Eric says I shouldn’t have bothered to bring it, and I almost agree with him. The damn thing takes up a good deal of space, but what else was I going to use the space for? And I know I would regret it if I left it behind. Am I not allowed one pretty thing?

I had her dress draped across my lap as I read her diary. Mrs. Statler had packed a rich green dress of fine fabric, heavy and impractical—which she had noted herself in the diary. Reading her thoughts made my heart sore, aching with the memories of the conversations I’d gotten to have with her. She had been the one to reassure me when things had begun to go pear-shaped. No such luck with the captain—he had lied to us. I knew that much from reading his log. He had been as worried as we were by the slow disappearances of his crew, one by one in the night during their watches. But to the rest of us he had done his best to appear calm. I had felt uneasy—I would never claim that I saw through his I, but I certainly did not fully buy into it. Neither had Mrs. Statler. Her husband had told her she was being silly.

It made me almost glad that he’d had to watch her die before he had been viciously torn apart himself. I hoped he spent his last moments regretting how he treated her.

The bitterness in my heart made me frown. Mr. Statler hadn’t been so bad, where was this venom coming from? I wished I had a drink.

I lifted up the dress by the shoulders to look at it more clearly, examining the lace on the bodice and the well-tailored hems. I knew little about sewing—more about mending—but enough to know what good and bad craftsmanship looked like. Holding it against myself, I imagined what it would look like if I wore it. It was probably a bit too big, and I wasn’t exactly getting any heavier with my current diet. Still, I longed to at least try it on. I knew that the weight of it would press against my shoulders, and I felt like that would ground me, in a way.

One day. Not today. Let it be another little incentive to stay alive.

The bandages on my hand shifted and loosened as I set the dress back on the bunk next to me, and I tightened them again with a wince. Should change them, likely, I thought. But I also thought it might be a good idea to wait until after I’d put him down again, just so I didn’t accidentally draw any fresh blood and aggravate him again.

He was different than I’d thought he was.

I was still almost positive that all that talk had been an attempt to gain my trust and let my guard down. Moreover, I was worried that it was beginning to work. I couldn’t lie. I’d felt a bit reluctant to pull the trigger yesterday. Whether I was worn down from the repetition of the act, from my own hopelessness, or from the revelation that he still had something of himself left—I didn’t want to do it again tonight.

But I had to. I had to.

I adjusted the rifle again and stood, making my way toward the hold. The words I had read from Mrs. Statler’s diary still lingered on my mind and I had to admit it—I was lonely. Desperately, dreadfully lonely. I would go mad from it soon, I was sure. I was already beginning to say my name to myself, as though if I didn’t hear it at least once in my waking hours, I would forget it completely.

I made myself a promise, then. I would let myself talk to him, just a bit. Maybe he would let his mask slip, if it was a mask, and I’d see how much of him was truly left over. But I made another promise at the same time, and I made this second one over and over with each step I took closer to his cell. I would still shoot him every night at sundown. I would not waver on that, no matter how human he seemed, no matter what he said.

The sun hadn’t quite set when I arrived, but he was awake. He greeted me with a nod, a cautious one.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Evening, I think,” I replied.

“Ah. Well.” He shifted. He didn’t seem to know what to expect next, watching me closely. “Then it’s time again?”

The matter of fact way he gestured toward my weapon—resting his wrist on a bent knee while he sat on the ground—made my heart twinge in a manner similar to how it had when reading the diary. He was a little more accepting of it all than I would have liked. He had been like that last night, too, kneeling at the bars. Not a word had passed his lips. Compliant was the word for it—docile, even. It felt almost worse than when he had begged.

“I don’t think we’ll do that yet,” I said, forcing my tone to stay casual. I kept the musket at my side, but sat down across from him again on the same crate I had watched him from before.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Oh? But later, of course.”

I nodded firmly. “Soon,” I assured him.

“Very well, a man takes what he can get.” He leaned back, relaxing a bit.

“Does a man have a name he’d like to share?” I was unsure why I said it, but nonetheless it had been said. He quirked a pale eyebrow and tilted his head in my direction.

“He does,” he said slowly. “Does a lady care to let me share it?”

