Chapter 26

When she had been posing as the cabin boy, Emma had been expected to rise when the captain did, or ideally even before then. This was now the second day in a row that she'd woken to find that he'd already left his bed and begun his day, allowing her to sleep until later. The prior day she'd had an excuse, but today guilt prodded at her for it. Mistress or not, there was always work to be done aboard the ship, and even more so now that they'd lost two members of their crew. Idle hands were useless and their owners would only ever be in the way, so Emma threw back the bed cover and commenced her morning routine. Once again, she rejoiced at the greater simplicity of the process now that she no longer needed to alter the shape of her body by binding herself.

Just as she was she was putting her hands on the ladder to ascend to the upper deck, her stomach grumbled. She wondered how late she'd slept as she changed her course and headed for the ship's galley instead. Even before she opened its door, she could smell the flavors drifting out with the ever-present steam. The pot of stew that hung over the stove was kept simmering at all times, though never more than half full. If they were to leave much more than that in there, even though the suspended pot was usually able to sway along with the movements of the ship, a sudden storm or unusual wave pattern was likely to send the stew sloshing over its rim, wasting rations and making the floors dangerously slick.

Most crews on most ships came to dread their mealtime fare mere days or weeks after replenishing their supplies, but it was another story aboard the Jolly Roger. Instead of being forced to consume whatever resulted from throwing all forms of nourishment aboard into a single concoction at once, this crew was fortunate enough to have a member who had a talent for knowing which items mixed best with which others and in what proportions. Unfortunately, Mr. Murray was still weak and recovering from the loss of his foot. That didn't keep him out of the kitchen, but it did keep him from doing much of any cooking. The prior day, he'd spent most of the day seated in the corner and barking out orders at O'Sullivan with a lack of his usual geniality.

O'Sullivan was doing his best to keep up and comply with the directions he got, but he had neither Murray's skill nor experience, making O'Sullivan visibly frantic and Murray frustrated. Emma hesitated in the doorway, wondering if it was a bad idea to intrude on the scene while the building tension was already palpable. She didn't get a chance to change her mind, however. Murray caught sight of her while she was still deliberating, and his next holler was directed at her.

"Oi, Swan! There be the devil!" He waved her over toward the small table where he sat, and she shuffled toward him. "Heard ye had yourself an adventure and came back a changed man. So to speak. Ye doing alright?"

Emma pulled up a stool and perched herself on it. "I think I should be asking you that. Seems you lost a good chunk of weight there."

He roared out a thundering belly laugh that gave Emma a wide grin. "And here I was 'bout to apologize in case I ever disrespected ye not knowing ye was a woman. Tongue like a whip on ye, though. I don't think ye really need any sorrys from me."

"No, definitely no apologies needed. You've always been good to me anyway."

"You're a lucky one, then." O'Sullivan chimed in, taking a momentary break from chopping onions to wipe a beading tear away from his eye using his wrist, blinking rapidly. His many dark braids had been tied back in a bundle at the nape of his neck using a length of rope. "I'm getting nothing but disrespect from him all day yesterday and all so far today."

"I'm just trying to keep ye from poisoning us all with whatever horrid concoction ye'd come up with left to yer own devices."

Leaning his weight on the counter with one hand, O'Sullivan flourished the large knife in the air before him for emphasis. "I'm not going to believe you if you tell me that cutting onions into the wrong size pieces turns them poisonous."

"That depends," Murray rubbed at his chin. "Does it count as poison if ye only die on the inside?"

O'Sullivan rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh, then pointed the tip of the knife toward the onion he'd been working on. "Swan, do you want to do this?"

Before Emma could agree or decline, Murray cut her off, but gave her a wink. "What? Ye asking 'cause she's a woman?"

"I am asking because she's a person who isn't me."

"Trust me," Emma assured. "You don't want me cooking. I will accidentally find a poisonous shape of onion."

Resigned, O'Sullivan resumed chopping. "He keeps this up and that might be my preferred option soon. Give him some more rum, though. Maybe dulling his pain more will hush him up some."

"Now that is something I can do very well." She stood, and grabbed the flagon that hung on the wall nearby. There was a cup on the table by Murray's elbow, and she poured a generous amount into it.

Murray beamed up at her as she did so, and then lifted up the cup before him in a gesture of thanks when she'd finished. "Pretty sure the lad's hoping I'll nod off. I won't."

She threw a smirk over at O'Sullivan, knowing full well that Mr. Murray was indeed prone to drifting off when overindulging, as much as he might try to deny it. If that truly was the plan, it was likely to be a success. Even if not, Murray tended to be a jovial sort of drunk. In such a state, he'd be far more inclined to belting out shanties and attempting to convince others to join him in those songs than he would be to cussing anyone out. While it could become obnoxious at times, it was certainly preferable to the alternative of leaving him in his current cantankerous state, especially when the chosen target for his general dissatisfaction was working with large knives.

After taking a hearty swig with only a slight wince, Murray cleared his throat. "So what can we do ye for, Swan? Or did ye only make yer way down here to make sure we ain't come to death blows yet?"

"I'm starving," she admitted. "What do you boys have on the menu today?"

"Hardly nothing. Boy's so slow he ain't finished preparing a morning meal yet, and the sun's already gotten high."

"I might go faster," O'Sullivan grumbled "if I didn't have some bloke nonstop yammering at me from the corner while I'm trying to get all this prepared. You're just distracting me, you are."

Murray shrugged that off. "I ain't pretty enough to distract him," he told Emma. "There's always plenty of smoked meats and such in that cabinet there, but ye know that well enough. 'Fraid that's near all we've got for ye right now. Unless you want more of last night's mess."

"Oh, come on now." Emma coaxed as she closed the distance between her and the indicated cabinet. "It wasn't bad. I think you're being too hard on him."

"Thank you, Swan." O'Sullivan enunciated with great exaggeration. "I'm no master of this art, but I'm making do. I'm getting no reward for this, neither. This is all out of the goodness of my heart."

"Oh, aye?" Murray put his cup down with a thump, causing its contents to slosh and very nearly spill. Clearly, rum was beginning to have an effect on his coordination. "My heart's gonna attack me, watching the way you stumble and flail around in there."

Emma shook her head, making her way back to the door with a few strips of dried beef in her hand. "I swear, the two of you bicker like an old married couple.

"Oi!" Murray called after her as she ducked out. "I ain't that old!"