The summer had passed uneventfully, and she stowed the bag in her room once again. She’d found a hinged floorboard beneath her bed, cleaned out what looked like ash and dried leaves and bound sticks to make room. It was the perfect hiding place.
Now Saturday shimmied behind the stout headboard and Peter got a firm grasp on the footboard. Together they shoved the bed aside. Peter hopped onto Saturday’s mattress and sat cross-legged while Saturday fetched the bag.
“You must be thrilled,” said Peter.
Saturday was not especially thrilled about breaking the world, but that wasn’t what he meant. She always knew what Peter meant. “Overjoyed,” she said sarcastically.
“Unemployed,” rhymed Peter.
Saturday wasn’t in the mood for games. In one great yank, she extracted her bag from its hiding place. She plopped both it and herself on the bed beside Peter. Almost as an afterthought, she added the ebony-handled brush to its contents.
“I knew this day was bound to come.” Peter made a face at the bag. “When will I see you again?”
“When there are stars in the daytime.” Judging by Peter’s forlorn expression, he wasn’t really in the mood for games either. “Oh, Peter, don’t worry. I’ll be home as soon as I find Trix.” Even as she said them, the words sounded like a lie. Jack hadn’t come home either, once upon a time.
Peter caught Saturday’s upper arm in a grip that would have bruised any of her other sisters. “You haven’t killed Trix. He’s fine. The animals will help him. They always do.”
But the animals couldn’t have helped him if they had all died in the flood as well. “He’s fine and I’ll bring him back,” she said determinedly.
“Just make sure he’s safe.” Peter’s voice was soft now. “Only bring him back if he wants to come.”
The idea was preposterous. “Why would he not want to come home?”
He indicated the bag between them. “Adventure is the vice of all Woodcutters.”
It was true enough; even with its one castle-worthy tower, the tiny cottage was stifling. “Fine. I will make sure Trix wants to come home before I tie him to a horse.”
Peter nodded, taking her sarcasm as oath. “And protect Mama,” he added.
“Mama doesn’t need protection. She could kill a bear by staring at it.” Or by telling it to die.
“Will you please think about someone other than yourself for five seconds?”
“I’m thinking about Trix,” said Saturday. She hadn’t stopped thinking about Trix; the guilt and litany of unanswered questions were taking their toll on her.
Peter growled at the ceiling. “Gods, you drive me mad.”
“That makes me glad,” Saturday rhymed.
“You make me sad,” said Peter.
“I’ll find our lad.”
“I’ll stay with Dad.”
“You’re going to miss me so bad,” said Saturday, even though she really meant it the other way around.
“Yes, Whirlwind, I am.” He caught her up in a hug and then stared at her face, as if memorizing it. She did the same, etching in her mind her brother’s sky-blue eyes, his wind-tossed sandy hair, the line of his eyebrow, the curve of his lips, the shadow of stubble on his dimpled chin, the freckle beneath his right eye. He hugged her again. “Don’t forget about me while you’re off adventuring.”
“I’ll bring you back a chest full of gold and a pretty girl to keep you company.”
“See that you do.”
She wanted to linger with her beloved brother, but the moment Saturday slid her arm through the strap of her bag, the compulsion to comply with Mama’s order became irresistible.
“And one more thing.”
“Seriously, Peter?” Saturday walked backwards down the steps so that she could see her brother deliver whatever preposterous addendum he had in store.
“Try not to stink too badly.”
“I will sleep with pigs, just for you!” She leapt down the last half-flight and sped across the sitting room with Peter hot on her heels.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Mama said on the skiff to Thursday’s boat. She had finished braiding Saturday’s long hair and was now unable to distract herself with anything else.
Thursday patted her hand. “I’m sorry, Mama. This new sea is a rough one. Once we get to the ship you can lie down in my quarters. My cabin boy will fetch you anything you need. And if she gives you any lip, you have my permission to throw her overboard.”
Mama smiled a little at the jest, but kept her lips tightly shut. Her skin turned faintly green. She breathed deeply, swallowed hard, and pinched the skin between her left thumb and forefinger. Why didn’t she just tell herself to not be sick? Mama’s stubbornness truly knew no bounds.
Erik worked hard at the oars, fighting the waves that tried unceasingly to punch and toss them back to shore. Mama pushed Saturday away to heave what remained of the accursed porridge over the side. The shove caused Saturday’s sheathed sword to knock into the side of the skiff and almost topple her into the water, but Erik’s hand shot out to steady her.
“Thank you,” she said.
Erik only grunted before returning his attention to the waves, and Saturday officially gave up being polite. She was about to board a pirate ship, after all.
Once on the ship, Saturday was glad to have her sword at her side to keep her from succumbing to the sickness that already held Mama in its thrall. Thursday ushered Mama into her quarters at what Saturday assumed was the front of the boat. The aforementioned cabin boy was a skinny little thing in a stocking cap, but Thursday expected her to lug Mama’s belongings anyway. Saturday had offered to help, but the cabin boy just narrowed her big blue eyes and gave a scowl worthy of Saturday’s own.
Realizing her assistance was neither required nor wanted, she excused herself to explore the deck of the ship. The rest of the crew busied themselves around her, calling out orders she didn’t understand. Saturday held fast to the railing and turned her face into the wind as the sails caught and moved them out to sea.
A large shadow passed over the sun; she shielded her eyes with a hand to see a few birds with very large wings diving into the ship’s wake. Three were white; one was smaller and dark, but with a wingspan just as wide as that of his fairer cousins. The white birds seemed more skilled at snatching prey, though the dark one was just as adept at thieving from the others’ beaks.
“Mollymawks,” said a voice behind her. “The dark one is a frigate bird. Don’t see many of those this far north. But then, one doesn’t typically see the ocean this far east.”
Saturday braced herself for the sisterly drama, but none came.
“The mollymawks bring luck, if they stick around. Their dung’s good luck too. High Simon wears an umbrella for a hat.”
Saturday squinted up into the bright sky at the crow’s-nest. Simon was a common name on the sea for men hiding from the law. “How many Simons are in your crew?”
Thursday took a moment to count them all. “Seven,” she said finally. “Plus Crow and Magpie, whom you’ve met.”
Ah yes, the duo that had delivered Thursday’s trunk full of treasures that spring. The daggers in their boots had fascinated Saturday almost as much as the men themselves. One of them had a funny accent. She couldn’t remember which. She looked forward to seeing them again. “And your cabin boy,” added Saturday.
“Ashes-on-the-Wind.”
“She doesn’t seem like much.”
“If her brains were as smart as her mouth, she’d be Queen of the World,” said Thursday. “Pay her no mind.”
If the girl had half as much gumption as Thursday and Saturday, she was in the right place. A gust of wind whipped Saturday’s hair over her shoulder, and she was glad Mama had taken the time to braid it. The birds screeched at each other overhead, dancing in and out on the currents of air as if they were braiding it themselves.