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Silver woke up. His leg was gone, Flint was there, and Silver lied to him.
After that, he continued to exist. Co-exist, as Flint continued to share his space with him. They talked. Made plans. Discussed itineraries and potential alliances. All despite the pain. Deep and aching and fierce. All despite Silver’s unpleasant, nagging feeling that his story had not been crafted well enough.
Flint was watching him.
What exactly the captain thought Silver might achieve behind his back, were he to let his guard down, Silver didn’t know. In truth, he couldn’t do much of anything. Not without considerable assistance—mostly, he suspected, to the inconvenience of everyone involved, and at times to the intense embarrassment.
Overconfident and mourning what little privacy he’d had before, he’d taken advantage of Flint’s absence from the cabin one evening and attempted to relieve himself unaided. He had achieved a precarious squat, window ledge serving as an anchor, before he passed out.
In hindsight, it had been a stupid risk. Not only to the small progress made in his recovery but potentially to his safety onboard the ship. Flint had so far made no sign of disclosing the particulars of Silver’s body to the rest of the crew, but that meant no guarantee for a similarly indifferent reaction had anyone else walked in on him mid-piss.
All things considered, it could have been worse. No mess had been made, and he was spared Flint’s audience. But he’d come around to find Muldoon shaking him gently, looking extremely worried, breeches already hauled up to cover Silver’s nether-end. He had collapsed on his front. Since the pot was still trapped between him and the floor when he came around, he had to assume Muldoon hadn’t turned him over at any point. Hadn’t seen.
Flint had returned not long after the incident, turfing out a flustered Muldoon and sending Silver a strange look. He’d been getting a lot of those recently.
Silver touched the bruising ache on his stomach—purple, strangely shaped by the chamber pot rim and yet another mark on his body—and felt only relief. Nothing had changed for the worse in the hours since. No rumour had reached his ears.
A slight movement caught in the corner of his eye. Flint was watching him.
Silver moved his hand from his stomach with as much subtlety as possible. Shifted fabric to cover the skin. The captain was sitting at his desk, but clearly lacked any intention to study the papers or charts in front of him. Flint stood up. Silver watched as he made his way over to a collection of books on the other side of the cabin. For a long moment, he studied the spines, face hidden. Then, fingers coming to rest on one for a brief moment, he appeared to make a decision—pulled it free from the row. Flint crossed to stand before Silver in a few paces and held the book out.
Silver didn’t move. “What’s this?”
“A play.” The book wavered just slightly, a mid-point between him and Flint. “Skip the dedication.”
Silver took the volume. Nothing was written on the front, but turning it in his hands, he found the title embossed lightly into the spine. The Wonder: A Woman Keeps a Secret. The letters shifted hues a little in the motion, sharp gold to matte, and Flint moved away again.
Even as he attempted to find an innocuous reason for Flint’s choice of suggested reading, Silver’s fingers shook slightly as he opened the book.
Sure enough, the first several pages were filled with slightly larger writing than usual, singing praises to a Duke. Or Earl. Or Viscount. There were a lot of titles, and Silver didn’t care to make sense of it. His heart beat a near irregular rhythm in his chest as he skimmed over the prologue, and then onto the first scene.
He’d thought there had been something of an understanding between them. Half-truths and necessary falsehoods regarding Spanish gold aside, at least. There had been no discussion following Flint’s discovery of Silver’s bodily circumstances, but as the captain had shown no indication of contempt or displeasure in the weeks since, Silver had assumed there wouldn’t be an issue. Clearly, he had been mistaken.
Rapidly, he recognised the sensations rising in his body as anger. At Flint, primarily, but also at himself. For placing this level of trust in someone who, when he really thought about it, he had only known for a few months. For allowing himself to become trapped in this situation in the first place. He knew better. And yet, somehow, here he was.
What was Flint trying to say? If his plan had been to unnerve Silver, to wrong-foot him with a cruel jibe, then he had been wholly successful.
Silver was beginning to panic, there was no denying it. But he wasn’t yet too far gone to miss the fact that he had so far taken in almost nothing of what was on the pages. He took a very conscious, controlled breath, and returned to the Dramatis Personae.
For the rest of the day, Silver read. He was certain that the role of quartermaster didn’t usually provide this amount of leisure-time—though at present he supposed he could hardly call any aspect of his life ‘leisurely’. There wasn’t a moment that went by in which he didn’t feel pain somewhere in his body. And now, on top of that, he was contending with even more mental turmoil than before. Though he didn’t move from his place by the window, the intensity with which he read and over-thought and read again quickly left him drained.
