Exhausted, Anara needed someplace to sleep, and of course, she wasn’t going to go make herself at home in the captain’s own bed. How inappropriate!

She wandered about the deck unhindered by the sailors going about their duties. Evidentially the captain had told his crew to give her free reign, otherwise they would have stopped her immediately. So she was not a prisoner, she thought, confirming her earlier understanding based on the intricacies of the captain’s word choice. Whether he had been aware of that or not, she didn’t know.

She needed to talk to him. After finding herself atop the forecastle, she cast her gaze across the ship. It was large and she couldn’t see Captain Campione from where she was standing, but if she understood correctly, Anara believed she would find him on the other end of the ship?

As she walked the deck, one sailor stuck out his tongue and wagged it at her. She flinched and looked away as fast as possible. The sailor chuckled, barely making enough room for her to pass him by.

These men had leered and made crude remarks the moment they had seen her after the Parvita had been taken. She understood why the captain had her bathe in his own private courters now. It wasn’t because he wanted a peepshow. Of course—he could have left as well, and he did not.

Had he been watching over her by being in the room like that? She hadn’t seen him lift his eyes from his writings and readings to look at her. In fact, whenever he did, he looked straight into her eyes, unlike Duke Korr with his greasy, clinging gaze that seemed to crawl about her body. The very thought made her want to retch.

Captain Campione’s piercing stare did scare her, though. She thought she could see the desire in his violet eyes. It was buried, but she was a woman, and despite having no experience with men, she knew.

His eyes had roamed her bathwater though and he picked up her undergarments while making comment on them. But it was just that one time. He could hardly call himself a man, otherwise.

She tried to give the sailors as wide a birth as possible. None of them wore their weapons or armor. Not now that they didn’t need them. Even still, she kept a close eye on them just in case. Her discomfort persisted, despite the captain’s promise of protection. These men did not seem particularly disciplined, not if she had to make a judgment call on that matter, and she felt she did. Her opinion from earlier in the morning did not change. These men were rougher than the Atalayan sailors on the Parvita.

The back of the ship—she didn’t know what to call it, but was sure it had a name—arched quite high, and there were two levels. The set of stairs ended at a landing, where the ship’s wheel was, and then continued up further to another deck above.

Had she not been in this position, she might rather enjoy being on such a vessel. It was a foreign wonder to her, afterall.

Hair whipping in the wind, she blinked against the cold spray of the sea as the ship listed. He had to be up there. Anara raised her skirts and ascended the steps. She was barefoot now, having forgotten to even put her boots on. The sailor at the wheel looked at her, his stare not particularly frightening as some of the other sailor’s had been.

The Wind Steppe princess kept on until she reached the top where she found Captain Campione sitting at a luxurious table laden with delicate ceramics. A sailor was waiting on him as he sat at the table.

Pausing for a moment, she swallowed and approached, her hands clasped behind her back. He watched her as she stopped in front of him.

He got up out of his chair and gesturing for her to sit, he said, “Please, Princess.” The sailor waiting on him pulled the chair out for her, and she took it. “I would have thought that you’d want a respite,” he added. “Surely you’ve seen enough of me today?”

Smiling, she shook her head. The sailor poured her some hot tea. Anara would have declined to drink any, but he hadn’t asked if she wanted it or not. She took a sip, trying to think of the right words.

“Captain Campione—“ she began, but he cut her off.

“Dante.”

She nodded slowly, feeling confused that he would want her to call him by his given name. “Dante,” she corrected, not feeling completely comfortable addressing him so familiarly. “I’m loath to trouble you at this time, as I’m sure you have many duties to occupy you.”

“Please,” he said amicably in his Amalfi accent. “Tell me what it is you wish to speak to me about. We’re all sailors here—“ he smiled—“except for yourself of course. There’s no need for such formalities. Come, let us be plain. What can I do for you?”

She groaned inwardly. Despite being very polite, the violet-eyed devil made Anara feel uncomfortable. Perhaps it was simply his imposing presence. She decided to speak plainly as he had just asked her. “I’m tired. I need a place to sleep.”

His chin jerked up in surprise. “Ah, yes!”

He turned to the sailor and said something in his own language. Anara took note that the language, though new to her ears, had a romantic air to it, with its undulating rhythm and musical tones.

Focus, fool girl.

“I am so sorry,” he said, his attention coming to rest upon her again. “You shall have my very own bed.”

Oh gods.

“No, no, Captain, that won’t be necessary! A stateroom—“

“There are no staterooms.”

What?

