Carissa's breathing calmed as the serving women let their coins clink onto the wooden table. She'd earned more than all of them, though one had come dangerously close to matching her.

The Cook twisted his lips to one side. She refused to think of him as 'Captain.' It seemed too noble a title for him. "Eh. Not bad, not bad. Carrots? What about you?"

Avril slid a smirk Carissa's way before stepping up to the table. She dug into the pocket of her apron, and her hand emerged with a fistful of coins. They flowed from her hand onto the table.

Carissa's stomach uncoiled. She'd managed to earn more tips than Avril.

And then Avril dipped her hand into her apron pocket again. And again.

With each bunch of coins she drew from her pocket, the tension in Carissa's chest tightened.

Avril plucked the last coin from her pocket, cupping it in her palm. She flipped her hand over and drew away, revealing its gold sheen.

How had Avril managed to earn tips in gold?

Carissa gripped the edge of the table and focused on breathing.

The Cook waddled over to her side. "Your turn, Tara dear. Let's see if you managed to out earn Avril."

Carissa withdrew her coins from her pocket and let them clatter to the table, her hands trembling.

The serving women peered around each other to glance at Carissa's mound of coins, compared to Avril's mountain. A coal dropped into the bottom of her stomach, making her gut boil with nausea. She was torn between retching and fainting.

"Well, well, well." The Cook arched his caterpillar brows.

She whipped around to face him and pressed her back against the table behind her, until she was sure the wooden ridges would be imprinted into her skin. "But... this is barbaric."

His thick shoulders lifted, and the flab on his arms swayed. "You agreed to it, Tara. I was quite content with punishing the boy." He turned to eye the subject of their conversation as the boy sloshed his mop in the bucket and scooted it along the floor. "In fact, I still am..." He faced her again. "But you stopped me, so it will be your choice."

She hauled in air past her constricted throat. "My... choice?"

He bobbed his head. "The bargain, as I recall, was that if I was not to whip the boy, then you would either earn more than any other serving woman or take his whipping. Or he could simply take his own whipping."

From the corner of her eye, the little boy had stopped mopping, and his bony arms stilled.

Carissa swallowed. What would a whipping feel like? Surely not worse than having your forearm slashed. But she desperately didn't want to be whipped. She'd heard the whimpers and grunts of servants in the street who had been the recipient of a whipping. Sweat prickled her palms.

The little boy had been whipped before. Perhaps he'd developed a sort of immunity to the whip's bite... It would probably hurt him less than it would hurt—

Her stomach lurched. No. As long as she worked at this pub, she would do whatever she could to protect the boy. The other employees had neglected him and allowed this cruelty. She would not.

She shoved off the table. Though her legs wobbled, they didn't buckle. "No. I can take his whipping."

The Cook's chin crinkled, pressing his lips together, as if an idea had been proposed that he'd never heard of before. "Well. It makes no difference. So long as someone pays for his insubordination." He flashed her a grin, as if he suddenly found the situation humorous. "Can't tolerate that aboard my ship, now can I?"

The coal burned more deeply into her stomach, until she feared it'd rip past her skin and pour her innards onto the floor. The man was insane, regardless of how good his cooking skills were.

"Now, if you'll just wait right there, I'll be along shortly." He hummed as he plodded across the kitchen, his steps slow and clumsy as if he were staggering beneath his own weight.

Bile singed her throat, but she forced it down lest the little boy have more to mop. If she started running, there was no way the Cook, as corpulent as he was, would catch her. But then she'd not only be short a job, she'd also have to abandon the boy.

She glanced at the boy. He stared at her blankly, his face expressionless, his stare unwavering. She pursed her lips and returned his stare. The least he could do was mouth a 'thank you,' instead of eyeing her like he would a wild Yare Wolf.

The floorboards creaked as the Cook returned, a black cord looped through his thick fingers. Its tip fluidly dangled in the air, dancing back and forth.

The Cook halted five feet from her back, his expression strangely cordial. "Now, Tara, if you could turn around and grip the table in front of you, that might help. Wouldn't want you collapsing halfway through, hmm?"

She forced her chill-prickling fear down and focused on the numbness devouring her skin. She turned stiffly to face the table and gripped its edge with her hands. Her breath flipped between hitching and eking out slowly and steadily.

She made the mistake of glancing back.

The Cook's eyebrows melted into a frown, his lip curling. "I said face forward!"

She whipped her head back around. Her gaze ran along the knots in the wood and the patches of color that stained its surface.

The whip hissed. Carissa tensed before realizing he was only drawing his arm back. Her back stiffened. Would it sting? Burn? How many lashes could she stand?

