Seasons Unceasing

By Worldsmyths

Days come, and days go. Time is a snake eating its own tail, and all things have their end. Explore the contradictions of life and time in this speculative fiction anthology featuring upcoming authors. Find love in unexpected places or test the limits of your sense of duty. Follow a witch as she seeks to discover her purpose, and watch as a man faces the hungry wolves of winter - and his own mortality.

Worldsmyths Publishing is a non-profit organization with the charitable goal to help new writers navigate the confusions waters of publication. Join the community on Discord to gain access to members-only publishing opportunities like Seasons Unceasing

• Language: English
• Publisher: Worldsmyths
• Release date: Dec 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781777838584

Worldsmyths

Worldsmyths is a small indie publisher based out of Canada. Originally started as an online fantasy writing group founded in 2016. First established as a forum, we now make our home on Discord, and serve as a group for speculative fiction writers, with a focus on the fantasy genre. 2021 is our fifth anniversary, and so we decided to start this publishing company as a way of showcasing our fantastic community.

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Seasons Unceasing

SEASONS UNCEASING

A WORLDSMYTHS ANTHOLOGY

Worldsmyths Publishing

Copyright © 2022 by Worldsmyths

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

We are so excited to present our third anthology, Seasons Unceasing! Worldsmyths Publishing has grown a lot since we founded in February 2021, and we anticipate a bright future filled with many more anthologies.

This anthology is brought to you by the Admins of Worldsmyths, Ally Kelly and Freya Bell, and two of our moderators, Odessa Silver and C.P. Miller. The four of us pushed the members of our community to put their best writing forward, and are proud to present our own words within these pages as well.

Worldsmyths Publishing is a non-profit expansion of Worldsmyths, a writing group dedicated to speculative fiction. We started in 2016 as a Facebook page, moved to a website forum, and in 2019, moved to a Discord server. We are a community that is low pressure and supportive, and aim to raise up the new writer and give them publishing opportunities where we can guide them through the process.

Seasons Unceasing is our third anthology, but the first that we opened to the general public. We received an overwhelming amount of submissions, which made the process of choosing stories challenging but rewarding. The quality of the stories that have made it into the anthology have exceeded our expectations!

With such a broad theme as seasons and the unceasing nature of their cycles, the stories we reflected a wide variety of perspectives on the subject. From a world drained of color to a world where the seasons are ruled by giants, from labyrinthian spaceships to ancient forests whose roots run deep, these stories are innovative takes on themes of cyclical nature and inevitability.

Worldsmyths Publishing is at the start of a great journey. Follow us on social media or join the Discord to see what our next publishing opportunities are, as there is always something in the works! Look out for our next anthology with submissions opening in spring 2023. The best place to keep up with anthology news and community activities is through our Discord server, at https://discord.gg/dCW3b6g.

Thank you again for reading, we sincerely hope you enjoy Seasons Unceasing!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We are happy to have Stephanie Cullen join us for the third time with this anthology, and it was a pleasure to work with her as always.

We would also like to thank our cover artist Asterielly for our beautiful cover art! Visit her Facebook page here https://www.facebook.com/asterielly/ to see her work.

To our friends, family and the community at Worldsmyths, thank you for all your never-ending support and encouragement.

CONTENTS

Rhapsody in Grey

By Thomas Canfield

The Shape of the Storm

By Brock Poulsen

The Season of Fern and Feather

By A.B. Heron

The Last Season

By Amanda Barrett

The Shaman Mother

By Robin Sebolino

Unceasing Love

By C.P. Miller

Vernal Passage

By Christopher R. Muscato

The Master of Time

By James Dorr

A Witch’s Future

By Kat Cooper

Survival

By Odessa Silver

The First Song of Janna Farwind

By L. Ann Kinyon

Our Roots Run Deep

By J.S. Elliot

The Touch of Winter

By Caitlin Donovan

The May Child

By Cassandra Solon Parry

Wolves of Winter

By K.E. Andrews

As The Wind Blows

By Edward Ahern

Dancing in the Winter Rooms

By David Tallerman

Behind the First Years

By Stewart C Baker

Oddity of Life

by Barry Chapman

Into the Breaking Season

By Nicole L. Soper Gorden

The Unsought Light

By K.A. Wiggins

The Aurelians’ Chronicle

By Michael A. Epanchin

Autumn’s Assassin

A.E. Lowan

Snowflakes

By Freya Bell

Worldsmyths Newsletter

Worldsmyths Community

Call For 2023 Submissions

Stephanie Cullen Editing Services

Author Social Media

Coming Soon

RHAPSODY IN GREY

BY THOMAS CANFIELD

Canfield's phobias run to politicians, lawyers and TV pitchmen. He likes dogs and beer.

