It was surprising to me just how different healing from a broken neck felt compared to healing from a shot to the head. Nerves repaired quickly, and I regained consciousness much faster than I had before. My eyes blinked open, and it took me a moment to decipher where I was—on the floor in the brig. I hardly noticed Carmen before she addressed me.

“Hello,” she said, sitting just beyond the bars.

I frowned a little, but the frown quickly worked its way into a confused smile. “Hello. You’ll have to forgive me, I’m not sure my neck can hold up my head yet. I think I’ll lay here a little while yet.”

“Take your time. I got you some dry clothes.” She gestured to the back of the cell and I saw that was, indeed, true. And they were even my own. I wondered if she knew that or if she’d only made a lucky guess.

“Thank you,” I said, and tried to wiggle my fingers or toes. No luck. I figured they probably needed a bit more time. I tried not to panic at the fact I could not move and took a deep breath. Then, something occurred to me, seemingly for the first time. “I fell, didn’t I?”

“You did,” she replied without much emotion.

“How embarrassing,”I muttered.

There was a pause. We looked at each other. Then, there was a snort of relief. A giggle of realization. And then, we laughed. We laughed long and loud, full of stress and relief and acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all. I had taken a bad fall and landed on my head. The fall should have killed me, would have killed any man. And as much as it could, it had. And my only thought? How embarrassing.

As our laughter died out, she leaned her chin on her fist, her other arm cradled around the musket in her lap. She held it loosely, without much conviction. As she looked at me, she still smiled. “Your smile’s all lopsided,” she said. Her voice, when it was relaxed, had this earthy tone almost like that of a crow. A sort of deeper vibration. It was comforting.

“I know,” I responded. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” she laughed again. “For what? It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation. It’s funny because it only shows one of the er, you know—” she bent her finger near her canines to simulate a fang.

I smiled at that, and she pointed at me.

“See, like that!”

“I’ll take your word for it.” There was a long pause, and I realized there was a second obvious thing I hadn’t remarked on yet. “We didn’t sink!”

“We certainly didn’t.”

“That’s good,” I pointed out.

“I know,” she said, but her smile had faded into a scowl. I didn’t ask why. She’d tell me if she wanted to. “The chicken feed, uh, got soaked.” She sighed and kicked at the bars a little. “I think it’s only a matter of time til it goes bad. A few of the sacks already had some mold growing on them, but I managed to keep this one dry … til now.”

I sighed. “That’s a shame,” I said.

“Isn’t it just?” she replied. There was silence, and she said, “So, are you hungry?”

I was taken aback, but I picked up on her meaning quickly. “The feed will still go for a few days,” I pointed out.

“And?” she sighed. “They don’t want it, they barely even touched it this morning. I decided I’m going to have to slaughter them anyway, I might as well do it while there’s still meat on their bones. Also, even if you aren’t hungry, I am. And I’m sore. I want a hot meal. I’m doing it, so will their blood go to waste or not?”

I bit at the inside of my cheek as I thought over her words. God knew there was that same thrumming in my bones that there had been since the day I’d been bitten. Truly, it wasn’t myself I was worried about, though. “You’re certain?”

“God, man, I had to be a sailor for a day, in a storm no less, and I know how sailors like to eat. Don’t I deserve the same? Those birds aren’t long for it.”

“I just mean—”

“Do you want the blood?”

“… yes.”

“Good. Stay here a moment.” She stood up and left my field of vision promptly.

Now, I was glad that we had lived—or, that she had lived and I had recovered. I was glad I was going to get to eat. But I needed to make sure that this change of heart went beyond the fact that it wouldn’t cost her anything. I wondered if she would answer me outright, if I asked her. Probably not. Perhaps I would try anyway.

She returned shortly with a hen in each hand and the musket slung over her back. Holding out one of her hands, she offered the hen to me and I accepted. Then I waited for her to turn away. It was taking every ounce of self-control to keep myself from devouring the thing right away, but after her reaction the first time, I knew it would give her quite a fright. She did not move though, watching me curiously.

“This will be gruesome,” I warned her, feeling a bit of spittle dribble down my chin. When I moved to wipe it, the hen became startled, and tried to fly away—Carmen laughed as I scrambled to keep my hold on it.

“I suppose it will be,” she said slowly, but still did not turn.

I could not wait any longer. If she wanted to watch, so be it. I subdued the hen again, and began to drink. As before, I drank long and deep without holding myself back. The feeling was as warming as taking a spoonful of stew on a cold rainy day, or a sip of tea early on a winter morning. When I drew away, I felt better—still hungry, though. I wondered about the creature before me. Had he been satisfied by the blood of my fellow men? If I drank a man’s worth, would I finally be full?

