The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea by Amelia Wilde

Author:Amelia Wilde [Wilde, Amelia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-01-18T18:30:00+00:00

13

Ashley

Poseidon either gets up early or doesn’t sleep. He’s not there when I wake up the next morning.

Neither is a new ball and chain. It’s an improvement for sure, and I take full advantage of it. I stretch my leg high up in the air as I lie down in bed, emboldened by my new freedom. It’s something I could do every day of my life before this, but it’s not something I ever really appreciated until now, when it had been deprived.

This time, when I get to the galley, I can sit on one of those stools without awkwardly trying to keep the ball on my lap.

It smells good in here. The oven opens and closes out of sight. “What are you baking?”

The plate appears first, followed by the cook. He clears his throat. “Try one.”

He’s given me a cinnamon roll, hot from the oven and drizzled in icing, a fork perched along the edge of the plate. Tears come to my eyes. It’s dramatic for a cinnamon roll. I know that. So I blink away the tears and pick up the fork. “I didn’t know you could make cinnamon rolls.”

The first bite is like coming back from the dead. I haven’t had anything this good since the eggs yesterday, and before that, nothing compared.

“Every good cook knows how to bake at least one thing.”

It’s half-gone already and I could eat an entire tray. “And this is your thing?”

A pot meets the stove, and the catch of the gas ticks and flames. “My daughter liked them. I thought you might, too.”

Past tense. My throat goes tight, the ache contrasting with the sweetness and cinnamon on my tongue. “What else did she like?”

The silence goes on so long I think he’s not going to answer. I wouldn’t, if I were him. I would ignore me until I stopped pestering him. He stirs a pot, and a utensil clatters in the sink. “She loved to swim.” He pokes his head out so I can see the arch of his eyebrow, the warmth of memory in his eyes. “Not like you.”

I lay the fork primly on the plate. “I’m a beginner.”

“So Poseidon says.”

My cheeks heat, but Cook is back out of sight. I wonder which details about last night Poseidon left out. If he left any out.

But it’s fine. If Poseidon can spend his spare time talking about me to the Cook, then turnabout’s fair play. Before I can get down from the stool, Cook slides a napkin over the pass-through. Inside is a crispy strip of bacon, broken in two, and a buttered English muffin.

“Thank you,” I say over the kitchen noise.

He doesn’t answer.

I go up to the deck, which is a midmorning kind of busy that matches the peaceful sea. The usual cleaning is going on. Usual—like I know about how things work on pirate ships. A youngish man sits on top of a big shipping crate, looking over the sea. Poseidon is nowhere in sight.

The guy on the crate looks approachable enough, so I take a bite of bacon and wade in.

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