The sky overhead was a roiling, turbulent grey, an unbroken band of cloud stretching from one horizon to the other. Errant gusts of wind tossed the treetops to and fro. But the air, the air was the stuff of dreams, soft and caressing, seductive, promising everything. In the height of summer, the land lay under an enchantment, a spell so artful and beguiling that none dare challenge it.

It was almost ten in the evening. Still, dark would not arrive for many hours yet. Birds usually dipped and dove amongst the bushes, but tonight they were silent. They did not call to one another or break into song, not even when sipping at the nectar of the carnelia blossom. When they landed, they would pause and stare up at the sky, wary and perturbed. The light seemed to pool in one quadrant of the heavens, an effect so unusual and unnerving that every creature marked it and proceeded with caution.

Zoe slipped from the ballroom, making her way past the other revelers and out onto the balcony. She stared up at the sky, fascinated. This grey was unlike all the other greys that had come before it. It did not dominate the sky with its customary authority, but seemed strangely tentative and uncertain. It betrayed, for the first time, a sense of vulnerability, something Zoe never would have believed possible. A mounting fever of anticipation gripped her.

She smoothed the folds of her gown, running her fingers along the elegant lace ruffle. The fabric was the color of dawn at first light, when but one of the suns had risen. It was the grey that Zoe loved best, one she had always associated with freshness, with happiness, with new beginnings.

She turned and plunged back into the festivities. The heady rush of the day's events carried her along on a tide of adrenaline. The hours ticked away one after the other in an accelerating blur, leaving Zoe breathless yet eager for more. She wanted to experience it all, wanted to savor every minute of this never-to-be-forgotten moment. A swarm of faces, known and unknown, surrounded her and the buzz of conversation filled the room. The dancing grew gayer and more frenzied the closer the appointed hour drew. Zoe took multiple turns out on the dance floor before slipping away to grab a glass of punch. She was standing at the window, looking out, when the Regent walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder. She turned.

My lord. Zoe performed a curtsy, eyes downcast, curls spilling across her face. Her ease and naturalness lent the gesture an appeal often absent amongst more practiced courtiers.

Come. Enough of that. The Regent lifted her to her feet. Ceremony has its place, to be sure. None know that better than I. But between the two of us, no such reserve is necessary. I was friends with your father and shall be friends with you as well. I insist. Perhaps you will dance the Rhapsody with me to seal the bargain?

Zoe’s heart beat with fierce exultation. It was the final dance before Synchronicity and therefore the most important. To be asked to share this moment with the Regent conveyed a special distinction.

He led her out on to the floor. They touched hands and the dance commenced, slow and solemn at the outset, marked by an intricate series of steps executed by the Regent with polish and precision.

Tell me lord, why is it you have chosen me for the dance and not another? Any of these ladies would have been flattered to be selected.

"I did not wish to dance with the others. The Regent surveyed the ballroom with mock seriousness. I have not neglected my duties. I have been courteous and attentive to all. This final dance, I resolved to indulge my own inclinations. The Regent smiled. It is a license seldom accorded me."

Zoe bit her lip. She was not certain what to make of the Regent. He was a tall man, austere and a little intimidating, accustomed to having people defer to him. Still, he carried his authority without arrogance and without the need to remind others of who he was. Beneath the mantle of power, perhaps he was a man like any other.

My father spoke of you often when I was a child. Zoe was conscious of the Regent’s hand pressing against the small of her back. He would tell me of your time together at Court: of war, of intrigues, of the hunt—all manner of things. Always it was you and he together.

We were great friends, your father and I. The Regent spun Zoe around; a beautiful, stunning tapestry of greys swirled before her eyes. Of course, we were young back then and the world seemed a different place altogether. A better place. Perhaps that is why one seeks out the companions of one’s youth—to recapture that feeling.

