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  Tom was going to be honored with the brand.

  He was stripped to the waist, his head exposed, his dark auburn hair falling about his face. He knelt on the planking of the ship. His bare chest rose and fell visibly: he was breathing quickly, in anticipation of what was about to happen.

  The air of those watching was expectant—partly jealous too, knowing Tom had earned what was about to be given to him. One or two of them were drinking whiskey, as though they were the ones who would need it. She understood how they felt. It was like the ceremony was happening to all of them. And in a way it was, like a promise: Do well for Simon, please Simon, and this is what you will get.

  A shipman came forward, wearing a brown leather over-apron, like a blacksmith.

  “You don’t need to hold me down,” said Tom. He had turned back anything he was offered to help him deal with pain—alcohol, blindfold, leather to bite down on. He simply knelt and waited. The cord of expectation pulled tighter.

  At nineteen, Tom was the youngest to ever take the brand. Watching, Violet swore to herself, I’ll be even younger. Like Tom, she would do well in the world of trade, bringing back Simon her own trophies, and then she too would be promoted. As soon as I get a chance, I’m going to prove myself.

  “Simon rewards your service with this gift,” said Captain Maxwell. He nodded to the shipman, who moved to stand near a brazier of heated coals that had been brought out onto the deck. “When it’s done, you’ll be his,” he said. “Honored by his brand.”

  The shipman pulled the branding iron out of the hot coals.

  Violet tensed as though it was happening to her. The iron was long, like a fire iron, but with an S at the tip, so hot from the coals that it glowed red, like a moving flame. The shipman came forward.

  “I swear this oath to Simon,” said Tom, ritualistic words. “I am his loyal servant. I will obey and serve. Brand me.” Tom’s blue eyes looked right at the shipman. “Seal my pledge into my flesh.”

  Violet held her breath. This was it. Those with the brand became part of the inner circle. Simon’s favorites: they were his most loyal followers, and it was whispered they got special rewards—and more than that, Simon’s attention, which was its own reward for many of them. Horst Maxwell, the captain of the Sealgair, bore the brand, which gave him authority even above his station.

  Tom held out his arm so that the clean skin of his wrist was visible.

  The only other time Violet had seen a man take the brand, he’d screamed and spasmed like a fish on the floor of a boat. Tom had seen that too, but it didn’t seem to faze him. He met the shipman’s eyes determinedly, holding himself in place with his courage and his will.

  Captain Maxwell said, “That’s it, boy. Take it well.”

  Tom won’t scream, Violet thought. He’s strong.

  The men were so quiet now that you could hear the lap of the water against the hull. The shipman lifted the brand. Violet saw a sailor turn his head, not wanting to look—less brave than Tom. That was what Tom was proving. Take it, and show you’re worthy. Violet gripped the ropes tightly, but she didn’t look away as the shipman brought the cauterizing brand to the skin of Tom’s wrist.

  The sudden burning smell was terrible, like seared meat. Hot metal pressed into flesh for longer than seemed necessary. Tom’s every muscle bunched with the desire to curl around the pain, but he didn’t. He stayed on his knees, breathing heavily in and out, his flesh trembling like an exhausted horse, covered in sweat at the end of its run.

  A roar went up, and the shipman held Tom’s arm aloft, hauling him to his feet and brandishing his wrist for everyone to see. Tom looked dazed, stumbling up. Violet saw a brief flash of the skin of his wrist, branded with the shape of an S, before the shipman quickly doused it with alcohol and wrapped it in a bandage.

  That’s how I’ll be, thought Violet. Brave, like Tom.

  He disappeared from her view, the crowd swallowing him in a wave of congratulations. She was craning her neck again, straining for any glimpse. Cut off, she went slithering down the ropes, trying to reach Tom through the press of men, even as she was shoved impersonally here and there, pushed back. She couldn’t see him at all, though the sickly rich smell of cooked meat lingered. A painful grip on her arm wrenched her sideways.

  “I told you to stay back, rat.”

