Part 3Saltwater Sacrifice

Last month, during typhoon season, while I was risking my life to repair the fish farm nets, she was using the salted cod I had prepared to pamper Fabian’s cat.

I used to think Fabian was one of the boat owner's men, that Guinevere was powerless against his arrogance. Now I saw it was her indulgence that had fueled his cruelty all along.

"Guinevere," I asked, my voice raw, "you were the only one who knew where my family's nautical charts were kept. Did you really not take them?"

The sea wind stung my eyes. Her face contorted in a sudden rage. She grabbed a nearby oar and swung it at me. "What right do you have to suspect me?"

I instinctively raised my arm to block the blow. A splinter from the oar pierced the old scar on my forearm, a memento from a time I had defended her from a group of thugs. Blood gushed from the wound. She panicked. "Are you crazy? Why would you block it with your hand—"

Before she could finish, Fabian ran up, whining that he wanted to learn how to drive the trawler. I used work as an excuse to escape their nauseating flirtation.

I worked until sunset. Then Fabian appeared at the port with a group of men. Crate after crate of seafood was dumped into the ocean, swallowed by the waves in an instant.

"All losses today will be covered by Caden Thorne," he announced, his face a mask of malevolence. He ignored the desperate pleas of the other fishermen and proceeded to release a catch of rare, deep-sea oysters back into the water.

Guinevere arrived and kicked me hard in the back of the knees, forcing me to the ground. "Apologize to Mr. Lowell right now! With all these losses, we’ll be ruined for years!"

But I knew. The value of the entire ship’s cargo was less than what Guinevere spent on a single meal.