How old was the Regent? Zoe wondered. She could not gauge his age as she could with others. His face was unlined, his bearing still vigorous and athletic. Yet no one would ever mistake him for a young man. He was both distant and intimate at the same time. It unsettled and excited her, made her bolder than she might otherwise have been. On a night such as this, anything seemed possible.

We were your age, possibly a year or two older, the last time of Synchronicity. I remember it so clearly—and yet, it was a lifetime ago; it was several lifetimes.

Zoe was twenty-three—had only just turned twenty-three. She looked up at the Regent and tried to imagine him at such an age. Was he so very different really, before power and responsibility had fallen to his lot? Had he laughed more, been bold and reckless with his feelings? Had he been unashamed to love?

But you were no less excited than we? Zoe asked. I cannot remember a time when the very mention of Synchronicity did not set my heart to racing. It has always loomed as something extraordinary, a moment which transcends all others.

Yes, we were all of us in thrall as the day approached, the Regent conceded. We barely slept and spoke of nothing else. Your father insisted that we fast and abstain from liquor. He was an idealist, you see, and believed that life was a grand adventure, one a man must plunge into without reservation. But Synchronicity changed all that. It altered his outlook.

Once every twenty-four years, the twin suns of Viracocha entered into conjunction and the grand event, the defining moment of Synchronicity, occurred. It was a moment that everyone lived in anticipation of, a defining cultural influence and a subject which never lost its fascination. The inhabitants of Viracocha reckoned the passing of time by Synchronicity and by the success, or failure, of reigning Princes. Yet for all that, the event retained an aura of mystery, an element of the unknown.

Some claimed that one did not become an adult properly until one had experienced Synchronicity. Of course, Zoe knew that was only a platitude that the older generation threw at the younger, a way of endowing themselves with greater authority and wisdom than, in fact, they possessed. Zoe’s father had never once spoken of Synchronicity, had never once mentioned it.

It is curious. I don't recollect my father ever mentioning the moment of Synchronicity. Not once. It is as though the memory haunted him, as though he wished to push it away and bury it.

You were not yet born then, of course. But I am convinced that it was Synchronicity which drove your father from Court. He sought a more secluded life, sought the peace and tranquility of the countryside. And perhaps he was the wiser of the two of us. I am not prepared to say. Certainly his daughter is proof that his decision was the proper one. The Regent placed his hand under Zoe’s chin, lifted her face, stared into her eyes with indescribable tenderness. Your eyes are so clear and limpid, so free of trouble—like a pool of water on a still day. I can see into your very soul almost.

The Regent brushed his thumb across Zoe’s cheek, a touch so light and fleeting that she could not be certain it had happened at all. He liked her, that was obvious, found her fresh and appealing. But not as a younger man might. His eyes were lit by some emotion which Zoe could not define and did not recognize. He had beautiful eyes, a soft, lambent grey, like pewter bathed in candlelight. Some deep sorrow resided in their depths, however, the result of knowing the world, and himself, altogether too well—and finding little to admire in either.

Suddenly Zoe was frightened. She did not know this man, did not understand him, could not discern what it was he wanted from her. Grey flowed around her in a dazzling, pulsating tide, more shades and tints and tones of grey than she had ever imagined: silver grey and ash and gun metal and pearl. And it was all of it wrong, all of it false, all of it, in some indefinable way, tainted. Tonight, of all nights, it should not be so. Tonight was a night of magic, of miracles, above all, of possibilities. She clung to this conviction with fierce determination.

Tell me, lord, Zoe’s voice trembled with emotion. Is it true what they say—that during Synchronicity the very heavens part asunder, the veil of eternity is lifted and one can see—oh, one can experience all of creation?

The Regent lifted his shoulders in an ambiguous gesture that might have signified anything. I should not express it so myself. But then, I lack the poet’s gift of language. The words you have spoken, the imagery. . . . The Regent paused a long moment. They are not adequate to the moment. An event such as this is visceral, something felt, experienced. It is not accessible via words. At least, I did not find it to be so. He was drawing away from Zoe, distancing himself, now, when she needed his reassurance, needed his guidance. She longed for the feel of his hand againstthe small of her back again, longed for the dance to go on forever.

But . . . everyone speaks of it so. Everyone!

Do they? The Regent looked away. His face was carved out of stone, his mouth a thin, hard line, devoid of sympathy. Worse luck for them.