The thought was not worth entertaining at the moment. I reached for the second hen. For the first time since I had begun to drink, I met her eyes again. She was not hiding her face from me, not crouching or covering her ears and rocking to and fro the way she had before. Her eyes were wide and she did not bother to hide her disgust, but there was no fear this time. She surrendered the second hen to me without hesitation. I drank this one also.

When I had finished, wiped the blood from my face, she stepped closer.

“Are you satisfied?” she asked.

I pondered the question—rather, I pondered what answer she wanted from me, and what she would do once I had given it. “I am not starving,” I answered honestly. “I’m barely even hungry anymore.”

“Hmm.” One hand rested on the key ring fastened around her waist. The other fidgeted with the strap of the rifle. I wagered I’d given the wrong answer, but then, she moved to unlock my cage anyway.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Would you join me in the galley?” she did not answer my question outright. “Carry the hens for me?”

I stood back from the door as she opened it, and though there was no barrier between the two of us, the distance of the cell felt like an ocean in of itself. She asked me to cross it, knowing the danger for herself. “Are you sure?” I asked again.

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“I am.” She answered. “Listen, Mr. Harcourt, if you wanted to kill me by now I rather think you would have done so during the storm. I was moments away from death and you saved me to the point where you lost your own life—however briefly. So I think …” She shrugged. “And either way, I wager I can still shoot you, if I need to.”

I thought that was all likely true. Beyond that, I thought she was lonely. I knew I was lonely, and I knew what I was willing to do to fix that. She’d made it clear this was a decision she was not making lightly and that she trusted me. I would simply have to trust her the same way—trust that she was making the right decision.

And did I not know myself? I did not want to hurt her. I would not hurt her. Why was I so caught in her perception of me that I’d allow her fear to make me afraid of myself? She was justified in being afraid of me before. But that fear had been based on the actions of a beast. This trust was based on my own actions.

Then we both knew I would not hurt her. Or at least, we both were choosing to believe that. There was no point in trying to find fault with our logic. And I didn’t want to say no, anyway.

“All right,” I said, “suppose I ought to go ahead?”

“That’d be fine.” She nodded, and stood aside, allowing me to step out in front of her. I heard her adjust the musket as we walked, and I was surprised that I didn’t find the sound insulting. It was almost reassuring to know she still found comfort in it, for both our sakes, even if I didn’t think she needed it any longer.

No, no, I didn’t think she needed it any longer. I was still hungry. Her blood still enticed me, I couldn’t deny that. And yet, as much as I craved her, I was beginning to come to terms with the fact that it wasn’t just her blood that I longed for, and not even just her company. If it was either, I would not have hesitated to come out of my cage. I wanted her so much I wanted her to stay alive at my own expense. I wanted her only if she could live through the experience. Whatever other cravings I harbored, they were so much weaker than my desire for her safety.

Maybe at one point the opposite had been true. Maybe when I had been weaker, or when I had not understood her. I would always hold it against myself that I had ever been that weak.

We reached the galley and she set me to work plucking the hens while she lit the wood stove. I saw her watching the flames, quiet, and wondered if her thoughts were all that beneficial. What memories did flame hold for the both of us but tragedy? I cleared my throat.

“Did you cook a lot, before the journey?”

“Hmm? Oh, a bit.” She looked away from the fire and watched me work on the first hen for a moment. When I had finished it, she took it from me and began to make quick work of butchering it. “My father was an excellent cook. Not as excellent of a teacher, but I learned by watching. Sometimes I’d ask questions but he’d always look at me as though I was stupid for asking.”

“My father was much the same, when it came to business. I was meant to pick up on it right away but damned if I could keep track of all the words he’d use.”

“Business,” Carmen scoffed, placing a heavy iron pan on top of the stove. “What sort of business? The made up sort where it’s all numbers and investments all day?”

“You’ll laugh at this, but he owned a merchant fleet,” I replied. She did, indeed, laugh.

“Not this ship, I hope?”

“No such luck, I’m afraid. The ship, at least, he would have come looking for even if he couldn’t be bothered to come after his own son.”

She laughed even louder at that, before covering her mouth in an attempt to hide her smile. “Oh dear, that’s awful.” She said.

“I almost think they’ll feel relieved to hear I died at sea,” I added, half wistful and half melancholy.

“If my parents heard I died at sea, they’d think I’d done something to deserve it,” Carmen scoffed. She leaned back against the sturdy wooden table, propping herself up with her elbows. “Yes, like I’d stolen something important or started a fight, and there was no other option but to toss me overboard.”

“Start fights a lot, did you?”

