The galley became a battlefield. Not of blades, but of steam, suspicion, and the desperate alchemy of turning Borin's grudging permission into survival. The air hung thick, hotter than the becalmed sea outside, smelling of nervous sweat, simmering lentils, and the earthy sweetness of the kavi berries Preston cautiously crushed in a mortar.
"More heat under that pot, Smoke!" Borin snapped, hovering like a vulture, his eyes darting between Ash's knife flashing through salvaged root vegetables and Preston's frantic stoking of the temperamental stove. "Not enough to scorch! And watch that kavi, boy! Waste a speck, and you'll be swimming before Talon!"
Ash worked with focused intensity, channeling Mr. Blair's ghost. He rendered the knobs of scavenged salt pork fat in Borin's largest, least scorched pot – their pot for this gamble. The rich, savory aroma began to cut through the usual galley miasma. He added chopped onions and garlic, pilfered treasures Preston had bartered extra biscuit duty for. The sizzle was a promising symphony. Borin sniffed, his scowl deepening, but he didn't intervene.
"Lentils," Ash stated, not asked. Preston dumped the pre-soaked legumes into the fragrant fat. Ash stirred, the rhythmic scrape of the paddle a counterpoint to his hammering heart. This had to work. It wasn't just about the meal; it was about buying safe passage off this ship.
Preston, face smudged with soot, sweat plastering Perry's lank hair to her forehead, worked the bellows, her eyes constantly scanning. She saw Lars lean against the galley doorway, arms crossed, a sneer twisting his lips. Finn hovered behind him. Jax passed by, sparing only a flinty glance at the unusual activity.
The kavi berries, crushed into a thick, fragrant paste, were the gamble. Ash added them slowly, stirring constantly, watching the golden lentil stew deepen to a rich amber. The sweetness bloomed, complex and unexpected, mingling with the savory base. He added precious pinches of rosemary and thyme, then a careful splash of water from their own ration, not Borin's precious stores. The scent transformed entirely – earthy, sweet, savory, warm. It was unlike anything that had ever emanated from Borin's domain.
Borin's perpetual scowl faltered. He edged closer, sniffing audibly. "Too sweet," he grumbled, but without conviction. "Sailors don't want sweet slop."
"Taste it," Ash said, holding out the paddle. A challenge.
Borin hesitated, suspicion warring with culinary curiosity. He dipped a grimy finger, blew on it, and touched it to his tongue. His eyes widened fractionally. He took another taste, slower. A low, involuntary hum escaped him. "Hmph. Not… entirely vile." It was high praise.
Word spread. The unusual aroma drifted onto the deck, cutting through the doldrums-induced torpor. Curious faces appeared at the galley hatch. "What's that stink, Borin? Smells almost… good?" a sailor called, half-joking.
"Shut yer trap and wait yer turn!" Borin barked, but he puffed out his chest slightly. He grabbed a stack of battered tin bowls. "Serve it hot, Salt! And you, Smoke, keep that fire even! Don't ruin it now!" He was already rewriting history, claiming the experiment as his own. Ash and Preston exchanged a fleeting glance – relief, exhaustion, the barest spark of triumph.
Serving was Preston's trial by fire. Perry's gruff persona was stretched thin under the sudden demand. Sailors crowded the hatch, drawn by the impossible scent and Borin's uncharacteristic lack of curses. She ladled steaming portions, her hands steady despite the tremor in her gut.
"Here. Careful, it's hot," she rasped, avoiding eye contact, focusing on the task.
The first sailor, a grizzled older hand, took a tentative slurp. His eyes widened. "Stars above, Borin! Did ye find a proper cook washed overboard?" He took another, larger gulp. "Sweet an' savory! Got a kick!"
Others followed. Murmurs of surprise, genuine appreciation, even laughter replaced the usual grumbles. Lars watched from the periphery, his sneer deepening into something uglier. He saw the crew's focus shift, saw Borin basking in unaccustomed approval, saw the two land-lubbers at the center of it. Finn nudged him, whispering.
Jax received his bowl from Preston. He ate methodically, his expression unreadable. He finished, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave a single, curt nod towards Borin. "Tolerable." From Jax, it was an ovation.
The stew vanished faster than Borin's usual gruel. The cook preened, accepting backhanded compliments with gruff dismissals that couldn't hide his satisfaction. He even allowed Ash to use the last of the kavi paste to sweeten a thin oat porridge for the next morning – a gesture unheard of. The fragile alliance held, cemented by the crew's full bellies and murmured approval.
But Lars wasn't finished. The success of the meal, the shift in atmosphere, was a direct challenge. His opportunity came the next morning, during a rare, light breeze that teased the sails. Ash was below decks, helping Borin secure the remaining water casks, leaving Preston alone on the main deck, coiling lines near the port railing.
Lars and Finn materialized, blocking her path back towards the forecastle. The deck was momentarily clear; others were aloft or forward.