The music ended and the gay coterie of dancers—the women flushed and giddy, the men bold, exuberant, defiant—swung to a halt. None of them seemed to want the moment to end. They lingered on the dance floor, chatting and smoothing their clothes, a little embarrassed at their own recklessness.

A herald stepped from the shadows. He was wearing the uniform of the 8th regiment of Hussars, the elite unit which guarded the palace and the person of the Regent. He was immaculate in every respect: trousers and starched collar, lambskin boots, polished buttons and sea mist insignia—grey from head to foot. Except . . . adorning his cap was an enormous ostrich feather, gaudy, outrageous, a deliciously subversive blue. He lifted a trumpet to his lips, blew a brassy fanfare.

The revelers spilled outside onto the balcony overlooking the gardens. The sky overhead was still a sullen shade of grey, but a blazing knot of light had begun to coalesce where the two suns were moving into conjunction.

Zoe huddled next to the balustrade, eyes scanning the throng. What had become of the Regent, she wondered. He had slipped away, disappeared without a word as to where he was going or why. It was so unceremonious, so totally unexpected. How could he have abandoned her now, at the very climax of the evening? He was a pillar, a veritable tower of strength whose presence conveyed reassurance and continuity—and now he was gone.

A hush fell over the crowd. They stared at the sky, rapt with expectation. The two suns had merged into one, a great angry ball of fire which spilled down out of the heavens. The cloud cover thinned and began to boil away. The grey faded to a tenuous white haze, patchy and insubstantial.

Streaks of color appeared, delicate ribbons of blue which seemed to recede into the distance forever. People pointed and cried out. Some raised their arms in supplication. The cloud cover broke apart and the sky assumed a beautiful luster unlike anything that Zoe had ever imagined. Blue saturated the air.

The crowd pushed against the balustrade. They trembled and shook. Light cascaded down from above. It washed over the land like a rising tide and, as it did, so it transformed everything that it touched. Colors leapt out with astonishing boldness and clarity: vibrant greens, brilliant reds, subtle countershadings of violet and turquoise, so breathtakingly lovely that tears sprang to Zoe’s eyes and ran down her cheeks unheeded. The world glistened and shone, pulsating with vitality.

Zoe stared out over the gardens, intoxicated by the splendor revealed for the first time. All along this treasure had lain hidden at her feet, only waiting to be discovered. Zoe’s heart burned with fierce passion, with a sense of fulfillment such as she had never before imagined possible.

Then the two suns parted again, resuming the slow elliptical dance that brought them into conjunction once every twenty-four years. The vast canopy of cloud closed overhead, marked by a thunderous silence from the onlookers which seemed to signal the end of an epoch, the end, perhaps, of time itself. The tide of grey rolled on uninterrupted, horizon to horizon, and the color—the dazzling, brilliant explosion of color—which had infused the land faded and disappeared. Field and meadow, forest and garden, resumed the same muddy, indistinct hue which they had borne all the days of Zoe’s young life and that she had never before noticed or questioned.

She felt indescribably sad, cheated; awash with melancholy and with regret. This dull, insipid world of greys and duns and browns, this empty, soulless sky, this claustrophobic collection of huts and villages—this was her home, her birthright, her destiny. She flung back her head in scorn.

The Regent stepped out onto the balcony, tall, imposing, stern. As one, the crowd turned upon him. Wild cries resounded through the ballroom, followed by the sound of glass breaking. A mass of revelers surged against the balustrade below, sending some toppling to their death. Zoe watched the unfolding spectacle, aghast. The people were as children who, shown what they cannot have, lashed out randomly and without distinction. Someone had to bear the brunt of their anger and resentment—and the role of Regent had been created for that very purpose.

Zoe recollected the sadness in the Regent’s eyes, sadness rooted in a knowledge he had never wanted and had never sought, burned indelibly into his soul. Synchronicity had stripped all illusion from his eyes, had made him the man he was today. Zoe knew, with utter certainty, that were she to look into a mirror now she would find the same sadness, the same disillusion.

It was as her elders had always said—one did not become an adult, properly, until one had experienced Synchronicity. And Zoe had so wanted to be an adult!

Until now.

THE SHAPE OF THE STORM

BY BROCK POULSEN

Brock Poulsen is no cowboy, wizard, or astronaut, but he sometimes writes about them. He’s a genre writer currently living in the City of Trees with his lovely family. His work has been included in the recent Weird Wasatch and Not Far From Roswell anthologies, as well as online magazines like Deep Magic and the Periodical, Forlorn.

