Unclaimed Heart by Kim Wilkins

moist heat. Her body grew sticky, uncomfortable. She couldn’t bear to sit on her bed, because sweat gathered on the backs of her legs and trickled down behind her knees. She hung at her window, but caught none of the freshness in the breeze. She began to feel anxious, overwhelmed. Air, she needed air. But Father had told her, very forcefully, that she wasn’t to leave her room during the day.
    Well, then. She would just have to make sure her father didn’t find out.
    It was a big ship; there were only eighteen crew. Surely she could work her way up on deck, hide somewhere . . . The poop deck was out of the question: Father spent most of his time up there. The quarterdeck had plenty of places to hide, but saw most of the action. But the forecastle deck, right at the very front of the ship, would certainly catch the best breezes, and it would be safe.
    Constance moved to the door, cracked it open and listened. There was nobody in the narrow corridor that led to the pantry. She scurried out, making her way quickly towards the root of the main mast. Here she paused, back pressed up against the round, smooth wood. The sour smell of the ship was strong in the airless space. Above, she could hear a commotion. Laughing, shouting. She kept moving. Then somebody called out, “All hands on deck.” Footsteps everywhere. She crouched beside one of the eighteen-pound cannons, wriggling up against the wall. Her heart thudded dully as the sound of everybody moving surrounded her. Men dashed past, up the ladders onto the quarterdeck. They were in a hurry; they didn’t have time to see a girl hiding in the shadows.
    When Constance was sure everybody had passed, she rose and made for the ladder, curious, now, about the commotion. Carefully, she peeked out at the quarterdeck. She didn’t have a clear line of sight; masts and ropes and the shadows of the sails were in the way. But now she could hear a loud clucking noise, flapping wings. She glimpsed men chasing about, laughing. Old Harry shouted instructions. It seemed he had gone to get chickens for dinner, and one had escaped. Guilt crept over her. Perhaps, like her, the chicken just wanted to feel the breeze. She mentally vowed not to eat chicken that afternoon.
    Still, while they were all occupied with their game, they wouldn’t see her creep up onto the forecastle deck. She hurried up, stepping around neatly coiled ropes, and found herself a place in front of the forecastle mast. The long bowsprit pointed out to sea before her, its rigging criss-crossed against the lowering sky. She sat, already blessing the wind, which tangled her hair behind her and cooled her sticky skin.
    The ocean disappeared beneath her, grey and vast. She could taste salt on her lips. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, freed from the oppression of her cabin. Voices nearby had her jerking upright, looking around. But they were coming from beneath her, through the wooden lattice that let light in to the spaces below. She remembered, then, that under the forecastle deck was where the skilled crew—boatswains, gunners and carpenters—had their accommodation.
    â€œShe certainly gave Old Harry a run,” the first voice said gruffly.
    â€œI think he’ll relish carving her up,” his companion replied in a thick Irish accent.
    Laughter. She relaxed. They didn’t know she was here.
    Their conversation moved on, Gruff-voice and the Irishman. An albatross circled above, and she watched it, trying not to listen to them speak. They used the most unsavoury turn of phrase, and when she realized they were talking about a woman . . . and then a particular kind of woman . . . she was scandalized and curious all at once.
    Eventually, though, they turned to other matters.
    â€œSo why do you think the captain is bringing us all this way without a cargo aboard?” said Gruff-voice.
    â€œI reckon he’s got something mighty precious waiting at the other end. An