What Novari liked best about Captain Bardarian was his effortless. She adored how smooth he was, how unbothered he acted, how quickly he leapt from physically confronting to alluring and conversational.

She didn't like that all those aspects of him melted away into fear the moment the Sirens outside began to do their jobs. She hated how unfair the Siren song was, how it turned a man like Bardarian from an undecipherable challenge into a mumbling heap.

She snapped her fingers again, and he looked back at her, hand out to stop her from moving. His eyes darted, finding her, realizing she wasn't the one responsible for the song.

She knew—had witnessed—what happened to a man under the Siren song; they were drawn to it over all other emotions and limitations. The Captain would break both of his arms in order to pull out of her grasp, and he'd emerge from the captain's quarters with blood streaming from his head where he'd smashed open the door. Under a Siren spell, one couldn't feel pain or pressure, only that melodic sound. If the Captain became entranced, he'd kill and tear apart his own body to get to that song.

It started up again, and Novari immediately took a step forward, pulling his attention back to her. While she may not be able to play the Siren game, she could distract from it with the proper technique. Distract and disarm. Her job was simple.

"Welcome back, love," she said steadily. "Keep your eyes on me. I'm going to take your weapons. Keep watching me."

He wasn't all there, still; his eyes were fogged over, and his lips were parted slightly. The stronger the willpower, the easier the song could be ignored. She hoped he could keep it that way. He had willpower, she knew. She could tell; everything about him was written on his face, over his clothes, on his fingers. He was a living, walking, open storybook.

His eyes drifted a little from hers, the set of his shoulders dropping. Novari took another step forward. "How many knives?"

He shook his head. "I have a deal with the Siren Queen," he whispered.

"How many knives do you have?" she repeated.

"I have a deal with the Siren Queen."

"So I've heard."

He glanced back at her, looking clearer now. "Two." He shook his head sharply, then took another step closer to her, recognizing that focusing on her was stopping him from getting pulled under. "Two knives," he said.

Everyone had knives. The best place to keep them was usually the shoes, obviously, because you didn't have to keep them in the sheath. She knelt, running a finger down the line of his left boot to find it. His left, because it was easily accessible by his left hand. Bardarian was a left-handed man, clearly. Not just a left-handed shooter, but also a left-handed writer as well, judging by that ink stain on his palm.

She felt the familiar tug of a blade, then pulled it out and tossed it into the wall behind him. When she looked up at him from her kneeling position, the moonlight illuminated his face much better.

There was something...off about this man. While he, as a whole, felt like the biggest, most intimidating and beautiful man she'd ever been in the vicinity of, that perception seemed to crumble when she focused on breaking him down into aspects. When she looked him in the eye, she only had to lift her chin slightly, if even at all. He wasn't otherworldly big or burly, in fact, when she reached out to his arm to find the second knife—in his right sleeve, so as to be accessible by his left hand—she found the actual shape of him to be only slightly stronger than the average devoted sailor. She'd go as far as to call him lean, even, for his size. The dramatic change made her feel like something was attempting to convince her of things that weren't true. It coaxed her to believe that he was dumb and slow. Pretty but stupid. Talk to him. Confide in him. He's not even smart enough to remember what you said.

Novari threw the second knife against the wall. She wasn't sure if it was some incredible manipulative skill he had or another case entirely.

He looked down at her, and she looked at him. She didn't lift her chin this time at all.

"The last one?" she asked.

He ended a long breath with a clever smile. "Waistband."

Novari threaded her fingers together. "You get that one for me."

That foggy glint in his eyes faded a little more as he held his smile. A mostly sweet expression, with just that hint of cunning woven in. The exact kind of expression that told her to trust and get close, but not quite comfortable enough to be boring.

He reached out to give her the knife, holding her gaze as tightly as he could. She glanced at him as she threw the last knife into the wall.

"I'd like an explanation," he told her. He had a gentle way of speaking, a caring tone that was reassuring, as if he were asking for something reasonable.

The song continued outside. To him, it sounded like the impossibly smooth and beautiful Siren song. To her, it sounded like screams.

