Fire on Dark Water by Wendy Perriman Page B

suitable at all. That night I eagerly scanned the cabin in the hope of discovering some tool but then I remembered that even our food was cut by my master’s lone knife (which he always kept on his person) and I didn’t dare try to steal that—or his keys. After he’d taken his rough pleasure I lay by his snoring carcass staring widely at the rafters. I pined for Janky’s flair at lock picking and wished I’d paid more attention when he was showing me. There must be something! I ransacked my thoughts for some half-forgotten memory that lay close by and irritating. And when I finally remembered the small rusted shears now locked in the wooden chest I remained fully conscious the rest of the night, tossing and thinking and scheming.
    Next morning, as we broke our fast with the new provisions, I drew in my courage and said, “Master, I think I’m well enough to dance again.” He responded with a bored expression and I worried he was tiring of me. So I lowered my eyelashes and said seductively, “It’s a private dance—proper special—just for you.”
    A flicker of lust flashed the backs of his eyes and he responded, “Aye? Tell me a wee bit more then.”
    “It’s forbidden . . . but I believe the gypsies call it the Dance of Veils.”
    “Dance of Veils, eh?” he replied thoughtfully. “I’ve heard tales of the like. . . .”
    I decided to push while I had his attention and added, “But I’ll need to fix a new outfit.”
    He finished his drink, rubbed his nose with the nub of his missing fingers, and said, “Aye. I’ll open the chest afore I go.” Then he asked, “And music?”
    “There’s a song I can sing for myself.”
    Captain Mack scratched his thigh and shuffled in his coat for the key to the box. He turned the lock, collected his things, and winked as he left the cabin.
    I rummaged through the material to the bottom of the container and quickly found the shears. Each piece of material was seared in my memory so I’d already designed the costume I would create and quickly set about cutting the pieces. Now I’d only ever seen this Dance of Veils once before, when Shona was giving a rival performance at a village fair and I managed to slip from Grandma Vadoma’s sight for a few brief moments. I slipped beneath the skin of the men’s tent to find out what all the ruckus and hooting was for, and there I saw a scantily clad beauty displaying her charms to a bunch of avid admirers. When the final veil dropped, the place exploded and I ain’t never seen so many coins thrown for just one dance. Then Grandma discovered my ankle protruding under the flap and I was dragged away home in disgrace. But I knew the tune she was singing because we children had often repeated the words, oblivious to their meaning. And I went over all the verses as I put together the outfit.
    Now, as luck would have it another blustery storm hit the ship that same midmorning so the prisoners were hurriedly chained back down in the hold to wait out the tempest. As the gaiting cabin buckled and dipped I was appreciative not to be facing the carnage belowdecks, which (I’m ashamed to admit) somewhat challenged my loyalty. In the end I reasoned that if I poked the shears through the men’s hatch I’d have done my bit to help my mates, and so as soon as the wind returned to normal I carefully plucked my way across the slippery deck. The crew was busy with the sails and Bristol was occupied with navigation—keeping the pegs in place on the traverse board so we wouldn’t lose our position. I crossed the waist and intentionally stumbled so as to fall against the wooden grate. In an instant I’d wiggled the shears through a hole and heard them drop with a ping on some unfortunate below who spluttered a surprised curse back up at me. But by the time I returned to the cabin I was shaking—wondering if I’d just made the worst mistake upon ever.
    When the winds drew back into the thick, stuffed clouds and trundled away behind us,