Thread of Frost

Ch. 30: A Damning, Indisputable Thing

The monsoons came in spades.

Steel grey waves rolled in, foaming white at the mouth. Cold rain lashed sideways on fishermen desperately dragging boats up the cliffs, shoving their vessels into caves or under ramshackle wooden shelters. Anna watched it all from a sheltered balcony of the citadel, standing barefoot with a cup of tea; she'd offered to help, but Althea shook her head.

"The sailors have their routine," the other girl said. "We'd only be interfering."

"This happens every year?"

"Usually." Althea adjusted her thin grey shawl. "Don't worry. It'll let up soon enough."

But the rain came again.

And again.

Relentless torrents of water, flooding the beaches and streets below. White straw hats floated through the streets like eggs bobbing in a pot of boiling water. Every day, Anna slipped into a cloak and a pair of galoshes, hurrying through the rain-washed streets to the shipyard. And every day, she was told the same thing.

"Another week." The master shipbuilder wiped at his sweaty face. "At least. We still need to weld the blocks together."

She looked up at the ship. The wooden slats yawned open like the ribcage of some great animal, and several men were screwing bolts into place. Sparks flew through the workshop. This boat, Anna thought, was going to cost a small fortune; thank gods Ryne had the presence of mind to grab a few thousand rukka and some priceless jewels on his escape from Stillwater Castle.

"Can I help?" Anna asked.

The shipbuilder tucked an oil-stained cloth back into his pocket. "Depends. Do you know how to use a wrench?"

Anna picked up a bronze tool, weighing it in her hand. "I'm a quick learner."

The man looked at the boat. "What's the rush?"

"I have places to be," Anna said.

The shipbuilder wiped a bronze tool on his trousers. "You won't be able to sail for at least three weeks. This storm will break you in her hands." He rubbed thoughtfully at his beard. "She's happy to drown men for sport."

"Well," Anna said, "I've always liked a gamble."

The man shrugged. Handed her a wrench.

"Follow my instructions," he said. "There's no room for creativity. Otherwise you'll find yourself at the bottom of the sea."

So Anna lay on her back, hammering nails, listening to the storm beating at the tin roof with angry fists. The men whistled as they worked, clambering over the ship like crabs scuttling over rocks; they chewed sweet grass as the greyish light faded into night. Did they know who she was? Anna wasn't sure. If they did, the men never showed it; they treated her like everybody else, slapping her shoulder and cajoling her into trying cheddar-lemon flatbread and crab meat slathered on biscuits.

She hammered at a nail.

Her lungs burned.

But it was a good burn, Anna thought; a productive burn. She was so often winded and breathless these days — climbing stairs, changing clothes, raising a godsdamn glass of water to her mouth — that it felt good to suffer for a purpose.

Not that Slaine was impressed.

"You can't keep doing this," Slaine said. "It's not good for you."

Anna shifted. She was waist-deep in a pool of warm water, dressed in a pair of cotton shorts and a thin tank top. A glass of orange juice rested beside the pool, and she tapped the bottom. "I disagree. Orange juice has plenty of health benefits. Vitamin C, potassium, fighting inflammation..."