Flint, aside from the occasional perfunctory check on the crew, had also remained in the cabin for the majority of the day. He made a good show of studying whatever covered his desk. Brow furrowed, head bent. Inky marks made here and there. But Silver could tell his attention was elsewhere. On him.
Over the course of the day Silver’s stomach had begun to hurt. Evidently, there was always something else that could bring discomfort. But despite this development, he’d made progress in his intensive reading. Once he’d actually given himself a chance to breathe and absorb the words swimming before his eyes, Silver realised he’d perhaps jumped to conclusions. In all fairness to him, the conclusions weren’t entirely unfounded. But he did suspect Flint was going for a rather different angle in his clumsy hinting.
As far as he could tell, the message conveyed by the end of the play primarily concerned the merit of communication. Specifically, communication in relationships deemed unconventional in the eyes of polite society. Relationships strengthened by a rejection of fathers, the sharing of secrets a means of survival. While neither of them had ever had cause to discuss their respective parentage, he couldn’t deny the relevance. Strange partnerships forming on-page and in life.
If Silver was correct in his re-assessment, the book had been recommended in good faith. Misplaced faith, perhaps, and he allowed himself to feel the tug of guilt for just a moment. The revelation of truth about his body hadn’t been deliberate. But it had happened, and Flint had responded in a manner so lacking in judgment Silver could hardly believe his luck. And now, if he wasn’t mistaken, his captain was offering further assurance of safety in that regard.
But also, he suspected, a suggestion that in turn Silver should reveal more of his mind. That his story of betrayal and sell-outs, hastily strung together in the height of a fever-ridden return to consciousness, would not hold together for long.
*
Muldoon was peeling an orange in Flint’s cabin. He’d knocked on the door with a request to check on Silver, and, somewhat uncharacteristically, Flint had made himself scarce not two minutes later. It didn’t make much sense, considering the effort Flint had been putting into observing him lately. But whatever it meant, for now it provided Silver with citrus and a change in company. And, lingering embarrassment from the other night aside, he was thankful for it.
Muldoon placed the orange peel on the window ledge, curled and neat. He parted the segments, gently, and handed Silver half. The orange had been a tough one to get into; Silver took it, juices leaking out and already pooling in his palm.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Thought you might like it,” said Muldoon. “Probably from the bottom of the barrel, but at the end of the day, a fruit’s a fruit.”
“No scurvy for us.”
“Nah,” said Muldoon. “Reckon you’ve got enough to be dealing with, anyway.” He pulled a thread of pith from his next segment, then froze. His eyes darted to Silver, regret on his face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s alright,” said Silver.
They ate the orange. It wasn’t particularly good, in Silver’s opinion. He could tell Muldoon thought so too, but in this case it was the thought that counted and so neither of them said anything about its toughness or quantity of pips.
“I don’t think the captain likes me very much,” said Muldoon. “What with the speed he walked out of here.”
Silver looked at him. “If Flint didn’t like you,” he said, “do you really think he’d let you come into his cabin for a picnic?”
Muldoon laughed. “You might have a point, there.”
“There you go. I wouldn’t worry about it.” Silver’s fingers were sticky. He rubbed them, slowly, remembering the glance Flint had sent him as Muldoon had entered the cabin.
“I reckon he likes you, though,” said Muldoon, and Silver’s thoughts came to a halt.
“What?”
Muldoon nodded to the window ledge by Silver’s shoulder. The book. “Doesn’t lend those to just anyone, does he?”
“Ah. Now, that was a gesture rooted in pity, I think,” said Silver. “Entertainment for the invalid. Or caged parrot, perhaps.”
“No, mate.” Muldoon shook his head, and though Silver’s eyes were still on the book, he felt Muldoon’s gaze on him. Steady. “I don’t think it’s like that at all.”
Before he left, Muldoon exchanged the play for another book at Silver’s request. Flint hadn’t said he was welcome to anything else, but, well. He wasn’t there to object.
The volume he’d chosen had initially stood out to him simply because of its binding. It was an attractive book, clearly either newly printed or extremely well-preserved; deep red leather, gold lettering, with particularly beautiful marbled endpapers. The title had also drawn him in: Aristotle’s Masterpiece: Or, The Secrets of Generation. Silver wasn’t sure what it promised, but anything claiming to be a masterpiece was usually worth a look.
