Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(25)

“What is it?” Sophia wondered aloud, her eyes never leaving the water.

“It’s just a dolphin-fish, miss,” one of the crewmen answered. The creature leapt from the water, its sleek, shimmering form sailing through the air before disappearing once more beneath the waves. It leapt again, and then again, carving playful, exuberant arcs through the spray, trailing silver-dipped rainbows in its wake.

The fish’s course veered, bringing it even closer to the ship’s hull. Sophia admired the creature’s flat snout and the sharp blade of its fin, running the full length of its spine. But most marvelous of all were the bold, iridescent shades decorating its scales.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

A harpoon shot out from the sailor’s hand, skewering the fish with a sick squelch.

“It’s dinner,” the crewman said cheerfully. The two men dropped a net over the side and hauled their thrashing catch aboard.

Gagging, Sophia pressed a hand to her mouth and turned away.

“Now don’t be squeamish, miss,” the crewman said. “You’ll miss the colors.”

The colors? Sophia peeked over her shoulder. The men had the fish completely aboard now, and its flat body thumped uselessly on the planked deck.

“See, miss? The colors are starting.”

As the sailor spoke, the bold hues of the fish’s scales began to shimmer and change. Sophia stepped toward it, fascinated. Its light-blue belly deepened to the truest cobalt. A stripe of fresh green turned electric with gold. Sophia had never seen colors so vivid—not in nature, not in paintings. Not even in her dreams. The fish was a living rainbow.

A dying rainbow, rather. Its arcing body eventually went pale and limp, turning as colorless as the decking. Having withdrawn their harpoon, the crewmen returned to the rail to look for more. And there the fish lay, gutted and lifeless.

Sophia had never felt so disillusioned. The stark reality of life and death had been splashed in her face like so much seawater. She realized, with sudden clarity, that all her life she’d been raised to view the world as a collection of objects assembled for her amusement, her admiration, her consumption. But now she understood—nothing existed for beauty alone.

Even a beautiful fish still died, was still food.

She’d left home seeking to experience real life, true passion, grand adventure. Well, this was real life, and it wasn’t pretty. And every moment she stood here, staring blankly at the deck and crying pointless tears, was a moment of real life wasted.

“Here’s another,” one of the sailors called, flinging his harpoon back into the sea. A second later, he crowed with triumph. “Got ’im in one.”

Sophia rushed back to the rail and peered over the edge at the thrashing fish churning the waves to froth. A giddy thrill warmed her toes. The crewman began to pull in the rope, hand over hand.

“May I help bring it in?” she asked.

“What?” the sailor grunted, not losing his pace.

“May I?” She jerked her chin at the struggling fish and laid one hand on the rope, above his. She had reeled in a fish before—granted, it was a smallish trout, plucked from a stream in the English midlands. But still, the principle appeared the same.

He stared at her a moment, then shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”

Sophia grasped the rope with both hands, and he showed her how to brace one foot on the bulwark and pull hand over hand, letting the rope fall in a neat coil at their feet.

“Ready to try it yerself?” he asked.

She nodded, and he released the rope.

“Ah!” Sophia gave a sharp cry as several yards of cable slid straight through her grip. The dolphin-fish was swifter than she’d expected, and stronger, too. Now she’d made matters worse by giving it more slack, more room to struggle.

“Shall I help you, miss?” the sailor asked.

“No, thank you. I’ll do.” Bracing her foot and tightening her grip, Sophia clenched her teeth and began to pull, arm over arm. For every arm-length of rope she pulled in, it seemed the dolphin-fish took three. What with all this thrashing, the fish would probably resemble mincemeat by the time she hauled it aboard.

But she would haul it aboard, if it was the last thing she did. And she would rejoice to see even minced fish on her plate tonight, instead of salt pork.

After a minute, the task seemed to grow easier, presumably because the fish grew weaker. But just when she thought she had it netted, the dolphin-fish made one last desperate surge for freedom, dragging her a few steps toward the bow. Her boot caught in the coiled rope, and she very nearly tripped. She managed to pull up, however, and regain control. Her efforts were rewarded with a rousing chorus of whistles and cheers.

“That’s the way, miss!”

“You’ve got ’im now!”

Slowly pivoting her head from one side to the other, Sophia realized she’d amassed quite an audience. Evidently her battle with the fish made for high entertainment. Ah, well. Let the men laugh. She was having fun, too. She smiled as she resumed pulling in the catch.

In fact, she was having the time of her life.

Jesus Christ. The chit was going to get herself killed.

From the stern, Gray looked on in disbelief as Miss Turner played tug-o-war with a fish and the crew watched with glee. What the hell were they thinking?

“What the hell are they thinking?” Joss came to Gray’s side. “Mr. Wiggins,” he ordered, “tell the men—”