Fable (Fable #1)(60)

I waited for him to disappear around the corner before I followed, keeping my footsteps light. The sign for Griff’s tavern hung out over the alley, the words scratched off by the brunt of sea winds. But I knew the place. The block stone walls were framed in by huge timber beams, the roof so steeply slanted that even the birds couldn’t land on it.

Saint disappeared through the door, and I stopped in front of the window, watching him. The place was empty except for Griff standing behind the counter, tying a cloth around his waist. He didn’t bother looking up as Saint slid a chair back from a table and took a seat.

A woman appeared from the back, a tray of tea in her hands, and she set it down carefully, arranging the pot at the corner of Saint’s table as he pulled a roll of parchments from his coat. The teacup looked tiny in his hand as he took a sip, his attention on the pages.

I put my hand on the latch, steadying myself before I pushed the door open.

Griff glanced up from the counter and the woman reappeared in the doorway, both of them startled. But it was Saint’s gaze that fell heaviest on me. He looked up from his teacup, his thick brows arched over his bright blue eyes.

“Morning.” I gave a nod to the woman. “I’ll take a pot of tea, please.”

She looked to Griff, as if to get permission before she moved, and he nodded, clearly suspicious of me. But his eyes widened as I took the chair opposite Saint, sitting before him with my hands folded on the table.

“What are you doing here?” Saint’s gaze fell back to the parchment, but the way he shifted in his seat told me that I’d surprised him.

“Ledgers?” I leaned over them, feigning interest.

“That’s right. Two ships came in late last night.” He picked the cup back up, and a ring of tea was left on the corner of the parchment. “What do you want?”

“I want to have tea with my father.” I smiled, my voice dropping to a whisper.

But every muscle in Saint’s body tensed, his hand gripping the cup so tightly that it looked as if it might shatter between his fingers. His eyes slid to meet mine as the woman set down a second pot of tea between us, rearranging the table to fit everything.

“Milk?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

“What about sugar, my dear?”

“Sure.” I looked to Saint. “I haven’t had sugar in years.”

He set his tea down a little too hard, and it sloshed out as I filled my own cup. The woman returned with a little dish of cream and a few sugar cubes in a linen napkin. Saint ignored me as I stirred them in.

“Did any of your ships get damaged in that storm a few days ago?”

“Everyone’s ships were damaged in that storm,” he muttered.

“Zola’s too?”

He dropped the parchment. “What do you know about Zola?”

“Nothing much, other than the fact that he’s got some kind of feud going on with that gem trader from the Unnamed Sea.” I watched him. “And the Marigold. I heard their sails got slashed.”

“The less you know about his business, the better.”

I picked up the teapot on his side of the table and refilled his cup. “You’ve got trouble with him too?”

“Your mother did,” he said, and my hands froze on the pot. “So, yes. I have trouble with him.”

“He knew her?” I took care not to say her name. The last thing I needed was for him to get angry.

“She dredged for him before I took her onto my crew.”

I stared at him, shocked at his candor. Saint always spoke in riddles, but he was giving me bits of information I hadn’t even asked for. It made sense that Isolde would have dredged for other crews before she worked for Saint, but she had never talked about the time between leaving Bastian and joining the crew on the Lark.

“What kind of trouble?”

He leaned over the table toward me. “It doesn’t matter.”

I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to take hold of his lovely coat and scream.

You weren’t made for this world, Fable.

He didn’t think I could take care of myself. He’d given me the Lark, but he didn’t think I could make my own way. Not really.

I filled my lungs with the air that always seemed to hover around him. The proud, hardened demeanor that was always lit in his eyes. I pushed down the ache in the center of my chest that just wanted him to reach across the table and take my hand. The small, broken part of me that wished his eyes would lift from the parchments and look at me. Really look at me.

“When are you going to tell me why you came here?”

I took a sip of my tea, the sweet bitterness stinging my tongue. “I need some coin.”

“How much?” He didn’t sound the least bit interested.

“Eight hundred coppers.”

That got his attention. He leaned back in his chair, smirking. “You want me to give you—”

“Of course not,” I interrupted. “That would break one of your rules. Nothing is free.” I recited it to him the way I had when I was a child. “I want to make a trade.”

His curiosity was piqued now. “A trade.”

“That’s right.”

“And why do you need eight hundred coppers?”

“You told me to make my own way. That’s what I’m doing.”