The brig stank of rust and piss and old blood that would never come out of the boards. A chain swung with the ship’s movement, scraping the beam above Lark’s head in a ceaseless, screeching rhythm. He counted every pass, every shriek. He’d named the chain sometime after the third day without water.

  “Say goodnight, Griselda,” he murmured.

  The chain swung on. His hands were raw and wrapped in mildewed cloth. The iron shackles around his wrists bit deeper every time he breathed too hard. His ribs were still healing. Everything felt swollen. Tight. Like his own body had turned against him.

  And Iris. He hadn’t said her name aloud in days. The first time he had—screamed it, really—was on the deck, salt in his lungs and blood on his tongue, when they’d harpooned her.

  She’d been so fast. Silver-white and rage made flesh. And he’d ruined it. He’d ruined everything.

  “Hey. Dreamy.” The voice rasped from the opposite wall, half hidden in shadow. Dry. Amused. Lark turned his head slowly, trying not to faint. The boat had hit a wave and his stomach still hadn’t caught up.

  The woman in the shadows stretched one long leg out, booted and scarred. Her skin was dark, her eyes amber in the dark like twin lanterns. Hair gray, thick as a rope, and braided into coils that looked like they could double as weapons. She had the kind of posture that said she used to command something. Now she was just a ghost in the corner.

  “You’ve been muttering for days,” she said. “Thought maybe you’d finally died. But nope. Still leaking poetry.”

  Lark swallowed. “Wasn’t talking to you.”

  “Lucky me,” she said dryly, and sat up straighter. “They say you knew it. The monster.” Lark’s jaw clenched. “She’s not a monster.”

  “They always say that.”

  Her name was Mara. At least, that’s what she told him on day five.

  “Short for ‘Maravelle,’ which is too pretty a name for what I am now,” she said, peeling a rotten orange and throwing the rind at a rat. “I was a pirate once. Had my own ship. Crew of forty-six. Got cursed by a sea witch who didn’t like the way I looked at her wife.”

  Lark stared at her through his tangled hair. “Was that true?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He decided it didn’t.

  Lark shifted, “I was different too.” Mara raised a brow. “That so?” He hesitated. Then, with a humorless smile, he said, “I was a cat.”

  Mara blinked. “Excuse me?”

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  He turned his palms up like it was obvious. “Little thing. Calico. White paws. Used to knock things off shelves for fun.” She stared at him like he’d finally snapped. “You’re serious.”

  “I am,” he said. “I was cursed. By a very angry, tired, sorceress, long story. I meddled with her ancient harp, caused a few mishaps. Woke up with thumbs.” Mara squinted. “…And then became a bard?”

  “I was raised by the woman. She taught me everything—music, speech, manners. Sort of. Still figuring those out.”

  Mara let out a bark of a laugh. “You’re telling me you were a housecat turned theater kid.” He grinned faintly. “Wouldn’t be the first feral poet.”

  She leaned her head against the wall, chuckling into her sleeve. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Lark didn’t disagree. But it felt good to say it out loud. Like uncorking a bottle that had been stoppered for years. It made everything a little lighter.

  They had talked through the dark. At first, it was just her voice that kept him from slipping off the edge. Then it was the way she cursed—creatively. Then it was her stories.

  He liked her laugh. It wasn’t pleasant, exactly. It sounded like it had fought its way out of her. Like her body didn’t remember how to do it. She showed him how to bind a broken wrist with a strip of shirt. How to dislocate a thumb to slide out of cuffs. How to use his knees and elbows. “You’re too soft,” she told him once, grabbing his hands. “See these? Musician hands. Pretty-boy hands. That won’t last.”

  “They were very good hands,” Lark muttered, insulted.

  “They’ll be better when they’re useful,” she snapped.

  One night, after a brutal storm nearly snapped the ship in half, and the rats came crawling up from the bilge, she started talking about the sea women. About Iris. Not by name. But Lark knew.

  “She’s one of them,” Mara said, voice low. “The old blood. Sirens, deep-kind, call them what you want. They’re older than the gods, some say. Born of wreckage and wrath.”

  Lark sat up, slowly. The chains rattled.

  “She’s not like that,” he said, but his voice trembled.

  Mara’s eyes glinted. “You’ve never seen her truly angry, have you?”

  He remembered the scream. The way she’d taken that sailor by the throat and pulled him under like a toy. It made him feel sick to his stomach.

  “They hurt her. I can’t blame her for that.”

  “They always hurt them. They never learn.” She leaned back, staring up at the slats of the brig’s ceiling, where moonlight cut through in little ribbons.

  “I lost two ships to the sea women,” she said. “First one sank before I even saw their faces. The second… I saw her. Blue. Long as a reef. Singing to my first mate while she gutted him. Like a lullaby.”

  Lark swallowed hard. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Mara’s expression softened. “Because you’re the first idiot I’ve seen in a long time who’d die for one.”

  He looked away. “I’m not that brave.”

  “No,” she agreed. “But you’re still here.”

  Throughout the days, Mara had taught him how to punch properly with broken fingers. How to throw weight behind a blow without breaking his wrist. How to feint. How to endure.

  “Pain’s part of it,” she told him. “Suffering isn’t the enemy. Failure is.”

  Some nights, Lark cried. He didn’t let her see it. Other nights, he sang quietly to himself, the notes catching in his throat. He dreamed of Iris, and Gus. There was no telling where his mare was, probably sold off by the stable for late payments. They didn’t know her rider was cooped up in the belly of a rotting ship.

  He kept going. Kept surviving. For the day he could say it. I’m sorry. Truth be told, Lark was enthralled by the Siren. Wether it was her spell or not, he wasn’t sure. Gods help a fool in love.

  By the end of the second week, he’d lost weight. His knuckles were hard. His eyes sharper. His mouth—still smart, but quieter. He watched. He listened. And when Mara told him, “You’ve got the fight in you now,” he believed her. Just a little.

  She gave him the name of her daughter. Told him to find her if he lived. “Tell her I tried,” Mara said, with a small smile. “And that I didn’t die soft.” Lark looked at her, confused. “Why are you talking like that?”She didn’t answer. Lark wasn’t sure he wanted one.