Tall ship, three leagues west. The first mate's voice is calm and direct, and he braces his significant weight against the bulwark. Give us a nice fog, young one. His dark eyes, deep in his pillowy face, linger too long on my chest. I nod and move toward the prow, my bare feet cold on the deck. Closing my eyes, I reach my thoughts far above, coaxing down the frigid air, mingling it with the moisture all around the ship. It's a perfect night for fog, and after only a few moments I'm wrapped in a cloud so thick it's as if the helm is my own: an empty ship with only me as her crew.

I tug on the wind from the east, and above me I hear ropes pull taut and wood creak as the sails fill. There are shouted orders and the ship slides into silent motion, a specter in the mist. A different pair of hands take me by the shoulders and I'm returned to my cell, shackled to an iron ball. I could sink the ship easily enough by taking it into a storm, but I'd be dooming myself.

It's been a few days since I last considered it.

For the most part, the ship's crew are a happy lot. The first mate—Fallow is his name—is in charge most days. For all his leering, he seems competent. Captain Chen mostly stays in his quarters, delivering his orders through Fallow. I've never had any experience with the captain, though rumor has it the captain has a father from the sea; his mother married an ocean dweller, and the captain was a bit of both. I'd even heard he had gills like a fish, and fins on his back, and the piracy is his way of sending gold home.

Apart from the occasional trip above decks, mostly my days are spent with maps and charts. Besides being able to call storms, I have a very good sense of where and when they're going to occur on their own. Every few days—sometimes more often—I get a visit from Arta, the navigator, with a set of fresh maps showing possible routes. Arta is of a foul temperament and usually drunk, and she's the closest thing I have to a friend on the ship.

I can hear her coming before my door opens; her steps are heavy in the hallway, and the wall creaks in protest as she leans against it on her way. The door swings open on creaking hinges, and Arta points heavy-lidded eyes at my ankle. I've never tried to escape, only because a chance has never presented itself. Trying is something I only plan to do once, so I play along obediently, tugging the chain to show that it's secure.

On your feet, Sahra, she says, calling me by the Bartic word for 'cloud.' It's close enough to a name, and far better than other things I've been called. More maps for you.

The ship lists starboard as I stand, and I place a hand on the rough wall of my cell for balance. Arta remains for a moment after she hands me the pieces of parchment, and I wonder if she has news or more to say. I resist looking up, and she clears her throat and leaves me, bolting the door behind her.

The maps are, by necessity, hand-drawn fresh each time, and they are always beautiful. Arta is gifted; had the wind blown another way in her life she could have ended up an artist instead of navigator on this miserable vessel. Her own navigation magic consumes the drawings with each change of course, so that her job doubly ignores her talent. I once thought it a kind of poetic justice: a fitting punishment for her poor choice of profession.

I once nurtured these kinds of bitter thoughts, but that part of me had dulled long ago, like a limb immersed in the frigid sea. All that concerns me now is staying alive and staying fed. Helping Arta do her job well helps me to do both.

The first map on the pile shows a wide stretch of ocean, with fringes of coastline on the east and southeast corner. The delicate suggestion of a city is labeled Port of the Hammer, and as I run my fingers over the page, I envision coastal winds and clear skies. Taking a piece of charcoal, I write a symbol meaning clear on the ocean waves and add a pair of lines indicating the wind's direction.

The next page shows a pair of coastlines, south and north, whose expert lines draw close to each other until they nearly touch. Arta has added mountains inland, with rivers flowing down from their heights into the sea. A pair of cities, across the water from one another, are labeled as Prince's Theft and Prince's Ransom.

I sense a heavy storm is due in the next few days, starting north of Prince's Theft and crossing the water to the south. I make a few marks on the paper and place the sheet atop the first.

The third map is almost empty, and I check both sides to see that I'm looking at the correct one. A few scratches of pencil in the center of the page are labeled Wren Island, and there's a compass in the top left corner. I get the impression of favorable winds in this area and add my marks to the blank patch of ocean. Arta prefers I push the maps through the meal slot in my door when I'm done, but my eyes linger on the island before I finally do. It's roughly round, shaped like a crescent moon. It can't be much larger than a single village. It's a small detail, and my mind returns to it, kneading the thought like bread dough.