“Not nearly as often as they thought I did,” she sighed. “And even less at first. But pretty soon, I figured a fight was going to happen one way or another, so I might as well get the first punch.”

I thought of her as I’d first seen her on the voyage, in her dress and with her hair long and tied neatly out of her face. That was the woman who started fights? But, looking at her now, I hardly found it impossible to believe. “And their solution was to send you away,” I said.

“Their solution was always to hope someone else would take care of me, this is just their newest attempt.”

“Mmm. I suppose my parents always hoped I would simply take care of myself.” And yet I’d always wanted someone to take care of me. That’s all I had ever wanted. And it seemed like Carmen did quite well taking care of herself. Perhaps we’d been cursed with the wrong parents.

“Well, they both failed. A toast to being failures!” she said, and pulled a bottle of wine from the cabinet—I saw some scratches around the cabinet’s lock and that one screw was loose, and had to hide my amusement that my suspicions about her hand wound were confirmed.

“You toast, I don’t think wine would agree with my delicate constitution,” I said.

“Ah, perhaps I should have left a hen alive to toast with, then,” she laughed. With a little effort, she popped the cork from the bottle and took a few deep swallows of the wine. Then, she turned back to her cooking, looking a sight more content with the world than she had before. She considered the chicken in the pan, then poured a bit of wine in with it. The rich smell of the chicken and the wine filled the galley. “Do you think all you need is blood, then?” Carmen asked, and I frowned at the thought.

“Neither the smell of your cooking nor the smell of wine entice me,” I admitted, “But …”

“But the smell of my blood does?” she guessed, and I looked away sheepishly.

“Trust me, I don’t like it any more than you do,” I told her, and she snorted.

“I imagine you don’t. I’ve wondered once or twice, you know, how things would’ve gone if our positions were reversed.”

“Oh?” I looked back over toward her and raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “And what do you think?”

“Well, I imagine I would have killed you,” she said shortly.

“You think so!”

“I do! Look at how many times I’ve killed you when you’re the one with the animal instinct and the healing and all that. Imagine what would happen if I had all that at my disposal.”

“Ah yes, but in that case, I’d have a musket.”

“As if that would help,” she rolled her eyes. I was almost amused to find that my feelings were hurt by the implications.

“So, you really think you would have overpowered me by sheer force?” I asked, leaning forward on the table.

“Is that what I said? No, I think you would have made a slip. Do you think you could have done what I’ve done every day?”

I thought about it. I thought about how easily I’d given into her, how little time it had taken before I’d been like clay in her hands, how I’d been so quick to sit for her bullet. I wondered that if those same dark eyes had looked at me in fear, begged me not to kill her, would I have had the will to stand against them? I would not have, and she knew it.

How embarrassing.

“No, I could not have done that,” I replied.

“I thought so,” she gave me a smug smile. I realized that even now, she had not turned her back to me as she stood at the stove. The musket sat within arm’s reach.

“I suppose I’m lucky it happened this way, then,” I sighed.

“I’m not sure I’d go that far. We’re both still doomed, aren’t we?”

There was a long silence after that, for what could either of us say? I realized she was cooking her last meal—that those same hens had been my last meal, as well. I wanted to ask her how many bullets she had left, but I bit my tongue. Now was not the time.

The smell of the food mingling with the scent of her blood and the wine was starting to fill the silence a bit too enticingly for me. I wondered if I shouldn’t make my exit. A cloud had fallen over her countenance as she worked at the stove, so I was almost certain my company was no longer doing its job by lightening the mood. I pushed away from the table with a thoughtful frown.

In a flash, she had scooped up the rifle, and it was aimed at my chest. I blinked in surprise.

“I thought perhaps I’d go back to my … accommodations,” I said, and she lowered the gun, blushing.

“Oh,” she said. “Right.”

“I’m sorry I startled you,” I added.

“No, no.” She set the rifle aside and adjusted the bandages in embarrassment. “No, you shouldn’t apologize. You did nothing wrong, you’ve been … rather, I appreciate that you’ve stayed with me. I’ve enjoyed talking to you.” She looked back up and made eye contact with me meaningfully. “Thank you, Cort.”

My heart instantly warmed, and I smiled. As though we both remembered her observations about my expression from before, we both laughed gently, and she sighed.

There wasn’t another word spoken as I finally slipped away, leaving her alone to cook. I went back to my little cell, closed the door, and locked it behind me—the shackle clicked into place surprisingly softly, without the dooming finality I had expected. I leaned back against the hay and tried not to think of the negatives. I had spent too long on those. If we truly only had a few more days, at least now we would spend them together. That was better, at least.

In fact, I didn’t see how it could get much better than this.