It took the rest of the evening for Ambrose to rid himself of this strange new excitement. His quarters were nice, to be sure. Fancy, perhaps. Luxurious…yes, absolutely, no potioneer at sea ever saw this range of equipment, this level of cleanliness, this standard of—of sheer upkeep—

He took a grounding breath, pulled the cot from the wall, and sat on it. These were merely golden chains, he told himself. Everything brewed here would be used by cruel, bloodthirsty pirates, facilitating thieving and murder and who knows what else while he peddled potion scraps to dig his way out of his contract.

It didn’t matter how nice the pirates’ equipment was. He was getting out of here as soon as possible.

So he took Sherry’s list off the table, scanned it, and set to work.

The list was quite precise, so he began at the top of the tidy script and worked his way downwards. Healing potions in one cauldron, grip-enhancing in the other. Then strength potions, underwater breathing aids, aiming guides…

The added benefit of Sherry’s lengthy list was that it gave him the perfect excuse to avoid the crew as much as possible. For the next several days, he spent every possible second in the cabin, venturing out only to retrieve meals and place his finished potions in the waterproof boxes nailed to the outer wall. Every time he did set foot outside his workspace, he glanced about nervously for proof of the evil he was avoiding—heads on pikes, blood-soaked swords, or wicked sneers from the crew.

But the most he ever saw in his brief ventures was a drinking game between Grim and Banneker. Ambrose didn’t have to stand around and watch to know how that one would end.

Days into the journey, he was dousing the flame under a finished sunstroke preventative when a knock sounded on the door. He sighed and began ladling the turquoise potion into rectangular glass jars.

“Mr. Banneker, sir, if you ask me again about that climbing potion, it’ll distract me from—“

The door swung open. “From what, ignoring me and my crew?”

Captain Valenz was leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets. He had rid himself of the coat and cutlass, and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. If Ambrose didn’t know better, he would say he looked like any other member of the crew, save for the flashes of gold jewelry at his neck and ears.

But the informality made him no less dangerous, and Ambrose finished his ladling with a tense grip. “You brought me on to brew potions, and that’s what I’m doing. Captain,” he added quickly.

“You’ve brewed plenty already,” Valenz said, peering into the boxes at the wall. “Come have dinner with us.”

Ah. Precisely what Ambrose had been avoiding. “But, sir—“

Valenz straightened and wandered off. “That’s an order, Mr. Beake.”

#

If there was one thing the Navy had taught Ambrose very early on, it was that potioneers and sailors were two very different breeds of people. Potioneers liked simple, practical things, like food, baths, and solid ground. Sailors liked more adventurous things, like rum, punching, and making fun of potioneers.

Perhaps the divide was more complex than that, but that was all Ambrose really needed to know.

So when he took his bowl and surveyed the rough assembly of pirates eating dinner on deck, he pinpointed the crate furthest away from them and made a beeline for it.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Valenz’s hand cheerfully caught his collar and turned him back around. “Sit with us. It’s not a proper dinner if you don’t.”

Ambrose thought he could digest his meal just fine alone, but he stayed quiet and took a spot between Valenz and Grim. Across from him, Sherry and Banneker raised their bowls in greeting, and behind them, the other members of the crew blinked at him like owls. He shrank into his coat, kept his gaze on his food, and tried to be thankful that it wasn’t kraken meat he was eating.

“Eli,” Banneker said between slurps of his own non-kraken dinner, “didn’t you get a letter from Dawn?”

The crew all perked up at that, turning their gazes from Ambrose to Valenz—but Ambrose found it hard to feel reassured by the change in attention. “Dawn?” he repeated. “Captain Dawn?”

Though of a different flavor than Elias Valenz’s, Dawn Kerighin’s tales of derring-do were just as famous. Quick, efficient, and most of all successful, she was the only pirate on this side of the world who could afford an all-magic artillery. Wands instead of guns, staffs instead of cannons, crystals and amulets and—

And yes, potions. For a moment, Ambrose wondered what her potioneer’s quarters were like.