“What I mean to say is, that the men under my command would be hard pressed to give up any of theirs for a woman, who—pardon the crudeness of my culture—is seen as very bad luck on a ship.”

She sighed inwardly, determined to find another place to sleep. Anywhere but his bed would be preferable. The area under the steps leading up here, even!

“But you are the captain,” she said. “Surely you can order one of your men to make room. Did you not send off a portion of your crew with the Parvita that you newly captured? There must be space.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but finally sighing, he made to speak as Anara found that she was instantly regretful she had disturbed him, and was about to say something. “After earlier…” He shifted in his chair, his eyes leaving her for a moment as he looked off into the horizon. “I did not want to scare you or make any more crude implications. But this crew… As you are no doubt aware”—he chuckled with a shrug, and she thought he seemed slightly embarrassed—“are very hard men.”

Oh. It dawned on her. What an idiot she was. He didn’t trust his own crew. “Say no more,” she said, hurriedly. “I understand.” A little more of her discomfort concerning him seemed to lift from her shoulders. “I greatly appreciate your original offer. And I accept!”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He nodded soberly. His demeanor was completely changed from before. He was cordial with her. Respectful. She knew she could trust him.

“I am glad to hear that, Princess.” He smiled, gesturing to the cake on the table. “Please. It’s quite wonderful.”

“Oh. No, thank you, Captain.”

Clearing his throat, he said “Dante,” correcting her.

“Yes. Dante. Of course.”

“Eat,” he said, gesturing to the cake somewhat vehemently. “You will not see another for months on end.”

She didn’t want it, but accepted anyway due to her not wanting to offend him in any way. “Very well,” she said, smiling nervously.

It was wonderful, sweet, but not too sweet, and the flavors of the cream and the soft spongy bread were like nothing she had ever had in the Wind Steppe before.

“It’s good, no?”

She nodded, not saying so simply to please him. She took another bite. “How did you get this cake aboard?”

“A bird brought it to the ship he said.”

She frowned, wondering about that.

Chuckling, he said, “We recently made port. We load the ship with many things—much of which don’t keep very long, but the men would lose their minds otherwise.”

She nodded. “Oh, I see.”

Another thing the men went without for longs periods came to her mind, solidifying even more what he had told her about the crew. It wasn’t something he had simply made up despite the fact she knew this man could talk his way out of a razor claw’s nest. It sent a chill up her back.

“Forgive me, Dante,” she added, feeling like she was intruding at this point, but she had to ask.

“Nonono!” he said, wagging a finger at her. “Eat. Enjoy it. Then we can talk.”

There would be no argument, so she ate the cake. She almost wanted to wolf it down because of how exquisite it was. She was also determined to have this conversation with him. She needed to know what would happen next.

Dante watched the skies, making odd remarks here and there about the birds, about the general state of politics in various regions, and finally about Carnival Bay.

She dabbed her mouth with the folded linen and pushed the plate aside. “Thank you, Captain. I mean Dante.”

He nodded, and there was a long pause between them. She had the impression he no longer wished to talk, but she didn’t want to wait, and yet… she couldn’t bring herself to go on.

“Was there more that you wished to ask me, Princess?”

So respectful, she thought. He still addressed her formally, despite the fact that he had her call him Dante. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing else.”

There was another long pause between them. Finally she repeated to the captain that she was tired from all the day’s events and asked to be excused. He got out of his seat, walked to her side of the table and pulled out her chair and escorted her back to the main deck.

He bowed as she turned to him, making her feel awkward, as she didn’t know the customs between men and women in Amalfi. She apologized, but he brushed her ignorance off and gave her a smile before she turned to go.

After making her way back to the stateroom, she closed the door and considered going straight up to the loft, but realized how hungry she was. That cake had worked up her hidden appetite.

She moved to the table where the food was. Someone had come and tidied, but it was still there, covered by a silver platter. She lifted it and it sang with a metallic shiver. The cheeses, breads, some fruit and even some dried meat, made her stomach growl as she sorted them on a plate before ravenously eating until she couldn’t breathe for trying to swallow a chunk of the dry bread. She looked about for water, but there was only wine. She poured a glass and downed the entire thing. It too was wonderful, sweet and savory.

When she was finished, she glanced out the windows behind the desk. The sun was casting reddened light and long shadows into the stateroom. The day had seemed incredibly long with everything that happened and her back and legs ached.

It was time for sleep. Anara stalked up to the loft and laid her body onto the soft but firm mattress. Staring up at the ceiling, she once again felt relief. She still wasn’t completely comfortable around him, but she admitted, smiling to herself as she did so, that she was starting to think well of the captain, despite everything that had happened just that afternoon.

