Hero (8 page)

“Does it matter? Sea glass isn’t
supposed
to be shattered into a million pieces . . . but I should have expected nothing less from you. Where’s your bag?”

“My bag? But . . . how do you know . . . ?” And then Saturday remembered the properties of Thursday’s enchanted spyglass. It could not only see across leagues to other sides of the world, but it could also see certain events through time. Thursday must have known that Mama would want Saturday to accompany her.

Finally, a chance to leave the towerhouse, and on a pirate ship to boot! But what should have been excitement over a journey on the high seas was dampened by the thought that Saturday would spend the whole trip looking for Trix’s dead body floating among the waves.

“Erik ought to go with you,” said Monday. “He can accompany Mama and Saturday to their destination once they reach the northern shore.” Erik bowed deeply to Monday, as if she had just bestowed upon him some very important royal honor.

Thursday tilted her head a moment in thought and then said cheerily, “The more the merrier! Always nice to have another hand on deck. Mama, Saturday should really get a move on before the ocean dries up again.”

Saturday considered the new horizon. Was that even possible? Anything was possible today, it seemed.

Mama clicked her tongue. “You heard her, Miss Molasses. Fetch your things so we can be off.”

Saturday grumbled sullenly and stomped back into the towerhouse, compelled to collect her things at Mama’s enchanted behest. Clever Thursday, using Mama to shoo her along. Peter followed her up to her room, as Saturday knew he would. He was the only one besides Papa—and Thursday, apparently—who knew about her bag.

Though she had been quite young, Saturday clearly remembered the day Thursday ran off with the Pirate King. There had been little warning. Thursday had spent the morning as usual, full of chores and breakfast and stories. She’d disappeared sometime that afternoon. No one thought to look for her until dinner. Wednesday came down from her aerie and delivered the note Thursday had left upon her tidy bed, and that was that. The Woodcutters were left with nothing but a sheet of paper and an echo of bright laughter on the wind.

That day, little Saturday rescued an old feedbag from the barn and started putting things in it, readying for her own journey. The feedbag became an old pillowcase, then a laundry sack, and finally a threadbare messenger bag that Friday had mended for her after a certain amount of bribing and begging. The summer of her sixteenth year, Saturday had been so sure that adventure would call her that she took the bag to work in the Wood every day.

She was ready for anything, but anything never came.

The summer had passed uneventfully, and she stowed the bag in her room once again. She’d found a hinged floorboard beneath her bed, cleaned out what looked like ash and dried leaves and bound sticks to make room. It was the perfect hiding place.

Now Saturday shimmied behind the stout headboard and Peter got a firm grasp on the footboard. Together they shoved the bed aside. Peter hopped onto Saturday’s mattress and sat cross-legged while Saturday fetched the bag.

“You must be thrilled,” said Peter.

Saturday was not especially thrilled about breaking the world, but that wasn’t what he meant. She always knew what Peter meant. “Overjoyed,” she said sarcastically.

“Unemployed,” rhymed Peter.

Saturday wasn’t in the mood for games. In one great yank, she extracted her bag from its hiding place. She plopped both it and herself on the bed beside Peter. Almost as an afterthought, she added the ebony-handled brush to its contents.

“I knew this day was bound to come.” Peter made a face at the bag. “When will I see you again?”

“When there are stars in the daytime.” Judging by Peter’s forlorn expression, he wasn’t really in the mood for games either. “Oh, Peter, don’t worry. I’ll be home as soon as I find Trix.” Even as she said them, the words sounded like a lie. Jack hadn’t come home either, once upon a time.

Peter caught Saturday’s upper arm in a grip that would have bruised any of her other sisters. “You haven’t killed Trix. He’s fine. The animals will help him. They always do.”

But the animals couldn’t have helped him if they had all died in the flood as well. “He’s fine and I’ll bring him back,” she said determinedly.

“Just make sure he’s safe.” Peter’s voice was soft now. “Only bring him back if he wants to come.”

The idea was preposterous. “Why would he not want to come home?”

He indicated the bag between them. “Adventure is the vice of all Woodcutters.”

It was true enough; even with its one castle-worthy tower, the tiny cottage was stifling. “Fine. I will make sure Trix
wants
to come home before I tie him to a horse.”

