself.
A leg swings over the log beside her as Galen swoops in. Though Hazel restricts her flair to her creations, she’s gotten used to Galen’s movements. She nods at them.
“Captain. Already tired of celebrating?”
“Never. There’s just no point in being captain if I can’t pester my whole crew, is there?” They pass over a skewered fish dripping with juice.
“I’m not trying to be antisocial. Just waiting for the whole sun to set before I get too rowdy.” The last drop of it dyes the whole sea red, a view Hazel would love to stuff in a bottle and send to Rosie.
“A real pirate gets too rowdy before the sun even rises. You’ll get used to it,” Galen says. They bump their own fish against hers like a tankard. Theirs looks drier, like they’ve been carrying it around as a prop, their version of a wineglass at a fancy party. “Speaking of which, have you found your sea legs?”
“Depends. Will these do, or do I need to grow a tail, too?”
“As stunning as I’m sure that would be, it’s optional.”
At their appraising look, she bites into her fish, so charred and flaky it would make her eyes water if her career hadn’t hardened them. She wipes her chin. “I can’t fault the food. And you’ve got the most welcoming crew of seadogs I’ve ever met—well, mostly.”
This last part, she exhales into her fish, but Galen’s mouth curls up. “Mostly? Do I need to arrange a duel before we set sail again? It won’t do to have unchecked passions on deck, you know.”
“You’re one to talk,” she says. Most people can’t get away with talking back to their employer. Most people didn’t work for their childhood friend, then themself, then, well, Galen.
“Maybe so, maybe so.” They clap her shoulder blade. “The sea is vast. Take your time to explore it. I think you’ll find its embrace as steadfast as it is bracing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Leaning back, they turn toward the ocean like a fond friend. “It makes no judgments either, you know. It will never tell you who to be.”
The warmth in their expression settles in her. She’s already reforged herself once, or at least, people’s perceptions—nobody in Altadellys knows the name her parents gave her, only the one that even Captain Amara recommends. Setting up her own shop seemed like the apex for someone from the Wilds. Who knew that throwing it all away on a whim could make her feel even more like herself, a version she never knew lay beyond the horizon?
Something tells her Galen would understand. Their smile grows even softer when they wave Freckles over. Freckles all but drags Mako behind her, as she has every time the rest of them have gathered lately. It makes Hazel’s skin itch, the teasing in Freckles’ smile and the undeniable interest in Mako’s eye, despite her reserved stance.
Freckles drops without shame onto Galen’s knee. The easy way their hand fits on her waist, like it’s meant to rest there, makes Hazel’s foot bounce—especially when Mako settles on the log opposite Hazel, her knees wide and her hands dangling between them.
Barnabus joins them with a fresh round of fish. He prompts Galen to launch into a tale of a past adventure, making gentle corrections when Galen embellishes, and Hazel begins to relax.
“Tell the newcomers about the trident,” Mako says, eyes trained on Hazel, targeting her as readily as the victims of her harpoon.
“Trident?” Hazel can’t resist asking.
“Maybe Mako should explain. She’s always had the finest eye for weaponry,” Barnabus says.
Mako scowls before describing the trident Galen stole off an enemy pirate captain. Mako used it herself, briefly, a sharp weapon enchanted to return after she threw it, but the crew ultimately placed it in the ruins the other pirates took it from.
“Pirates who want to live don’t anger the sea,” Mako says with a hint of regret, a slight flare of her gills that Hazel has learned to read.
Hazel asks about the trident’s design, her mind already spinning with ways to make something similar. She has other plans to craft weapons that suit underwater fighting styles. Only because it’s practical, not because of the way Mako circles prey in her shark form, like she could whip up a whirlpool. Not because after a recent battle, Mako hid beneath the waves until her skin stitched back together.
Hazel changes the topic to a folktale from the Wilds, even though it won’t stop her from stockpiling materials that don’t rust and blueprints for armor decorated with seashells. Maybe that’s why she bickers with Mako over the tale. Mako insists a lady in the woods should have known better than to let in a traveler, while Hazel defends hospitality in the Wilds.
“You know, I’ve never met anyone Hazey gets along with so poorly,” Freckles says loudly in Galen’s ear. She waves a drained tankard at Hazel, and Galen grins.
“I’ve never met anyone Mako gets along with so well,” they say.
“I’ll toast to that,” Barnabus says.
That cuts off the argument, Mako sulking and tearing at her fish with sharp teeth. The sight shouldn’t mesmerize Hazel.
Galen shouts an order to a group of pirates, who pull out instruments as Galen leads Freckles by the hand to a clear section of beach. One by one, two by two, crew members stumble to their feet. Across the flames, Mako considers Hazel.
“Show me what those of the Wilds call dancing,” Mako says. The jut of her chin sparks heat in Hazel’s gut.
“Careful. I used to cut up Rosie’s dance floor every evening. You’re going to look like a fish flopping around in a barrel.”
The jabs continue as they join the others around the largest fire. Once they begin to stomp, clap, and spin, the twilight steals their voices. There’s no need for words that are as likely to be barbs as praise when Mako’s around, or the way Hazel’s tongue always sticks in her throat, forcing things out wrong. There’s only the bonfire ablaze in Mako’s eye, the fluid swing of limbs that shouldn’t be as agile as they are toned, when she can slice as easily through the waves.
Feeling bold, Hazel wraps an arm around Mako’s waist and lifts her before twirling around. A laugh escapes Mako, no doubt unused to being picked up. She clutches Hazel’s shoulders.
“Just like being underwater,” Mako says, her tongue sliding over her teeth, her thumbs rubbing where they dig in.
Pirate or not, she can’t be said to claim Hazel’s lips. Not when Hazel surges up just as eagerly to lock their mouths together, finding Mako’s to be hot and briny. In her daydreams, Mako always kissed with her usual grace and control, not this raw desperation. Hazel holds her steady as she returns Mako’s feet to the ground.
An ember of panic sparks in her. Will Mako tear away to go sulk in the sea until sunrise? Will they argue over this, too, for the entertainment of Mako’s drunken subordinates?
Mako only laughs again, and a gentler warmth joins the coals burning in Hazel’s chest. “I guess if that last job didn’t scare you off…”
“Not a chance,” Hazel says.
The next won’t, either, or the next. There’s plenty of sea left to explore, until she finds the place she belongs amidst the waves.