His eyes were fogging at her lack of a response, his lips parting slightly. Novari brought her hand to his jaw to refocus his attention.

"Look at me," she insisted. If he wasn't lucid, they couldn't get what they needed from him. She could tell his attention was still divided, and she was actively losing control.

His jaw tightened, and the lines in his forearms tensed. She placed her cool palm flat against his face, then the other, turning his head back.

"Bardarian." Novari was running out of options. She dug her nails into the soft skin under the line of his jaw, hoping the pain would startle him back.

He took a shuddering breath, shaking his head. Novari hated Sirens. What finesse warranted this kind of reaction from a normal man? They did no work, honed no skill but rather simply sported some genetic disposition. They could never sing or train a day in their lives and still have this talent. To Novari, it felt classless. Like cheating.

She tried to pull him forward a little more, but he'd retreated down into a shell, inaccessible to the Siren song but also to her. She pulled him closer to the moonlight, maybe if he could see her better, she could get him back.

He gazed off somewhere behind her, eyes lifeless. They didn't change colour, of course, but they were quite unique. There were ocean waves in them, tufts of cloud or sea spray or whatever else. The water below echoed in his eyes like a moving picture.

"I have a deal with the Siren Queen," he whispered.

Novari shook her head. The screams outside subsided, drifting into whispers. She pulled him towards the doorway by the shoulder, pushing him through.

The moonlight was in full force over the deck, and the Sirens had done their job well. Seira stood on the balcony, leaning against the railing. She looked Novari and the Captain up and down once. There was satisfaction in her eyes.

"Captain Bardarian," Seira said, her voice smooth and inviting. "You're prettier than my Sirens."

He'd gone entirely ridged under Novari's grasp. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the song or the sight of his ship; Sirens littered the rail, their glittering tails shining in the moonlight. The crew was now almost completely gone, their starstruck faces loaded into rowboats and pushed back to Canale.

"We could end it all right now, Captain," Seira spoke, taking a large step forward.

Novari kept herself on high alert. He was her captive, not her mother's. What if Seira took him before Novari had any chance to understand him?

"I have a deal with the Siren Queen," Bardarian whispered again.

"He's dazed," Novari said. "You won't get anything out of him."

Seira tossed over a deadly look. "It's now or never. You're too naïve." She enjoyed a good insult, but topical ones had no impact on Novari anymore. "Knife him. Give him some pain. Get it out of him."

Novari shook her head, but her mother knew she'd do that. Seira reached for her knife, reached for Bardarian. Novari pulled him back, slid her fingers behind his ears and pressed hard.

Bardarian slumped down immediately, caught by only one of Novari's hands before he could tumble down the stairs.

"Sorry," Novari said, struggling to hold him up. "My fingers slipped."

Seira raised her chin. A retrograde knockout was nearly impossible to master, but Novari had perfected it at age seven. He wouldn't have any memory of the last few hours, and he'd wake up confused and disoriented—dazed, easy to get information out of. All aspects of the long game an insatiable banished Siren refused to play.

Seira didn't take her eyes off her daughter. She might be the boss, but she didn't make the rules. Even she knew that Bardarian wouldn't give up a single piece of information until they had him in the right spot.

"You'll bring him back, then," Seira said briskly, turning and descending the stairs.

Novari glanced down. She was holding him up fine now, but she wouldn't get very far. He was heavier than an anchor.

She let out a deep sigh and hooked her arms under his, dragging him down the stairs. His eyes were closed, his muscles completely useless. Halfway down the stairs, her sweat had made her hands too slick to hold anything.

Exhausted, Novari dropped his arms and watched him roll down the rest of the way. His head hit the side of the rail hard before he came to a rest on the deck. Blood pooled from his head and onto the last step.

"Not quite so pretty now," she noted.

She glanced up at the rail of the ship. She'd never get him over that. Maybe if she'd had help.

She lifted her head. Somebody was here.

"Need help with that?"

Novari was already turning toward the voice. Edward was leaning against the rail behind her. She looked at him for a moment, and she could tell it gave him discomfort. He averted his eyes and pushed off the rail.