“That very woman.” Valenz stood, cleared his throat, and whipped a letter out of his pocket. From his vantage point, Ambrose could see a looping script bloom across the page as Valenz unfolded the enchanted paper. “Dear scallawags and scoundrels of the Claw”—the crew all raised their mugs and cheered—“you’ll be delighted to know that the Sunset has reigned victorious over the Champion, bringing my total up to four ships this quarter…” Valenz frowned and looked to Grim. “Four? Is that right?”

Grim pulled a small notebook out of their pocket and checked the tally marks. “That’s right, captain.”

“And we’re at?”

“Three.”

The crew groaned. Valenz raised a hand. “We’ll get her back, don’t you worry.”

He continued with the letter, full of friendly jests and pokes at her fellow pirates. Captain Dawn even called out several of his crew members by name.

“Sherry?” Valenz pointed to the woman. “She says you were right about…that one thing. Seems she doesn’t want me to know what.”

Sherry shrugged. “I’m always right.”

Valenz gestured to Banneker next. “Banneker, she has a new wand she wants you to try out.”

“Yes!” The artificer punched the air. “Yes, yes, yes—“

“Grim?” Valenz squinted at the letter. “Knight to E5.”

Grim flipped to another page in their notebook, made a mark, and groaned.

“And that’s it,” Valenz finished. “All my love, Dawn.”

As he sat, Ambrose caught sight of something else below Dawn’s signature—an ominous splotch of black ink. “A black spot?” he whispered. “Is that real?”

“Oh, that?” Valenz waved a hand. “Running joke. Dawn and I have known each other for years.” He bumped Ambrose’s arm. “You’ll likely get to meet her when we next make berth.”

Excellent. More pirates.

“So,” Valenz folded the letter back up, “where are you from, Mr. Beake?”

Those within earshot all looked at him again. Ambrose swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and set aside his dinner. He wasn’t going to eat much of it like this, anyway. “London,” he said quietly, then prepared to wince. Sailors loved to make fun of his proper accent, of his distinctly non-sea legs.

But the others just nodded.

“Did you grow up there?” Sherry leaned in.

“Um.” Ambrose blinked in surprise. “No, I didn’t. I grew up in a village outside of it, perhaps a two-day ride. I moved to London for my potion studies.”

“Hm.” Valenz stirred his dinner. “And you didn’t want to open a potion shop in London?”

Ambrose did wince here—how dare the captain mention that, in front of other sailors?

But again, no one laughed or poked at him. They simply waited for him to respond. “Didn’t have the funds,” he finally mumbled.

“And you thought the queen’s shilling was going to fix that?” Grim shook their head. “Should’ve gone into piracy sooner, mate.”

A gentle ripple of laughter from the crew, followed by more questions. Simple ones, like how long had he studied (very long), and how long had he been with the Navy (not very long). With every question, he found it a little easier to respond, knowing that no one was going to make fun of him for the answer.

Which made no sense, but he wasn’t going to complain about it.

“I do have one more question, Mr. Beake.” Valenz leaned back as the bowls were being cleared. “Where did Captain Pearce go?”

Ambrose flinched on instinct, and his nerves curled around his throat again. He wrapped his coat tighter around himself, pretending his reaction had been to the cool nighttime air. “I’m sorry?”

“He was supposed to helm your ship, was he not?” Valenz asked. “I was disappointed by the new one who was aboard. He barely put up a fight.”

Ambrose almost asked if his captain had tried to negotiate for his return—then reminded himself that the man probably didn’t even realize he was gone. “Captain Pearce was recently promoted to commodore. I believe he’s on the Intrepid now.” A breeze slipped across deck, genuinely chilling him this time. He stood and wrapped his arms around himself. “Any further questions, captain?”

Valenz shook his head and gestured to the deck. “You may go.”

“Do come back tomorrow!” Sherry called as Ambrose rushed off. He managed one polite nod over his shoulder before slipping back into the warmth of the workroom.