Chapter 6
He waited for the exact crest of the swell to lift the stern.
"Now," Fin breathed.
With a surge of terrifying strength, Fin threw his entire weight against the helm, spinning the massive wheel through the spokes until it hit the stops with a dull, heavy thud.
The effect was instantaneous.
Caught between the reversed wind on the mainmast and the torque of the rudder, the *Cynthia* didn't drift. She pivoted.
Her bow swung through the wind with unnatural, terrifying violence, spinning in a vicious circle right on the crest of the wave. The jagged granite spire of the Razor Reef rushed past the starboard rail—so close that Evander could see the black mussels clinging to the rock face, could have reached out his cutlass and struck the stone. The backwash from the reef slammed into the side of the hull, showering them in white foam.
Then, the wind caught the fore-sails from the opposite quarter.
The canvas filled with a deafening *CRACK* that sounded like a cannon broadside. The frigate surged forward, breaking out of the spin, slicing clean through the outer surf and shooting into the deep, black waters of the main channel.
Behind them, the Razor Reefs vanished into the churning foam of their wake.
Silence fell over the quarterdeck, broken only by the steady rush of the outbound tide and the panting of seventy terrified, soaked sailors.
The ship was safe.
The helmsman collapsed to his knees on the deck, murmuring a ragged prayer. Milo slumped against the fife-rail, his eyes glazed with shock, staring at Fin as if looking upon a specter raised from the deep.
"Mother of God..." Milo breathed, crossing himself with a shaking, salt-stained hand. "I’ve seen line-of-battle captains hang for attempting that turn in calm water. Who in the hell are you?"
Fin didn't answer.
He slowly released his grip on the helm. The moment his hands left the wood, the terrifying, godlike authority that had possessed him seemed to drain away. His shoulders slumped, his chest heaving with ragged, shuddering breaths. He stared at his own palms, his brow furrowing in deep, agonizing confusion, as though he couldn't comprehend what his body had just accomplished.
Evander couldn't breathe.
His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct of self-preservation screamed at him to run, to draw his pistol, to put irons on this man and lock him in the darkest corner of the hold.
*He knows the maneuver.* *Not just any maneuver. Rafael’s maneuver.*
Fin wasn't a common officer. He wasn't a merchant sailor who had seen a trick in passing. He possessed the muscle memory of the Crown’s most celebrated naval tactician—a man who had been dead for five years.
*Was he Rafael’s first lieutenant?* Evander thought wildly, his mind spinning into vertigo. *Was he the sailing master aboard the flagship? Did he watch Rafael perform that maneuver a hundred times until it was burned into his bones?*
If Fin was an officer from Rafael Sterling’s inner circle—if his memory returned when they reached Port Veridian—Evander wouldn't just be arrested. He would be hanged as a fraudulent traitor, and every man on this ship would swing from the yardarms alongside him.
"Captain?" Milo’s voice cracked through the fog of Evander’s panic. "The... the wind’s steadying. We have the channel. What are your orders?"
Evander forced himself to stand straight, though his knees trembled beneath his soaked woolen trousers. He pulled the sodden tricorn from his head, wrung the water from the brim, and jammed it back onto his curls.
"Set the watch," Evander said, his voice flat, hollowed out by the sheer terror coursing through his veins. "Double-reef the mainsail. Steer south-by-southeast. We make for Port Veridian on the morning tide."
He turned to Fin. The man was still standing by the binnacle, shivering violently now as the freezing rain soaked through his thin shirt, his eyes wide and vacant once more.
"You," Evander whispered, his throat tight. "Below. Now."
Fin followed without a word.
Down in the aft cabin, the silence was deafening. The storm raged outside, but inside the cedar walls, the only sound was the drip of sea water from their clothes onto the floorboards and the heavy, ragged sound of their breathing.
Evander slammed the heavy oak door shut, throwing the brass bolt with a violent click.
He spun around, his hand instinctively dropping to the brass hilt of his rapier. His chest heaved. He stared at Fin, his hazel eyes wide with a frantic mixture of dread, fury, and an agonizing, desperate attraction that terrified him more than the rocks had.
"Who were you?" Evander hissed, his voice shaking with raw, undisguised fear. He took a threatening step forward, but his sword remained in its scabbard. "Tell me! Were you his master-at-arms? His sailing master? Did you serve aboard the *Vanguard*? Did you take orders from Rafael Sterling?!"
Fin flinched at the name. A violent spasm passed through his face; he pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, groaning as if a red-hot iron had been driven into his brain.
"I don't know!" Fin cried out, the sound torn from the deepest cavern of his chest. He stumbled back against the bulkhead, his large frame trembling. "I don't know! The names... they’re like smoke. Every time I try to reach for them, they burn!"
"You box-hauled a three-masted frigate through a two-cable gap!" Evander shouted, closing the distance between them, tears of fury and terror pricking the corners of his eyes. "You don't learn that on a merchant brig! You don't learn that unless you sat at the high table of the Admiralty! If you remember his face—if you remember who he was—you’ll look at me and see a thief! You’ll see a gutter rat wearing a dead hero’s clothes!"
"I don't care about a dead hero!" Fin roared, lunging forward.
He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't strike.
Fin caught Evander by the lapels of his heavy, soaked captain’s coat, slamming him back against the locked cabin door. The impact knocked the breath from Evander’s lungs, but there was no violence in the grip—only an overwhelming, desperate fury of need.
Fin’s face was inches from his. Evander could feel the heat radiating from Fin’s skin, could see the tiny flecks of silver in his storm-gray eyes, could smell the ozone and sea salt clinging to his wet skin.
"I don't know who Rafael Sterling was," Fin growled, his voice breaking with a raw, agonizing sincerity that shook Evander to his core. "I don't know who taught my hands to turn that wheel. I don't care about the King, or the Admiralty, or whatever ghost you’re running from!"
He reached down, his large, scarred hand wrapping fiercely around Evander’s right wrist, dragging Evander’s trembling hand up between their chests, pressing Evander’s scarred knuckles directly against his own wildly hammering heart.
"Feel that," Fin commanded in a ragged whisper.
Beneath the wet linen of Fin’s shirt, his heart was beating with the power of a war drum. Strong. Terrifyingly alive.
"In the dark, on that deck," Fin murmured, his voice dropping into a tender, broken cadence, his thumb tracing the scars on Evander’s hand with trembling reverie, "when the rocks were screaming and the water was pulling us down, I didn't hear an Admiralty officer. I didn't hear a ghost."