Peter nodded, taking her sarcasm as oath. “And protect Mama,” he added.

“Mama doesn’t need protection. She could kill a bear by staring at it.”
Or by telling it to die.

“Will you please think about someone other than yourself for five seconds?”

“I’m thinking about Trix,” said Saturday. She hadn’t stopped thinking about Trix; the guilt and litany of unanswered questions were taking their toll on her.

Peter growled at the ceiling. “Gods, you drive me mad.”

“That makes me glad,” Saturday rhymed.

“You make me sad,” said Peter.

“I’ll find our lad.”

“I’ll stay with Dad.”

“You’re going to miss me so bad,” said Saturday, even though she really meant it the other way around.

“Yes, Whirlwind, I am.” He caught her up in a hug and then stared at her face, as if memorizing it. She did the same, etching in her mind her brother’s sky-blue eyes, his wind-tossed sandy hair, the line of his eyebrow, the curve of his lips, the shadow of stubble on his dimpled chin, the freckle beneath his right eye. He hugged her again. “Don’t forget about me while you’re off adventuring.”

“I’ll bring you back a chest full of gold and a pretty girl to keep you company.”

“See that you do.”

She wanted to linger with her beloved brother, but the moment Saturday slid her arm through the strap of her bag, the compulsion to comply with Mama’s order became irresistible.

“And one more thing.”

“Seriously, Peter?” Saturday walked backwards down the steps so that she could see her brother deliver whatever preposterous addendum he had in store.

“Try not to stink too badly.”

“I will sleep with pigs, just for you!” She leapt down the last half-flight and sped across the sitting room with Peter hot on her heels.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Mama said on the skiff to Thursday’s boat. She had finished braiding Saturday’s long hair and was now unable to distract herself with anything else.

Thursday patted her hand. “I’m sorry, Mama. This new sea is a rough one. Once we get to the ship you can lie down in my quarters. My cabin boy will fetch you anything you need. And if she gives you any lip, you have my permission to throw her overboard.”

Mama smiled a little at the jest, but kept her lips tightly shut. Her skin turned faintly green. She breathed deeply, swallowed hard, and pinched the skin between her left thumb and forefinger. Why didn’t she just tell herself to not be sick? Mama’s stubbornness truly knew no bounds.

Erik worked hard at the oars, fighting the waves that tried unceasingly to punch and toss them back to shore. Mama pushed Saturday away to heave what remained of the accursed porridge over the side. The shove caused Saturday’s sheathed sword to knock into the side of the skiff and almost topple her into the water, but Erik’s hand shot out to steady her.

“Thank you,” she said.

Erik only grunted before returning his attention to the waves, and Saturday officially gave up being polite. She was about to board a pirate ship, after all.

Once on the ship, Saturday was glad to have her sword at her side to keep her from succumbing to the sickness that already held Mama in its thrall. Thursday ushered Mama into her quarters at what Saturday assumed was the front of the boat. The aforementioned cabin boy was a skinny little thing in a stocking cap, but Thursday expected her to lug Mama’s belongings anyway. Saturday had offered to help, but the cabin boy just narrowed her big blue eyes and gave a scowl worthy of Saturday’s own.

Realizing her assistance was neither required nor wanted, she excused herself to explore the deck of the ship. The rest of the crew busied themselves around her, calling out orders she didn’t understand. Saturday held fast to the railing and turned her face into the wind as the sails caught and moved them out to sea.

A large shadow passed over the sun; she shielded her eyes with a hand to see a few birds with very large wings diving into the ship’s wake. Three were white; one was smaller and dark, but with a wingspan just as wide as that of his fairer cousins. The white birds seemed more skilled at snatching prey, though the dark one was just as adept at thieving from the others’ beaks.

“Mollymawks,” said a voice behind her. “The dark one is a frigate bird. Don’t see many of those this far north. But then, one doesn’t typically see the ocean this far east.”

Saturday braced herself for the sisterly drama, but none came.

“The mollymawks bring luck, if they stick around. Their dung’s good luck too. High Simon wears an umbrella for a hat.”

Saturday squinted up into the bright sky at the crow’s-nest. Simon was a common name on the sea for men hiding from the law. “How many Simons are in your crew?”

