Brightly Burning(23)

“Oh.” He had the good sense to appear contrite. “And how old are you now?”

“Seventeen.”

“Well, that’s only six years, at least? More than half spent on the well-appointed Empire . . .”

He was lousy at apologizing.

“I was orphaned at seven, so I’m afraid my memories of the Empire aren’t entirely pleasant. I thought you would have known some of this from my résumé?”

“Oh, I didn’t read it,” he said with total nonchalance. “I trust Xiao to sort out these things. Well. She sends them to me, but I don’t really pay attention. I did note your name and figured you’d be simple enough. Not too full of yourself.”

“What does that mean?” My tone came out shriller than I would have liked. I dug my fingers into the chair’s cushion to steady myself.

“Your parents named you Stella. Literally ‘star’ . . . I reckon they were practical, simple folk.”

“I like my name,” I said through clenched teeth. I’d wear my teeth to points, at this rate. “And what does Hugo mean? ‘Rude’?”

Infuriatingly, he laughed, bright and full, and when our eyes locked, his reflected approval. “I have no clue what it means, but you might be close. I like your fire. You’ll do well with Jessa.”

“You’re not firing me?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

“It’s just, I thought, seeing as I turned off the warning beacon . . . I flagrantly defied safety protocols, and you nearly died.”

He waved me off. “It’s not the first time that has happened, I assure you. I am disconcertingly prone to . . . tampering.” His voice fell to a low growl, brows knitting together darkly. Then quickly, his dour mood passed. “I do hope you’ll like it here. The previous governesses found it . . . boring, and none stayed long. Are you easily bored, Miss Ainsley?”

“It’s Stella,” I said, finding myself squirming at each “Miss Ainsley” he uttered. It was too formal.

“Stella,” he said quietly, almost to himself, feeling out the sound of it in his mouth. “Then you must call me Hugo,” he declared after some consideration.

“Hugo,” I tested for myself. The name made him seem more approachable, certainly. Too sophisticated to mean “rude,” at least. But it also brought back to mind the thought that had been niggling at me ever since he arrived, and especially as I watched him and Jessa interact. I just couldn’t make the math work. “How old are you, sir? It’s just that I can’t figure how you could have had Jessa and yet look so close in age to me.”

“‘Had Jessa’?” he repeated back, confusion apparent. “Wait, do you think . . .” Then he laughed, but it came out more like a bark. “Jessa is my sister,” he said. “I’m nineteen, and no father. You wound me with accusations that I look old enough to have fathered a ten-year-old.”

“I said you didn’t look old enough,” I mumbled, feeling my whole body go hot. Still, I did the mental math and came up short. “How old were you when you became captain, then? And what happened to your parents?”

“You’re very good at asking difficult questions, aren’t you?” he said. “I was fourteen when I became captain, after my parents’ deaths.”

“It must have been especially difficult becoming captain at so young an age,” I hedged, avoiding the orphan-shaped elephant now in the room. “I can’t imagine commanding an entire vessel, or being left to raise your sister at just fourteen.” I was rambling, possibly getting too personal, but the captain—?no, Hugo, I reminded myself—?set me ill at ease, with the way he lounged back in his chair, studying me, leaving silence between us until I was forced to fill the space. “And who decorated in here? It’s amazing. I can’t believe you have real books.”

“Do you like books?” he asked, perking up.

“Of course. I didn’t have much to read on the Stalwart, but now that I’m here, I have a new reader and tons of options. Jessa mentioned it, but we’re reading Shakespeare. I also just started making my way through the Jane Austen collection. And I like history books a lot. But of course, they’re not made of paper like these. Why don’t you preserve them?” I finished my ramble, mortified, but found Hugo nonplussed.

“Books are meant for reading. At least, that’s what my father always said,” Hugo replied. “They may be ratty and fading, but they’re fulfilling their purpose. You can look, if you like.”

I didn’t second-guess his invitation, jumping to my feet and heading for the nearest shelf. I could barely read the words on the spines, not only because the lettering was fading—?and the binding falling apart, in some cases—?but because the lighting was so low. “Rori, can you turn the lights up a bit?” I asked without thinking. She obliged, and I heard Hugo snort behind me.

“Have you bewitched my AI while I’ve been away? On a first-name basis with her and everything.”

I turned, confused. “What do you mean?”

“No one else calls her Rori. She must like you if she told you her name. And she obeyed your instruction without checking with me first. Unusual indeed.”

I shrugged off his bemusement and turned back to the books, running my fingers over the spines of several, until one caught my eye. “Have you read this one?” I asked, gently nudging a half--broken paperback from the shelf, turning it over in my hands, then showing it to him. The title was barely visible, but the cover image was striking. A mountain obscured by clouds, with a name that was familiar to me: Everest.