Barely two pages in, and Silver wished with all his heart that he’d chosen differently.
There, even before the listed chapters, was an illustration. Thick, clumsily carved black lines pressed into the page; the face on the individual appeared to have been rushed, clearly secondary in importance compared to the rest of the body. A naked body. Deliberately unpleasant. The Effigies of a Maid all Hairy. The extent to which the hair covered the person’s body was likely exaggerated—or at least, the manner of distribution. Silver was almost certain nobody’s body hair grew in thick, isolated tufts. Like a terrier’s tail, repeated all over.
But this didn’t change the fact that when Silver looked down at the page, he saw himself. A mess of black wavy hair on his head (growing wilder by the day). A chest, normally hidden away for his own eyes only, displayed in the book for anyone to see. To stare at. To glance at strangely, calculating. The difference between his legs. And of course, the body fur. Thick and abundant.
This final feature was, for the most part, something Silver was extremely thankful to possess. Where his body had otherwise provided him with disappointing developments as he grew away from childhood, this at least was a source of comfort. Joy, even. To trace the thick whorl rising from beneath his breeches, past his navel. Picking up the trail again as he reached the centre of his chest—the space between, where the softness and excess shape was absent. In private moments, this brought Silver into a strange state of calm.
And now his most precious peculiarity was laid out as a mark of monstrosity. Sick with shame and bitter disappointment, Silver turned the pages. Chapter five explained the grim details Of Monstrous Births, and the reasons thereof. In chapter sixteen, Signs of Conception, and whether of a Male or Female. The confusions that resulted from poorly planned acts. Confusions with which Silver was intimately familiar. The final chapter, apparently saving the best until last, promised Pictures of Several Monstrous Births, in which the first image was repeated—as if it had left Silver’s memory—and was accompanied by what appeared to be a scaly, tailed child. In other words, a mermaid.
Had Silver been in a wholly different mood, and been able to stand, free of nausea, he might have taken the final page onto the deck to give the men something to laugh about. The engraving was almost comically poor. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t stand up and walk up the stairs. He couldn’t pull his weight on deck, lightened by a shirt tossed aside. He would never laze around amongst others, back and stomach gathering warmth from the sun, because that had never been a possibility. The usually banished whisper in the sharp, harmful crevice of his mind was surfacing again, released by the miserable book in his lap. He was something else. Undefinable.
More so now than he had ever been before.
Silver lifted the latch on the window and wrenched it open, frame juddering in place as he pushed too hard. Immediately wind rushed into his open mouth, carrying in gusts to the back of his throat. The horizon lifted up and down. He shut his eyes, willing the nausea to pass.
Instead, the door behind him opened and Flint walked back in.
Without quite knowing why, Silver moved a corner of the blanket to cover the book. “Hello,” he said.
There wasn’t an immediate reply. He leaned back towards the outside, as far as he could, too sick to care about what Flint’s mind might be cooking up. Eventually a response came, a little closer to him than he’d expected.
“Are you alright?”
At this point, Silver could only laugh. It wasn’t a very good laugh. A little too revealing in its lacklustre, but there was nothing he could do to fix that. Perhaps he would never hide anything again.
“I feel sick,” he said.
“Do you want me to fetch Howell?”
Staring. Looks. Prodding. “No,” said Silver.
“Are you sure?”
“I know what’s wrong,” he said. He rested his forehead against the ledge, uncomfortable. Exhausted. “There’s nothing to worry about. It’ll pass.”
The change in position allowed the wind, cool in its sea-soaked mist, to brush over the back of Silver’s neck. It lifted the strands of filthy hair, bared his skin. He breathed in. Out. Repeated.
A dull clunk sounded close behind him, followed by Flint’s retreating boots. Then the captain spoke again. “If you need it, try to aim for the bucket.”
*
Silver was running. He was running across the deck, which seemed to stretch on far longer than he remembered. Looking down to make sure ropes didn’t catch on his feet, he found he was wearing a pair of boots he hadn’t seen for years. He missed those boots. They hadn’t started out as his, but he’d spent enough time with them that the leather had eventually moulded to fit him perfectly. For a moment Silver felt a swoop of joy at seeing them again. At feeling their familiarity.
Then he remembered that they’d been stolen from him, and that he no longer needed two boots. Which was how he knew he was dreaming.