"You know," he began, "I would've helped if you'd let me come along. Instead, I was forced to row all the way out here on my own to see how the whole thing went down."

Novari ignored him. She reached down again and threaded her arms around the Captain's chest, dragging him backwards. He smelled like liquor and wax, more navy man that pirate. She leaned him against the rail, and his head rolled over the side, stopping only when his body didn't follow. Novari would've liked this to be his reputation.

"You can't do that yourself," Edward commented.

The Sirens had mostly gone now, and Novari could see the rowboats of the crew being pushed back to Canale, her mother surely in one of them. There'd been one rowboat left for her, so she dragged the Captain to the spot on the rail directly above. She glanced down, gauging the distance. She glanced back at Bardarian. She might be able to heft him over the rail, but the chances that he would miss the rowboat and fall into the water were too high. Plus, he'd probably break a few bones from the fall.

"Angels," Edward snorted, "just admit you need help."

Novari searched the ship with her eyes, looking for some sort of solution. She let go of Bardarian, and he slumped against the ground again. She made her way across the Avourienne, taking the topdeck steps two at a time. She looked out at the dark shape of Canale. Not too far.

She glanced at the sails. The wind was the right direction; the only thing she needed to do was pull up the anchor one of the Sirens had dropped to keep the Avourienne close. The Avourienne had two anchors: a superficial one for calm nights like this or ship stops, and the main one. Only the first one was down, and she could work with that.

She went back down to the anchor. It was heavy, so Edward followed her over as she struggled to get it up.

"What is pulling up the anchor going to do?" he asked.

Novari pulled hand over hand. She was strong, but not quite strong enough. Instead, she pulled as hard as she could on the rope, then put one foot on the rail and pulled again. Not strong enough. Finally, when the rope was tight enough, she brought her other foot up to the rail, both feet balancing on the metal. She leaned back with her body, and the anchor tugged upwards.

"You're kidding," Edward said from behind her.

Once she had the anchor up off the ground, she tied it off on the rail. It would drag through the water, but as long as it wasn't dredging the sand, the Avourienne could fight it.

"You're going to sail us back?"

Novari jogged back to the wheel. There were carvings in the black wood, of stars and sea creatures and suns. She ran her hands over it, no sharp edging catching on her skin.

The wind caught the sails the wrong way, leaving her to fight to control the rudder. She attached a rope to the wheel and tied it off on the rail, forcing it to steer starboard without her there. She jogged back to the sails.

"You can't sail this ship," Edward shouted after her as the wind picked up. It roared in Novari's ears, drowning out his words. The stronger it got, the harder—and faster—this would be.

"Novari!"

She tugged down the lines and unfurled the west sail, bloodred in the moonlight. It caught quickly, and she lowered it a little. The wind caught it, billowing it out behind the mast. She tightened it. It was almost as though the wind was on her side, like it was helping her carry out this impossible task.

"This ship is too big for one person to handle!"

The ship snapped off to the starboard side, leaving her to both stumble into the rail and marvel at the attentiveness of the boat. With the wheel still rigged, the Avourienne began to spin, caught by the wind on the east sail. The ship was small enough to be agile, but big enough to be powerful, such a perfect combination of every design Novari had seen.

The Avourienne pulled a full turn and started to go past. Too far from the wheel to get there in time, Novari pulled the knife from her boot and tossed it over the topdeck. It cut through the rope, allowing the wheel to spool out again. The Avourienne abruptly cut to the port side once more, turning steady and sliding through the water, gaining momentum.

"Okay," Edward said. "Maybe you can."

Novari tucked in the east sail a little to control the speed and pulled out the west one just a hair more. The Avourienne cruised smoothly along the water, her nose pointed at Canale.

Edward had begun to help. She didn't need it, but help didn't hurt. As he controlled the sails, Novari took to the topdeck again, finding the wheel and bringing her in.

Novari glanced back at Bardarian, still unconscious on the deck. His dark hair was matted with blood, his face to the wood. His arms were splayed out beside him, the tattoo of the Avourienne on the back of his neck.