  The man who gripped her arm had lank hair under a dirty kerchief, his beard a rash across his cheeks. He had the rough skin of a sailor, red capillaries like netting on his face. The manacle of his fingers hurt. She smelled stale gin on his breath and felt a wave of revulsion. She pushed it down and dug her heels in. “Let go. I’ve a right to be here!”

  “You’re an ugly brown rat who’s stolen his better’s clothes.”

  “I haven’t stolen anything!” she said, though she was wearing Tom’s waistcoat and trousers, and his shirt too, and the shoes that he’d outgrown. And then, humiliatingly, she heard Tom’s voice. “What’s going on?”

  Tom had shrugged into a shirt, though the two buttons of the high collar were still undone and the front ruffle hung open. Violet had a clear view of him as space opened between them. Every eye was on them.

  The sailor held her by the neck. “This boy’s causing trouble—”

  The sheen of sweat from the branding still on him, Tom said, “That’s not a boy. That’s my sister, Violet.”

  She saw the sailor react to that the same way that everyone reacted to it: with disbelief at first, and then with a new way of looking at Tom, as if they had learned something about Tom’s father.

  “But she’s—”

  “Are you questioning me, sailor?” Freshly branded, Tom had more authority than anyone on the ship. He was Simon’s now, and his word was Simon’s word. The sailor closed his mouth with a snap, releasing her instantly to stumble onto the planking. She and Tom faced each other. Her cheeks felt hot.

  “I can explain—”

  In London, no one guessed that Tom was Violet’s half brother. They didn’t look alike. Tom was three years older and didn’t share her Indian heritage. He looked just like their father: tall, broad shouldered, and blue eyed, with pale skin and auburn hair. Violet was slight and took after her mother, with brown skin, dark eyes, and dark hair. The only thing they shared was their freckles.

  “Violet. What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at home.”

  “You took the brand,” she said. “Father will be proud.”

  Tom instinctively gripped his own arm, above the bandage, as though he wanted to grasp the wound but knew that he couldn’t. “How do you know about that?”

  “Everyone on the docks knows about it,” said Violet. “They say Simon brands his best men, and they rise in the ranks, and he gives them all special rewards, and—”

  He ignored her, talking in a low, urgent voice, glancing at the men nearby with tense concern. “I told you not to come here. You need to leave the ship.”

  She looked around them. “Are you joining his expedition? Will he put you in charge of a dig?”

  “That’s enough,” said Tom as his face shuttered. “Mother’s right. You’re too old for this. Following me around. Wearing my clothes. Go home.”

  Mother’s right. It hurt. Englishmen abroad didn’t usually bring their bastard daughters with them back to England. Violet knew that from the fights between her father and Tom’s mother. But Tom had always stood up for her. He’d tug one of her curls and say, “Violet, let’s go for a walk,” and take her out to a street vendor to buy her hot tea and a curranty roll, while inside his mother shouted at their father, Why do you have that girl living in this house? To humiliate me? To make me a laughingstock?

  “But you gave me these clothes,” she heard herself say, and the words seemed small.

  Tom started to say, “Violet—”

  Later, she would think that there had been warning signs—the men on the pier—the tense looks of the sailors—the patrols with pistols—even the tightness in Tom’s mouth.

 
Now the only warning was Tom jerking his head up.

  A sudden jolt shuddered the ship, sending her stumbling sideways. Violet heard a shot ring out and turned to see the sailor who had fired it, white-faced, his pistol shaking.

  Then she saw what he was shooting at.

  Swarming over the side of the ship, up grappling ropes and planks, came men and women dressed in a white starburst livery. Their faces were noble, like something out of an old storybook. Their features were varied, as though they came from many different lands. They seemed to rise up out of the mist, and they didn’t have modern weapons—they were armed like knights, with swords.

  Violet had never seen anything like them before, like a myth brought to life.

