I ease the door open and scan the dim corridor, half-expecting one of the crew to be lurking, but I’m alone. Satisfied, I drop my gaze to the floor. The meal the sailor left me—a battered bowl of thick stew, a wedge of hard bread, and a mug of what’s definitely watered down ale—makes my stomach heave just looking at it. I hate how the motion of the ship twists my insides, but I need the food if I want to heal right.
So I shove it down, as fast as possible, not thinking about taste or the sick, tight way each swallow threatens to come right back up. I finish, wipe my mouth, and brace myself before heading toward the captain’s quarters, keeping my eyes mostly on the boards as I slip past the sailors.
Some of them watch, no attempt at subtlety; others turn away, determined to pretend I don’
