Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(46)

He’s silent a long time. “But maybe, also, it’s a little bit wonderful? It must be hard to hold those two things in your heart at the same time. Fear. Delight. All about the same darn thing.”

I can’t help it; I turn my face and kiss him hard on the lips. Because he understands without me having to say. I’m not the only girl with witchy powers. I’m not alone.





Chapter Thirteen


The next morning I wander to the galley, drawn by the smell of coffee and the sizzle of bacon. That alone would leave me more than satisfied, but the big table also contains platters of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes. My mouth waters. Before I take the first bite, I know that Becky didn’t cook this meal. I pour some coffee, cup it in my hands, and hold it to my face, just breathing in the aroma.

The lanterns are lit, and a candle brightens the table. If we’re here for any length of time, maybe I should commission some windows. And it’s as though I summoned him with a thought, because Melancthon enters with a huge platter of flapjacks and thumps it down on the table.

“I hired you to be a carpenter, not a cook,” I tell him. “You’re under no obligation to feed us.”

“Who’s feeding you? All of this is my breakfast.” We both grin. “No, seriously, I just wanted to show my appreciation.”

“It’s no problem for you to stay here. There’s more space than we need.”

“It’s not just the room and board, and giving me honest work for honest pay, although I appreciate that. It’s my thanks for saving the Charlotte. This was my home for three years, and I’ve worked on every part of her—I know every beam and strake, every inch of timber. Thought I’d see her torn apart and used for lumber. But you saved her.”

“So you’ve forgiven me for wanting holes in her.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

I sip the coffee. “Have you given any more thought to your long-term plans?”

He sits beside me and pours a cup of coffee for himself. “It’s been on my mind. This meal is a bit of a thank-you, yes, but it’s also a bid-thee-well. Word has it the Argos is setting sail for New York next week.”

The thought of losing Melancthon saddens me. I barely know him, but he’s already proved himself a decent fellow, and pleasant company besides. “Do you have enough to purchase passage?” We’ve paid him fairly for his work, but I have no idea how much it costs to sail from San Francisco to New York by way of the Panama Isthmus.

“That’s just it; I wouldn’t have to buy passage. The captain and I sailed together before, on a whaling ship out of Newport. He says the ship is privately chartered. Won’t say for who, but he did say that the customer is paying very well for his privacy. He wants to hire me as a carpenter—his last one caught gold fever.”

I am now fully awake and alert, and it has nothing to do with coffee. Well, maybe not everything to do with the coffee. “That’s . . . interesting.”

Melancthon stares into his cup. “He also says they have valuable cargo that might create some problems, and they’ll need a steady hand moving all of it once they get to Panama.”

This definitely sounds like Hardwick. “When exactly are they sailing?” I’m willing to bet the rest of my savings it’s not before Tuesday’s auctions.

“End of the week,” Melancthon says. “After the auctions.”

Time enough to collect all the money first. Sometimes you have to quit when you’re well and truly ahead, he told me.

“Do me a favor, Mr. Jones,” I say. My mind is churning, churning, churning. Hardwick leaving so soon could present an obstacle. Or maybe . . . an opportunity. “Wait a day or two before you accept that offer.”

He opens his mouth to ask why, but Jefferson wanders into the galley, whistling like a yellow warbler with a mouthful of spring. He pulls up a chair and sits beside me.

“You’re in a good mood this morning,” I say glumly. “Like every morning.” This is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life: Jefferson’s morning cheer assaulting me like a bag of bricks.

“Yep.” He grabs a plate and helps himself to a large serving of everything.

Becky enters carrying the baby, who is most certainly not named Rosy. The Major follows behind, guiding Andy and Olive toward the table. He and the children eye the flapjacks with distrust. I reckon they’re not used to seeing such a fine, evenly cooked repast. Henry stumbles in a moment later.

“I’ll make myself scarce,” Melancthon says, gathering up his plate and coffee.

“You can stay,” I tell him, but I don’t enthuse too hard.

“I expect you all have things to talk about,” he says. “And I like to sit on deck in the morning.”

He leaves, and everyone starts eating. Once we all have a bit of food and coffee in us, I spring the bad news. “We have to move up our timetable.”

“We had a timetable?” the Major says around a mouth of flapjacks. He’s chewing them uncertainly, like a cat with a feather stuck in its mouth, and I get the strangest notion that he might prefer Becky’s.

“But we’ve barely started gathering information,” Becky says.

Jefferson nods. “I’m still trying to find an angle on Mr. Keys. I’ve never seen him alone, without at least two guards. And he doesn’t gamble or have any bad habits, as far as I can tell.”