Page 28 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

When the sailor left, Nore crawled back into bed and shut her eyes. She so hated the nausea of these crossings—there was nothing she could do about it when it was bad; they were out of any system of magic, so it wasn’t like she could draw on some sort of power, and neither could anyone else. On voyages with Tern, he gave her tea that helped to calm her stomach. She thought it unlikely anyone would do such a thing here.

She suffered the first day of the storm by sleeping, mostly, and occasionally sipping on water, reading more of her Idistran histories when she had time. On the second day, the seasickness was worse in the morning. When evening came and the ship still rolled, a sailor came to her door with another thin soup in a mug and seasickness tablets. Nore took them greedily.

“Thank you,” she said, gulping two of the tablets down dry. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to get through the tangles. Though she didn’t want to think of him, she asked, “Has anyone given Mr. Khari tablets?”

The sailor blinked at her. “Who?”

Nore swallowed again, trying to get rid of the residual chalkiness the tablets left behind. “Mr. Khari. Caspian. My… prisoner. Driggs should be looking after him…?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been to see him, ma’am.” The sailor turned away before Nore could ask more probing questions, which left her worried.

She stood, hesitant, in the open doorway. She hadn’t seen Caspian in days—and hadn’t gotten an update, even after her harsh words to the first mate.

Nore let her head fall against the wall, relishing the pain as her brain rattled in her skull. “Fuck,” she muttered.

But she couldn’t avoid it. If no one had checked on Caspian, there was no way to know if he was okay. Sparrow’s words rang in her head: If he strangles himself with his own shirt halfway into the voyage, the duchess will be displeased.

If Caspian died—if he was incapacitated at all—it was Nore who would pay for it.

“Fuck,” she said again, with feeling.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Nore grabbed the key and her coat.

It was a treacherous, unstable walk down the two decks to the floor where Caspian was imprisoned. She saw no one else on her way down and nearly fell more than once as the ship battled its way over the waves.

Her hands shook as she unlocked the door. It fell open without her pushing as the ship rocked, revealing the scene inside. Clearly, her threats had fallen flat—or maybe, she despaired, by bringing up the situation to Driggs, she had only made it worse. It smelled sour in the room, a mix of vomit and fever and sweat, and it was so cold that Nore’s breath frosted in front of her. She stepped in slowly, carefully—but it took her only a moment for her gaze to lock in on Caspian’s body, crumpled in the corner.

Nore had spent five years of her life imagining what it would feel like hearing about Caspian’s death. She used to use the fantasy of it to fall asleep: receiving the letter, breaking the seal, and finding out that this unendurable weight on her life had simply just disappeared.

She imagined it all: joy, revulsion, relief. The feeling that, for the first time since his betrayal, she could take a full breath.

What she did not imagine were the bands of terror that seized her heart as the image of Caspian’s curled-up body cemented in her memory.

“Cas,” Nore said before she could stop herself as she launched herself across the room.

If he was dead, the duchess would never trust her again. If he was dead, it was all Nore’s fault.

If he was dead, she would never be able to know how much of it had been real.

Nore fell to her knees at Caspian’s head, brushing the hair away from his forehead on instinct. It was only then that she realized that he was shivering. If he was shivering, he could not be dead.

The ship rolled. Nore pretended that was the reason for the choked sob that came from her chest.

“Are you awake?” Nore demanded. She was already fumbling in her pockets for the key—he was her prisoner, dammit, and Sparrow said she could free him when she saw fit. Well now, she saw fit.

“Hmm?”

Nore pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. He was burning with fever, clammy with sweat. She swore under her breath as she stole down his body, seeking the restraints. They opened easily under her key, leaving behind angry red marks on his ankles, then his wrists.

It was only when he was unfettered that Nore realized she did not fear his freedom.

“I’m going to move you,” Nore said. It was somewhat hopeless: though he was only a bit taller than Nore, he was lean, packed muscle. She was sure she couldn’t move him herself.

She struggled to get his arm around the back of her neck. “I need your help,” she said.

His head rolled, resting on her shoulder. She felt the sweaty heat of his curls against her neck. “Knew you’d come running eventually.”

“Fuck you,” Nore said, but there was no heat to it.