Thursday took a moment to count them all. “Seven,” she said finally. “Plus Crow and Magpie, whom you’ve met.”

Ah yes, the duo that had delivered Thursday’s trunk full of treasures that spring. The daggers in their boots had fascinated Saturday almost as much as the men themselves. One of them had a funny accent. She couldn’t remember which. She looked forward to seeing them again. “And your cabin boy,” added Saturday.

“Ashes-on-the-Wind.”

“She doesn’t seem like much.”

“If her brains were as smart as her mouth, she’d be Queen of the World,” said Thursday. “Pay her no mind.”

If the girl had half as much gumption as Thursday and Saturday, she was in the right place. A gust of wind whipped Saturday’s hair over her shoulder, and she was glad Mama had taken the time to braid it. The birds screeched at each other overhead, dancing in and out on the currents of air as if they were braiding it themselves.

From beneath her brightly colored kerchief, Thursday pulled several strands of hair and handed them to Saturday. The bits of titian curled around her fingers. “Monday said I should give this to you. Not quite sure what for, though.”

“My bracelet.” Saturday slipped the small dagger from the opposite side of her swordbelt and pressed gently at the seam in the blue-green fabric. Two small stitches gave way, and she shoved Thursday’s hair into the thin sleeve. When the rough edges were pressed back together the fabric seemed to melt back into itself, as if there had never been an interruption.

“That looks familiar. Friday’s handiwork?”

Of course Thursday recognized the fabric; it had been she who’d sent it to the towerhouse in her infamous trunk. That same trunk had borne the brush-and-mirror set.

“She made me a dress for the first night of the royal balls, just like you requested,” Saturday told her. “But then I . . . I wasn’t able to go the second night, so Friday used bits of my dress to gussy up everyone else’s gowns. She sewed up pieces of their hair into this remnant as a memento.” Saturday had hated those balls and everything about them. The bracelet was a trophy, marking her triumph of will at defying Mama’s wishes.

“That’s sweet of her.”

“That’s Friday, silly and sentimental. After the evil king was dead and the dust cleared, Trix and Peter and Monday gave me bits of their hair to add to it. Yours was the only one of the siblings’ I didn’t have.”

“Besides Jack and Tuesday.”

Saturday gave her pirate sister a sideways glance. Had the sun bleached her brain along with her hair? “Right,” she said. “Besides Jack and Tuesday.” Not that she meant to go digging up graves.

Thursday had to shade her eyes to look up at Saturday. How had she ever won a fight being so short?

“You’ve certainly grown quite a bit bigger since I last saw you,” said her tiny sister.

“Her mouth has grown proportionately. So has yours.”

Erik’s presence delighted Thursday—as did almost everything else, it seemed. The seaman’s garb he wore now still covered as much of him as possible, but the material was lighter and blew like the sails in the wind. Saturday would have thought it strange to see Erik without livery and armor, but the relaxed look suited him.

“It’s been too long, Erik,” said Thursday.

“You were but a girl when Jack was cursed, and little more than that when you eloped with your Pirate King. I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you for not saying goodbye.”

“You cared about me too much,” said Thursday. “You would have talked me out of it.”

“Damned right, I would have.” There was a hint of that serious, disapproving look on Erik’s face with which Saturday was all too familiar. She was pleased to not be the only recipient.

“So, considering a life on the sea yet? I could do with a Red Simon.”

Erik chuckled, and the seriousness vanished. “I’ve missed you, lass, but I’m not sure I could. I’ll give it some thought.”

“You’ve got time,” said Thursday. “The sea is patient. Unless it’s called up by one of my sisters.”

Saturday changed the subject. “Your skin seems to be faring better.” On the skiff it had been close to blistering; a pale pink blush was all that tinted Erik now.

“Simon Cook gave me a pot of salve to use to ward off the sun. Said he stole it from a witch on a troll ship.” He looked to Thursday for confirmation, but the Pirate Queen only shrugged. “He also told me you bested a kraken on the way here.”

“A kraken? Really?” asked Saturday.

“Really,” said Thursday, as if fighting giant sea monsters was something she did every day. “All sorts of things got churned up when your ocean decided to visit.”

“Do you think we’ll get to see anything like that?” Saturday asked. Knowing her luck, they never would.