A sharp whistle shredded through the air.

She sucked in a breath and clenched her eyes shut.

***

Carissa had never been to hell, though she imagined the wagon ride back to Viltus' home to be somewhat like it.

Each jostle had bumped her back against the wooden floor, causing a fiery sting to pierce her skin. No matter how many times she'd shifted, she hadn't been able to alleviate the pain. Halfway through, she'd closed her eyes amidst the darkness and dug her teeth into her lip to silence her gasps and whimpers. After a particularly sharp bump, she tasted blood from where she'd bitten too hard.

Carissa swiped her thumb across her throbbing lower lip. The poor boy who'd taken her back home had asked what was wrong. She'd only had enough strength to smile thinly before disappearing into Viltus' house.

But it could be worse. The Cook could have demanded that the laces in the back of her dress be undone, adding to her humiliation and causing the whip to bite that much deeper. As it was, only a few swelling whelps crisscrossed her back—ten to be exact.

Carissa scooted back against the cot to rest against the wall. As soon as her back touched the wood, she jerked upright. It seemed she'd be sleeping on her stomach or side for a while.

Had it been worth it?

She dipped her gaze to stare at her hands rumpling her skirt. Afterwards, the boy had tossed her a few wary glances but said nothing. And at the end of the day, when Cook had sprinkled a few meager coppers in his hand, she'd given him some of her wages as well. With the famine plaguing the city, he'd need all he could get.

Instead of thanking her, he'd studied her with a shuttered expression and guarded eyes before taking her offering slowly, as if he expected her to tell him she was jesting before swiping the money back.

And then he'd disappeared down the alley without a word.

It seemed that the whipping had been for naught. The boy hadn't cared either way.

The door opened, and her gaze snapped to Viltus.

His lips rose in a weak attempt to smile before he lumbered to the bench.

She drew in a breath and studied the tendrils of his mused blond hair. She wanted to tell him what happened, so he could go back to the Cook and give him what he deserved. But then Viltus would most likely be arrested, she'd be without a job, and they'd probably starve.

She rose from the cot, hoping her movements didn't look as stiff as they'd felt. "How was your day?"

He massaged his forehead, blue eyes glazed with exhaustion. "A little girl died."

Carissa's stomach plunged. And she'd thought her day had been rough. "What happened?"

"She'd been ill for a very long time. No matter what I did, she never improved. In fact, it seemed she'd get worse." He gripped his head between his hands. "I was completely helpless as she suffered, and I hated it. I couldn't heal her, Carissa, just as I couldn't heal..." His expression twisted in pain.

Compassion surged through her, and she closed the distance between them to cup her hand over his shoulder. "You did your best."

"And it wasn't enough."

She bit her lip. What did one say to that?

Viltus slid his hand over hers, his callouses rasping against her skin.

"Viltus, I have a question."

His gaze met hers. "Hmm?"

"Why do you have callouses? You're a healer."

He smiled softly, and she was thankful he allowed the change of subject. She just needed to protect him from the dark thoughts looming over his mind. "Surely you've noticed the disrepair of the tower."

She nodded.

"I'm one of the younger healers, so I often assist in repairs."

And that also explained his muscular form.

"Why? Do my callouses bother you?"

His hand began to slide off of hers. She grasped it with her free hand and clasped it to her cheek. Heat shimmered through her at the feel of his roughened skin against her smooth face. "No."

He stilled for a moment, his eyes delving into hers. Then he tugged her down onto beside him before turning to face her, straddling the bench between his legs.

Her gaze drifted to his lips, as if drawn by an invisible force. She swallowed thickly, trying in vain to slow her fluttering breaths.

The hand she'd been clutching to her cheek caressed her face before Viltus drove his fingers through her hair. Quicker than she thought possible, he unbraided its length so it flowed over her shoulders, drifting to her waist.

Viltus wound a sleek lock around he fist and brought it to his lips. Then he lifted the lock and rubbed it against his cheek.

All of her warmed at his gentle touches, as if her hair were as sensitive as her skin.

Night had descended upon the ocean within his eyes. "You have lovely hair. Soft as silk."

"And my lips?" She sucked in a breath at her own forwardness. Perhaps she could blame it on the warmth swirling through her and cutting her breath short. It reminded her of the strange feeling she'd had while inebriated... except she was quite sure she hadn't drunk anything strong lately.

The ocean grew darker, its waves churning as it threatened to drown her beneath its depths. Viltus scooted towards her, so his left knee nudged hers. "May I find out?"