When I fall asleep, I dream of flying over Wren Island, high over the land, which I find dense with trees. Just before the dream ends, I see something flicker amid the woods; it's bright and gold and it draws me to it. My flight takes me so close I can almost reach it, and then the dream fades.

It's a few days before I'm called on again, and when Arta comes she's distracted. I'm taken to the deck with my iron ball in hand, still fastened to my ankle. There's a brisk wind picking up, and gray clouds to the east that are moving toward us.

But off the port side my eyes come to rest on Wren Island. It's exactly as I dreamed it, lush trees and shadowy depths. We're circling close enough I could almost throw a stone to it. I stand frozen for a moment, my heart leaping in my chest. Something on that island calls to me, and suddenly the weight fastened to my ankle feels like freedom.

I stare for only a moment, but then Fallow's face is close to my own. The storm, girl. How far out is it?

It takes me a moment to place his words. What?

He nearly strikes me, but restrains himself. The storm! he repeats. We still have business on the island. How long do we have before the storm hits?

I stare at the dark mass of clouds. Storms are odd things; they can approach so slowly you could almost walk and stay ahead of their reach. Or, with a bit of coaxing, they can arrive between the flash of lightning and the peal of thunder.

A few hours, at least, I say after some contemplating. I stretch my thoughts to the storm, inviting its winds and darkness. I estimate I could have it on top of us within a few minutes, and I need a reason to stay on deck until then. Will that be enough time for them, do you think? I try to sound concerned.

Fallow ignores me, which suits me fine. As I back slowly away from him, I notice the crew is focused on the island, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. Whatever business they have on the island, it's of great interest to everyone around me. I move toward a lifeboat, willing myself to be smaller.

The first crash of thunder is deafening, and I know my lie is exposed. I toss the iron ball over the side of the lifeboat and climb in after it, ducking down as lightning flashes in the sky above us. Extending an oar, I push against the ship, swinging the lifeboat out over the water. Fallow's eyes, pinched with anger, find me just as I release the rope and drop the boat into the sea.

The first big wave hits moments later, pushing my little vessel against the ship, tossing me into the bottom and covering me in cold saltwater. The storm above is a wide one, and stubborn against my urging; I won't be able to send it away as easily as I invited it. I extend the oars and begin to row, trying to put distance between myself and The Mermaid's Spoil. Faces appear above me, staring over the bulwark, and I hear shouting.

I hear another wave before I see it, but instead of moving me toward the ship this one tosses me like a toy in a bath. I hang in the air for a moment, then crash into the icy water.

The weight on my ankle pulls me down, the cuff digging into my skin as I struggle for the surface. It's futile, and I continue to sink, the pressure of the water forcing air from my lungs in tiny bubbles. The water is dark within seconds, and I can think of only tombs and graves.

As the last bubble escapes my mouth, a pair of hands grips me roughly under the shoulders, and I’m pulled toward the surface. My ankle screams with pain, the metal cutting into me as the weight insists I sink lower. The hands release me, and there's a flash of steel, and then my world goes dark.

Seawater burns my throat as I cough, and I open my eyes to see the deck of The Spoil against the side of my face. My head throbs, and I look up to see a slender man kneeling beside me, concern on his pale face. Black hair is slicked against his head, and his clothes are dripping and clinging to him.

I cough again, and as I vomit more seawater the man pats my back. You'll be okay, he says, his voice low and confident, with an odd accent like his cheeks are too thick.

Someone behind me clears their throat, and I turn to find Fallow's wife, Mercy, standing over me. I brace myself for her rebuke, but she simply waits, hands behind her back. Realization strikes me about this young man who pulled me from the water, and I turn back to face him.

Captain Chen? I say, my voice emerging from my throat in a ragged gasp.

He nods. You fell overboard in the storm. Luckily for you, I saw you from my quarters. I can't keep my eyes from glancing at his neck, searching for gills as he speaks.

Thank you, I say, the words sounding insignificant. I can almost feel Mercy’s glare behind me. Captain Chen helps me to my feet, shielding me from the woman's glare as he returns me to my berth. His hand—rough, with scaly webbing between the fingers—feels odd in mine, but not unwelcome.