“She does,” I replied, because apparently I did, as much as I wished I could pretend otherwise. I wanted to maintain him as an animal in my mind, but it was becoming clear to me that perhaps I had a weakness I had not predicted in my vigilance. I’d still shoot him, though, I told myself. I had to.

“I’m Cort,” he said eventually, once he had recovered from the fact I had expressed interest at all. I hummed.

“Well, Cort,” I said, leaning forward on my knees and adjusting my grip on the musket, “would you happen to know where I could find a spare key to that little locked cabinet in the galley?”

He considered me at that. “The liquor cabinet?”

“Oh is that what it is?” I tried to feign ignorance, but he laughed, seeing right through me. Then the laugh quickly faded into a look of concern.

“How are you on water?” he asked.

I doubted the concern was genuine. What kind of wolf was concerned for its prey? “I’m fine on water,” I replied shortly, feeling any good humor vanishing. “There’s some rainwater they managed to collect right before the fire …”

What, the fire? Just the fire? Was that all it was to me now? I felt his eyes still on me as my own gaze wandered toward the floor, and I forgot why I’d brought the fire up at all. Oh, it was because I was talking about “before.” Before the fire. Before everyone had died. Before I was left alone with him. I felt my mouth go dry and a foul taste crept up the back of my throat. There was a sense of danger in the fact that I could not move, swimming helpless in the whirlpool of my own drifting thoughts even as he was behind bars. But he did not revel in my wandering mind, instead breaking through the droning buzz in my ears with a surprisingly soft voice.

“The key’s in the same crate as the medical supplies,” he said. “I hardly blame you for not noticing, with the state you were in at the time.”

I grimaced. The key to what? To the brig? The key to the brig had been hanging on the wall opposite, though I now carried it with me everywhere I went. What was he talking about? “The key?” I repeated.

“To the liquor cabinet,” he answered patiently.

That did it. I blinked hard, and remembered at least a little of what we had been speaking about. “Ah, yes, right.” I straightened up. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“You have excellent manners, for a sailor,” I remarked, trying to recover my rhythm in the conversation. I could tell he didn’t want to let my faltering go un-remarked on by the way his eyes still examined my face when I turned back to him. I didn’t acknowledge it. Moments like that were a daily occurrence at this point. To explain all that would be a waste of both of our limited time. I’d rather talk about something less present.

Even if he didn’t quite understand, the creature that called itself Cort did not press me further. “Haven’t been a sailor for long, if I’m completely truthful,” he said, leaning back against the bars again, mirroring my own practiced calm.

“Oh?” That, I had to admit, did intrigue me. “Do go on.”

“Ah …” He turned his head away, showing his neck and the ragged scar from where the fangs of the beast had pierced his throat. “I don’t think I shall.”

“What, do you have something better to be doing?” I prompted.

“No, no, I simply … I would rather not get into all that. I know it’s silly, but I almost wonder if you won’t feel less of me, if I were to tell you.”

“Hard to think less of you than I already do,” I said wryly. He laughed—his smile was crooked, revealing only one pointed canine.

“All the same,” he said, “given your background, I just think—”

“My background?” I stopped him, my brow furrowing as I tried to discern what he could possibly mean by that.

“Well, I suppose, a young woman with the means to make a voyage like this—”

“The means, you say?” My eyebrows un-furrowed only so that they could shoot up. “Is that what you think of me? A woman of means?”

“I only thought—” he stammered, then dropped his hands apologetically. “Oh bother. I’ve made quite a fool of myself, haven’t I?”

“I daresay you have, Mr. Cort!” I said. I was taken aback by his apparent opinion on me. How ironic, I thought, that I had been willing to hear his story and yet he had already made up his own mind about me without hearing a word. With me and my position, and him in his, it was rich. It was laughable.

“Perhaps you ought to just shoot me and have it over with,” he offered weakly.

“Perhaps I better,” I replied, and rose to my feet. I aimed the musket, finding none of the hesitation I had been afraid I would feel earlier. If anything, there was a slight sense of amusement at the fact that a bullet to the head could be likened to a slap on the wrist to this man—creature—whatever.

As he looked up at me over the barrel of the gun, the same crooked smile took up on his face again, sheepish and repentant.

“Sorry,” he said, before the shot rang out and he fell once more.