  “Stewards!” screamed a voice, jolting her out of her reverie, and chaos broke loose, the unfamiliar word spreading like wildfire. Stewards? Violet thought, the old-fashioned moniker ringing in her ears. Tom and Captain Maxwell reacted as if they knew what it meant, but most of Simon’s men were just running for weapons or drawing pistols and immediately starting to shoot at the attackers, the deck filling with thick smoke and the choking smell of sulfur and saltpeter from the guns.

  Violet was knocked back and saw everything in a jumble. Three of the attackers—Stewards—swung up around the bowsprit. One of them closer to Violet leaped the rail with freakish ease. Another pushed one of the half-ton crates out of her way with one hand, which was impossible. They’re strong, Violet thought with shock. These Stewards in their white starbursts had a strength and speed that wasn’t—that couldn’t be—natural, as they evaded the first round of pistol shots and started to fight, Simon’s men letting out screams and cries in the smoke as the Stewards began to cut them down—

  She felt Tom’s hand close on her shoulder.

  “Violet.” Her brother’s voice, strong. “I’ll cut them off here. I need you in the hold to protect Simon’s cargo.”

  “Tom, what’s happening? Who are these—”

  “The hold, Violet. Now.”

  Swords. No one used swords anymore, Violet thought, watching in shock as a male Steward with high cheekbones calmly hewed down the ship’s bosun, while a female Steward with blond hair ran her blade through the chest of one of the sailors with guns.

  “Find Marcus,” the blond Steward ordered, the others fanning out, obeying her authority.

  Tom was stepping out to face them.

  Violet needed to go. The deck was a jumble of sight and sound, the fighting pushing closer. She was rooted to the spot.

  “Simon’s Lion,” said the blond Steward, while another beside her said, “He’s just a cub.”

  Lion? thought Violet, the strange word echoing in her, even as she realized they were talking about her brother.

  Tom had picked up the branding iron and was holding it like a crowbar. Amid the gunfire and the swords it looked foolish, but Tom stood out in front of the others, facing down the line of Stewards, as though he was willing to take them on alone.

  Tom said, “If you know we took Marcus, you know you’re not invincible.”

  The blond Steward laughed. “You think one Lion can stop a dozen Stewards?”

  “One Lion killed a hundred like you,” said Tom.

  “You’re not like the Lions of old. You’re weak.”

  The Steward’s sword flashed a silver arc. It was fast—so fast. Violet saw only an instant of shock on the blond Steward’s face before Tom smashed the sword out of her hand, then drove the crude iron bar through her chest. Then he was pulling out the bar and rising to face the others.

  Tom wasn’t weak. Tom was strong. Tom had always been strong.

  Violet stared at him. There was blood on Tom’s face, blood on the iron, blood spattered over the white of his shirt, turning it red. With his auburn curls a halo around his head, he did look like a lion. He threw her a single look.

  “Go, Violet. I’ll follow you down when I can.”

  She nodded blindly. She went, scrabbling backward, then ducking and running across the planking, as the ship shuddered again as though it had been hit. Above her, the rigging swayed and shook. A barrel rolled uncontrollably across the decking. More gunfire; Violet raised her arm to her mouth so that she didn’t choke on smoke. Her heel skidded on blood. She glimpsed Captain Maxwell loading a pistol, then careened sideways to avoid three of Simon’s men struggling with a Steward, before she made it through the haze into the hold.

  Relief, as the hatch closed—there was no one here. The sounds from above deck were muffled, shouts and cries and the muted crack of gunshots.

  She tried not to let it feel like the doors to her father’s study closing, shutting her out after Tom was led inside.

  Stewards, Tom had called them. They had called him Lion. That word was beating at her like blood. She remembered a younger Tom bending a copper farthing in half with his fingers, telling her, Violet, I’m strong, but you can’t tell anyone. His strength was a secret they kept between themselves, but now it made her ordinary brother seem like he was like the Stewards, strange and otherworldly.

  Lion.

  She kept replaying the moment that Tom had killed the blond Steward, red blood on the iron bar.

  She had not believed Tom capable of killing anyone.

  Her hands were shaking. It was stupid. Locked up tight in the hold, she was the safest person on the ship. She squeezed her hands into fists to stop it. That worked, a little.