I'm startled to find someone behind my door when it's opened, but the Captain seems unsurprised to see the young woman. She has light hair, and she moves herself away from the door as we enter, clutching the fabric of her dress and sinking into the corner, drawing her knees to her chest. Captain Chen kneels and removes the cuff on my ankle; I hadn't noticed it was still there, but the chain has been severed and drags behind me. In its place goes a new cuff, fastened to a link in the floor. Another chain leads to the corner, ending around the frightened young woman's ankle.

I'm in a good mood today, Captain Chen says as he stands. He leans close to me, and his eyes glow with a pale light. Any good humor that existed in him above decks has evaporated. Should you try to escape again, you will not find me so forgiving. He closes the door and all is silent.

I sit on the floor and lean against the wall, my dress still soaked and clinging to my body. This new girl in the corner hasn't moved. The trip to Wren Island, then, must have been for her. Before I sink into exhausted sleep, I wonder why they wanted her.

My eyes snap open as sunlight enters the small window above me. The young woman is still in her corner, and her eyes meet mine for a moment before she looks away. Her yellow hair falls to her shoulders in waves, and I can see fresh bruises on her arm.

Hello, I say. What's your name?

Her eyes are wide as she meets mine again, and she shakes her head slightly. More bruises on her cheeks, and her eyes are ringed in painful red.

That's okay, I say. I try to keep my voice quiet and reassuring. I was taken from my home, too. I adjust the ankle restraint and sigh, stretching my legs in the cramped space. She paws at her own ankle, the pale skin already broken from the metal cuff.

The woman's expression doesn't change, and she doesn't flinch or draw back when I stand to look out the window. My dress is drying, going stiff with salt, and I try to loosen it where it scratches my skin. Arta should be coming soon with maps, I think.

Before long, my prediction comes true, and Arta's heavy steps descend the stairs. I can tell even before she arrives that she'll be in a foul mood, and I stand against the far wall as she approaches.

The door swings open. Heard you went for a swim last night, she says. A wave of rank air washes over me, carrying the smell of alcohol. What's a'matter? Ship's not good enough for you? She kicks at the chain where it meets the floor and holds out several pieces of parchment. Hurry up with these. Fallow's eager.

I take the papers and set about my work, aware of the young woman's curious gaze. When I finish the first, I hold it up to show her. Maps, I say. To navigate.

She moves for the first time, angling her head to see the parchment, and I notice something fastened around her throat. A dull steel band encircles her neck, secured with a lock. She sees me staring, and again retreats behind her knees.

Why did they do that?

She glares at the floor, clenching her jaw against the threat of tears. We sit in silence for several moments, and then I return to the maps. None of them show anything of particular interest this time, other than to display the effects of too much wine on Arta's artistic ability. I finish making my charcoal marks and send the maps out the meal slot. There are storms ahead on two out of the four possible routes, and I don't look forward to seeing Fallow or Mercy again so soon after my escape attempt.

We sail without incident for a few days, and the young woman keeps her silence through it all. I try again to speak to her, asking her name.

She shakes her head, and I shrug. Can I call you Silya? It means 'sister'.

Her eyes return to the floor, but I think I detect a shrug from her shoulders, which I take to mean she won't object to it. You can call me Sahra, if you decide to speak. I give her my false name; one can never be too careful who you trust with your real one. Even a sister. 

I have entirely stopped thinking about Captain Chen when a day later he appears at my door. He is in something resembling a uniform this time, a crisp blue blazer with a cream-coloured cravat. I avoid his gaze, his previous threat fresh in my mind, but he hasn't come for me.

His key clicks softly as he removes the cuff from Silya's ankle. He pulls her to her feet, and her gait is unsteady as the captain leads her toward the deck. I count the links in my chain for the hundredth time. There are nineteen, the same material as the band around Silya's neck. Is she forbidden to speak to me, I wonder? Is she my replacement, after my escape attempt?

I try not to dwell on the thought, sitting in my corner and tugging at a fraying string in the hem of my dress. I tie it in one knot after another, until it's too short to thread back through itself. Despite my efforts not to care, I wonder where they've taken Silya, and what she's doing.

Like an answer to the thought, I hear a voice, soft and clear, as quiet as if it were just outside my door. It's a woman's voice, and as she sings I see Silya's face in my mind. Her face is lovely, and the song sends shivers into my limbs, forcing me to my feet, compelling me toward the singer. The effect startles me, but it's like I'm outside of my body, watching it behave without my permission.

The voice is