Suddenly moving his legs was a terrible struggle—as slow and heavy as attempting to run through water, though apparently he was still on deck.
There was a figure at the other end of the ship. Too far to make out in detail, but Silver knew they were watching him. Staring. And even though he hated them for it, he knew he needed to reach them.
He was so tired. He stumbled, veering off to the side; head swimming, he tried to correct himself but it was no use. In no time at all his two legs had become one—no missing limb but instead, in a more horrifying twist, his flesh had combined to resemble a tail. With nothing to help him balance, Silver fell hard onto the planks of the deck. Cruelly, his dream sent a splinter into his palm on impact. It stung, sharp and vivid as he thrashed on the ground and tried to free himself from his breeches.
If he had a tail, would he continue to change until he was a fish? Silver panicked, thinking of oxygen-starved gills and gaping mouths in nets. He tried to call for help, but no sound came. He stretched his mouth, wide, throat straining in vain as nothing but air escaped.
Silver.
He stopped writhing. Looked around. There was no one around him, still. Just the figure at the end of the very long ship. Much too far away for the closeness of the voice.
Water, Silver. Do you need water?
Water. Could he make it over the side? His arms were still arms. They were still strong. He began to crawl, pulling himself hand over hand. His tail dragged behind, a heavy mass of muscle unused and unfamiliar. Dust and dirt stuck to his palms and the water below called to him; chilly, unknowable and free.
Desire and intent carried him up and onto the edge of the ship. Silver looked down. He watched the bright white spray foaming in contrast against the blue. Constantly changing. Leaping. Dancing.
The figure was still standing far, far away, but something told Silver that it would be alright. That they’d follow him over. He closed his eyes, breathed in, and fell.
*
The spasm that went through Silver’s body was strong enough to send his arm out sideways, and it was only Flint’s last-minute reflexes that prevented a broken nose. Apparently the captain had been standing over him while he slept, though for how long, Silver couldn’t say.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered. He brought a hand up to his chest, heartbeat frantic against his palm. It was still day. Perhaps late afternoon.
“Are you alright?” Flint moved back a couple of paces.
“I’m fine.” Silver took a breath, mostly controlled but still shaky. “Just a dream.”
“A bad one, by the looks of it.” Silver looked at Flint. He was holding a book. The book. “Perhaps it was your choice of reading.” He lifted it. “I was going to ask you how you got on with Centlivre, but clearly you’ve already moved on.”
Flint turned and began to walk away, placing the book on his desk as he went. He continued, and for a moment Silver was certain he’d walk right out of the cabin without another word. But at the door, Flint stopped.
He had his back to Silver, but at the small sound of metal grinding against itself he knew the lock had been slid shut. Flint turned and walked over, slowly, back to where Silver sat by the window. He stood in front of him, apparently uncertain, before sinking down to sit on the blankets. There shouldn’t have been enough room. There wouldn’t have been, just a few weeks ago. Silver tried not to think about it.
Flint’s face, he realised, was a picture of discomfort. When he spoke, the words came into the room stiff, unwieldy. Sentences rehearsed silently and lacking confidence in reality. “There are things we need to discuss. With regards to your… condition, and the impact it may have on your ongoing position as quartermaster.” Flint hadn’t yet made eye contact, squinting across the room—and briefly, even as the indignation rose, Silver was glad of it. He used the precious time to school his own expression before he spoke.
“Now, wait a moment—”
Flint cut him off. “I know it’s personal—deeply so, and I understand your reluctance to address the matter.” He met Silver’s eyes. “But it would be frankly irresponsible of me as your captain not to ensure this is resolved—in whatever manner you deem suitable—before it becomes apparent to the rest of the crew.”
Silver stared at him. If he was honest with himself, he’d felt this moment approaching for some time. As alarming as it was, it wasn’t entirely unwarranted. Clearly, Flint had watched him fail to sufficiently recover in the past few weeks and wished to overturn the crew’s vote. An ultimatum was coming. Or simply a dismissal. He had hardly contributed, after all. But for all his mind raced in an attempt to produce a suitable response, Flint’s words rendered him mute.
In the face of Silver’s silence Flint shifted slightly in his seat, turning his eyes down to his hands where a thumb and forefinger twisted a ring. Methodically. Three clockwise, and three back again. “I won’t pretend to have first-hand experience of this sort of thing,” Flint said. His voice was quiet. Careful. “But I believe that, should you wish to take a certain course of action, Max could provide a connection with somebody more knowledgeable. With full discretion, naturally.” He glanced at Silver, clearly looking for a reaction. “Of course, should you choose to see the whole thing through I would provide somewhere safe for the duration.”