She wondered if—

Blinking, Anara realized something was different. The red glow of dusk had gone and the room was dark now.

The ship’s hull creaked gently as she lay there. She must have fallen asleep. The soft white light of the moon cast a reflection on the water outside. She hadn’t drawn the paneled windows in the stateroom. There had been no need.

How many hours had she slept?

Getting out of bed, she undid the ties at the back of her dress. She let the garment fall, feeling the lump of the little red book she had put in her pocket earlier.

She was going to climb underneath the covers since there was a slight chill, but realized she wasn’t sleepy any longer. And she wanted to know what was in that little book the captain had been so focused on.

There was a table in the corner of the room just above the stars. Atop it was a large candelabra and a looking glass. She searched about for the tinder box and found it in the drawer. She struck the flint and lit the candles. The mirror reflected the light, giving her ample light to see by.

She was wearing nothing but the tiny undergarments from earlier, the one the captain had said he liked. She didn’t know how she felt about him having touched the same piece of clothing that was now pressed against her intimate parts.

But… she did like the panties, she admitted. She realized they weren’t just for the pleasure of men. She enjoyed wearing them. She felt sexual and womanly.

She was being bird-brained.

The book!

She got up off the chair. It was a piece of furniture one might find in a sitting room, upholstered with expensive fabrics. She went over to the dress crumpled upon the floor and removed the book from its hidden pocket before going back to the chair at the desk.

Without opening it, she took a moment to look it over again. The leather binding was exquisite and once again that Melagrana in gold script glinted back at her. Anara wondered what it meant.

Maybe it meant pomegranate in Amalfi?

What an odd little book.

She smelled the leather. Dante’s scent lingered there. Clearly he picked it up a lot. She felt guilty for going through his things.

She should put it back—not open it.

Instead she opened it, feeling giddy as the first page was revealed. On it, there was some black script. The handwriting was beautiful. It read Things revealed…

Would it be a little book of poetry? she wondered, her excitement increasing as her heart started beating faster now.

The next page did not contain any handwritten script, only a sketch. It was the figurehead of a ship; a large-breasted woman with flowing hair. She was smiling and her hands were clasped together as if she were in mid-dive. The sketch itself was like nothing she had ever seen. The level of detail was amazing. Dante was quite the talented artist, it seemed.

She turned to the next page, excited about what she would find next.

There were two more sketches. One of a rather plain-looking pewter goblet. The image on the other page was a rising sun, peeking out from behind the horizon with two islands on either side. The trees were interesting. Anara had never seen trees like that before. They had strange fronds and large bulbous fruits at the top.

She flipped to the next two pages and was somewhat surprised at what she found. There was a woman, her breasts bare and her hair hanging in ringlets. She was beautiful. Looking to the other page, she realized this sketch was a single piece of art that spanned both pages.

Oddly, the woman’s bottom half was that of a fish. She frowned and found a tiny bit of script hidden at the bottom of the page that read Sirena.

He named her? Was she a woman he knew? Anara doubted she was actually half a fish. Surely that had been his artful imagination?

These weren’t particularly personal thoughts recorded down, only artwork. The best she had ever seen. She didn’t feel guilty anymore. But her excitement had also waned. The sketchbook had many more pages. She considered closing the book. She could look at the rest of the pieces tomorrow.

But, she could look at just one more set of pages before bed, she told herself, her curiosity still intrigued somewhat.

What she found on the other side was something she would have never expected to see in a thousand lifetimes.

Anara’s heart stopped dead in her chest. Her eyes widened and she thrust the book closer to her face as she leaned forward for more light, as if she didn’t believe what she saw.

“Gods and Goddesses,” she whispered, staring so hard at the drawing she thought it might catch flame.

Forgetting even to breathe, she looked up past the little book to the looking glass to inspect her own face. She touched her cheek, pinched it.

No…

She glanced back down at the drawing. Back to the looking glass. To the drawing again. The sketch—in all its fine detail—was of Anara!

The Wind Steppe princess—clearly it was her, because she sketch was of her in the tub—in the stateroom just hours before.

But Dante hadn’t had time to sketch that—not in this level of detail. It was impossible!

Seeing what was evidentially herself on this page, and in a naked state, though thankfully obscured by the waters, as she really had been, what would she find revealed within the rest of them?

Forgetting even to blink as her heart hammered inside her chest, Anara swallowed hard. She thrust the little red sketchbook into her lap, trying to keep her hands from shaking as she took a moment to recollect herself.

She had to see the rest of the pages…

Now!