  She needed a weapon. She looked around herself.

  The Sealgair’s hold was a cavernous space, with thick beams near the stairs, and crates, barrels, and containers extending to the back of the ship. A long line of lamps hanging from hooks overhead disappeared into a darker area, like the black interior of a cave. There, she could see only distant shapes, half-draped canvas and huge wooden bins.

  This was Simon’s cargo, part of a steady stream of goods that he brought back from his trading outposts. They said Simon was a collector, and that his trade funded the unusual objects that he brought back from around the globe. Tom had been rewarded with the brand for procuring one of them, something rare and hard to find. Violet could only guess what strange items lay inside these crates. An uneasy chill passed over her, as if she shouldn’t have come down here. As if there was something here that shouldn’t be disturbed.

  She stepped off the last of the stairs. In this murky lamplight, it was hard to remember that it was sunny outside. Crates loomed on either side of her, anonymous shapes that flickered in the lamplight, appearing to shrink and grow. Despite the snatches of light, it was cold—cold as the river. The Sealgair was low in the water, weighed down by the cargo. Outside, rather than towering above the river, prow tall as a building, it lay near level with the pier, accessible by ladders. Down here, she was submerged.

  Moving deeper into the hold, she found herself sloshing through water.

  Water?

  It was ankle deep, and cold, with the dank, repugnant smell of the river.

  “Who’s there?” said a tense voice.

  A splash as she turned, her heart racing at words in a place she had thought was empty.

  A boy of about seventeen, in a torn shirt and ripped breeches, was chained up in the darkness of the hold.

  Chapter Four

  THE BOY WAS clearly a prisoner, chained to the heavy beam behind him, irons so thick they looked more like anchor chains than restraints. Under the tangled dark hair, his pale skin was bruised and mottled, old bruising and fresh, in a pattern of purples and yellows. He’d been beaten, more than once. The shoulder of his torn jacket was dark with blood, his shirt marked and stained, hanging open to show that the bruising covered his body.

  She stared with cold, creeping horror. Why was there a boy her own age chained in the hold of this ship? In her mind’s eye, she saw again Tom pulling the iron bar out of that woman’s chest, red with blood.

  “What’s happening?”

  The boy had trouble standing upright as he spoke, his weight on the wooden beam. He was bre
athing shallowly, as if even that was difficult, and trying to hide the effort, like a wounded creature trying not to show that it was in pain.

  “The ship’s under attack.”

  “By who?”

  She didn’t answer that. She told herself that if Simon had a boy down here, he must have reason for it. He must be a prisoner or—or a petty thief, an urchin criminal, the paid flunky of one of Simon’s merchant rivals.

  She told herself that the boy had brought this on himself. He must be dangerous.

  The boy wore the tattered clothing of a dock laborer, but with high cheekbones and a certain intensity in his dark eyes, he didn’t quite look like one. His eyes were fringed by long dark lashes that might have been pretty in a less battered face.

  “You don’t have Simon’s brand,” said the boy.

  Violet flushed. “I could have.” Fighting down the impulse to grip her own wrist where the brand would be. “If I wanted.” She flushed harder, feeling like she had been tricked. She realized that as she was observing him, he had been observing her.

  “My name’s Will,” he said. “If you helped me, I’d—”

  “I don’t have the key,” she said. “And I wouldn’t help you even if I did. This is Simon’s ship. He wouldn’t have you here unless you crossed him.”

  “He’s going to kill me,” said Will.

  Everything seemed to stop. She could hear the sounds of fighting as she looked at the boy’s bruises, the dried blood on his face and shirt. “Simon doesn’t kill people.” But as she said it, she felt a pit opening up underneath the words, no longer quite certain of anything.

  “You could find the key,” said Will. “I could slip out during the fight. No one would ever know you were the one who—”

  “Check every inch of the hold.” A man’s voice. They both jerked their heads toward it.

  A woman answered him, “If Marcus is here, we’ll find him, Justice.”