Silver opened his mouth—and closed it again. He frowned. Suddenly he had the feeling he was missing something crucial.
“I don’t mean to be rude, Captain,” he said, “but what the fuck are you talking about?”
At this, Flint let out a frustrated sigh. “I believe you are capable of a great many things, Mr Silver. But even the most adaptable of men have limits, and pirating while enceinte is one of them.”
“I beg your pardon?” Silver was somewhat irritated himself. In the back of his mind, he began sorting through half-buried French vocabulary, desperately searching for the moment he’d clearly misunderstood Flint’s words.
“I realise our undertaking is important to you. That despite all odds you have even begun to see yourself as part of the crew. So soon after being appointed quartermaster the timing is, to put it lightly, less than ideal. But I won’t have you unnecessarily endangering yourself and my men for the sake of—”
Here, Silver’s mind caught up with the conversation and helpfully produced the exact word he’d been looking for.
“I’m sorry, are you under the impression that I’m with child?”
Flint broke off, and stared back at him. A flush crept across his face, quickly spreading to his ears.
A long, long moment passed before he replied.
“I was under that impression, yes.” A shaft of sunlight broke through the window, illuminating the side of Flint’s face. Something large and wooden creaked, and the seconds dragged on. “I take it you’re not.”
“No.”
Flint nodded. “Alright, well. Good.”
“Right.”
An even more uncomfortable silence fell into place. Flint seemed unsure of what to do with himself, now that his rather bizarre theory had been invalidated. He stood up, but before he could make his escape a question came to Silver’s mind. “I’m sure I’ll regret asking this,” he said, “but exactly whose offspring did you believe I was carrying?”
As if unbidden, almost guiltily, Flint’s eyes flickered to where the small pile of orange peel lay curled and drying by the window.
“I—” He cleared his throat. “I thought, perhaps—”
Silver looked between Flint and the sad little leftovers. “You thought I was fucking Muldoon?” Flint closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”
“He did seem to be the most likely candidate.”
Silver decided not to investigate any further on that particular point. Instead, he said, “I don’t suppose you could enlighten me as to why you thought I was with child?”
“There were several signs,” said Flint. “Or at least, I thought there were.”
“What signs?”
Flint rubbed his face. “Nausea, general stomach complaints. Coinciding with—intimacy. Obviously I was mistaken about that. But I’d have to say your secretive reading material was the primary reason.” He glanced at the table, then back to Silver. “Did you have a reason for ruining its spine in your blankets?”
“Not particularly,” said Silver. “Do you have a reason for having that book in your possession? It makes for a horrible read.”
“I actually agree,” said Flint. His hands settled behind his back. “Most of these books came from various raids, but I’m ashamed to admit I purchased that one.” Silver raised his brows. “The author,” Flint explained. “Certainly not Aristotle, but it drew me in. I suppose I have to give credit where credit’s due; that little ploy to attract readership did its job.”
“You don’t approve of its contents?” asked Silver.
“I think it has some value,” said Flint. “But I also think it is limited in many areas, and wildly misleading in others. Not pleasant, as you say.” His voice grew a little quieter again. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “why were you reading it?”
Silver remained silent for a moment, considering. But he held Flint’s gaze. “Initially, a similar reason as you, I think,” he said. “But I saw certain… similarities. Between myself and cases portrayed.” Silver paused and his boldness, along with the eye contact, broke. He looked down. “I suppose I wondered if there might be a reason. For my peculiarities.”
Flint was quiet. Enough time passed that Silver felt a heavy pit of regret build in his stomach. He crossed his arms. He shifted where he sat, and a spike of pain shot across the ending of his left leg. “If Howell would be good enough to permit it, I’d like to get out of this room,” he said.
Flint’s nod caught at the edge of his vision. “I’ll fetch him,” he said, and walked away, again, towards the door. Then, again, he stopped. “For what it’s worth… I don’t think it matters a great deal,” he said. “Peculiarities, differences. In the end, we all end up more or less in the same state.”
The captain left, and Silver was alone. He wrenched free from the blankets, tossing them to the far end of the window ledge, and readied himself for Howell’s arrival.