"Well, well," Lars rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. "The cook's little pet ferret. Made old Borin smell like roses for a day, didn't ya?" He took a step closer. Preston tensed, Perry's mask snapping into place, but her hand drifted instinctively towards the hidden stiletto.
"Just did as told," Preston muttered, trying to sidestep. Finn moved to block her.
"Did as told?" Lars chuckled, a humorless sound. "Or knew exactly what ye were doin'? Where'd a dockside rat learn about fancy berries, eh?" He leaned in, his breath sour. "Or maybe yer not a rat at all. Maybe yer somethin' else. Somethin' worth more than berries."
Preston's blood ran cold. He suspects. Not Perry, but Preston. The disguise, strained by stress and the constant vigilance, hadn't been enough. Lars's eyes, usually clouded with brute stupidity, held a calculating glint.
"Don't know what you mean," Preston defied, Perry's voice cracking slightly. "Let me pass."
Lars's hand shot out, not to strike, but to grab the front of Preston's tunic. "I think I'll have a closer look—"
Preston reacted on pure instinct. She twisted violently, yanking herself backward. Lars, caught off guard by her strength and desperation, stumbled forward. Preston's heel caught on a coiled line. She lost her balance, arms windmilling, and crashed hard against the ship's low railing. The wood dug into her back, knocking the breath from her lungs. For one terrifying second, she teetered backwards, the churning blue-green water a dizzying drop below.
Finn gasped. Lars, momentarily stunned, lunged to grab her, not out of concern, but to prevent the noise of a splash. His hand closed on her arm, yanking her roughly forward just as her upper body tipped precariously over the edge. She slammed back onto the deck, gasping, the world spinning.
"What in the Deep is going on here?" Jax's voice cut through the panic, sharp as a harpoon. He stood at the companionway, his gaze taking in Preston sprawled on the deck, clutching her ribs, Lars looming over her, Finn frozen.
Lars straightened quickly, masking his surprise with bluster. "Nothin', Bosun! Lad tripped over his own feet. Clumsy." He nudged Preston roughly with his boot. "Ain't that right, Perry?"
Preston pushed herself up, her face pale beneath the grime, Perry's defiance warring with raw terror in her eyes. She couldn't speak, could only nod mutely, the taste of bile sharp in her throat. To accuse Lars would invite worse. He knew something. He knew.
Jax's gaze moved from Preston's trembling form to Lars's forced nonchalance, to Finn's guilty shift. He didn't believe a word. "Lars. Finn. Forecastle deck. Scrape it clean. Every inch. Now." His voice held no room for argument. "You," he pointed at Preston. "Galley. Now. Borin needs scrubbing."
As Lars and Finn slunk away, casting venomous glances back, Jax stepped closer to Preston. He didn't offer a hand. His eyes, colder than the deep ocean, held hers. "Trips happen," he stated flatly. "Especially near the rail. Easy to fall overboard in a calm sea. Quiet-like. Remember that, lad. Keep your eyes open and your footing sure." He held her gaze for a heartbeat longer, the unspoken warning chillingly clear: I know what nearly happened. It happens again, I might not be here. Then he turned and walked away.
Preston stumbled towards the galley hatch, her legs weak. The triumph of the stew was ashes. Lars's suspicion was a knife at their throats. Jax's warning was a life raft made of ice. The vast, calm sea surrounding the Cormorant felt like a beautiful, deadly trap.
Later, in the suffocating dark of the cubbyhole, Ash listened as Preston recounted the incident in a raw whisper, Perry's voice abandoned entirely. She trembled, not just from the near fall, but from the predatory knowledge in Lars's eyes.
"He knows, Ash," she breathed. "Or he guesses. He felt…" She shuddered.
Ash's knuckles were white where he gripped his knife. The hollowness yawned, filled now with a cold, impotent rage. He hadn't been there. He couldn't protect her. Again. The magic remained stubbornly absent, useless. "Two days," he ground out, the words like stones. "We need to last two days. Stick to Borin like tar. Never be alone." The plan for Salt's Savories felt ludicrously fragile now, a paper shield against Lars's malice and the yawning sea.
Preston nodded, drawing her knees up to her chest. "Jax knows too," she whispered. "He warned me. He won't save us."
"No," Ash agreed grimly. "He keeps the ship running. That's all." He looked at her, a shadow against darker shadows. "We save ourselves. We get to Port Talon. We disappear."
The ship groaned around them. The doldrums held. But the fragile peace aboard The Cormorant was shattered. The smell of kavi stew had bought a temporary reprieve, but the scent of danger was back, sharper, more personal, carried on the stagnant air. The port on the horizon wasn't just a destination; it was a finish line they had to cross before the predators circling them closed in. Salt and Smoke were running out of time, and the only harbor they needed was each other's watchful, terrified presence in the dark.