He didn't deserve this ship, but then again, Novari wasn't sure if anyone did. This ship was alive. It held more magic than all the Sirens on Canale. It was designed and crafted with care and love and ambition. It was the most beautiful thing Novari had ever seen, and it responded to the waves and the winds like it was a part of them.

One day, she swore to herself that she'd have something like this ship.

*

Novari spun a pen around her finger, catching it after one rotation. It weighed a few grams probably. Maybe fifty. Fifty-two-point-eight, she guessed.

"It's not on the immediate ship," Novari said, keeping her eyes firmly on her mother's. Seira stared back at her, yellow eyes sharp in the night.

"And you're sure of that," said another woman. Novari spun her chair around to look at her. She was a stocky woman, someone who was strong and capable.

"I'm sure of that," Novari repeated, not breaking the gaze of the new woman. As another banished Siren, she retained her eye colour from her Siren days, a fluorescent orange-yellow, like Seira's. "It's not in a desk or a drawer or a cabinet. It's not under his bed or in a hallowed wall. If it's there, it's hidden well."

"You think it's on him, then?" a man asked.

She spun again. This one was perhaps three times her age, silver hair curling around his ears. She met his gaze, as she always did.

"Probably not," she answered, spinning her pen around her fingers. She caught it quickly and provided no other explanation.

"Here's the deal," Seira began, her voice immediately taking charge. "It's either on the ship, or it's on him. Those are the only two options." Seira leaned forward, elbows resting on the wooden tables.

Novari spun to see her. The dramatic swivels were rather unnecessary, but they kept her in everyone's attention.

"It's just a matter of determining if he's got it on him or his ship," Seira finished.

"Not quite," Novari spoke up, leaning back in her chair and spinning her pen. "He could have it hidden somewhere. Island of some sort."

Seira waved a hand. "Pirates don't do that. They're far too cocky and stupid to leave their treasure somewhere else."

"Cocky Bardarian may be," Novari told her with a point of her pen, "but stupid he is not."

"He surely seems that way."

"Because that's what he wants you to think."

The older faces turned back to her. She once again pointed out something they'd missed, but Seira wasn't going to give in easily this round. She'd already been infuriated when Novari had brought the Avourienne into port with a rather small amount of effort.

"He doesn't have it hidden anywhere else," Seira told her. "He's a pirate, not a scholar."

Novari said nothing else. They knew she was right, and by not defending her point, she was proving just how confident in it she was. If Bardarian had the map—and that was another option: that he didn't, in fact, have the map—he most definitely had it hidden somewhere else.

"He gets two options," Seira said, brushing by the looks that the others were tossing at her. "If it's on him, he gives it to us now and we let him and his crew out. Same goes for if it's on his ship."

Novari spun her pen.

"We'll let him out?" the silver man asked. Little lines were etched into his face. He called bluff on Seira, without a doubt.

"Absolutely not," Seira snorted at him. "That's just what we'll tell him."

That would never work. Bardarian would call a bluff faster than Silver called it on Seira. "He won't buy that," Novari said, spinning her pen.

"He'll buy it if you sell it," Seira snapped at her.

Novari spun around to face her. "If I sell it," she repeated.

"You heard me," was Seira's reply. Her words were transparent, as always. Predictable. Repetition. Sea turtles.

"An island full of magic manipulators and I'm the one in charge?" Novari asked. She kept her voice smooth and unbothered. Rules, rules, rules. Silver man's jaw clenched and the other woman's knuckles went white.

"It's what you're best at," Seira said back.

No, not quite. Novari was best at throwing knives, playing mind games. She was good at seduction, but not in a charming way. She could pull people in and wreak havoc in their heads, but making them comfortable around her was one of the very few things she couldn't do; Seira was just promoting the age-old insult that her daughter's touch and body were far more valuable than her mind.

"He's a little old for me," Novari said, spinning her pen and crossing her legs. Unlike her mother, she was abiding by rule number two. If she broadcasted just how resistant she was to this idea, her mother would latch onto it and attack.

"Hardly," Seira spat back. "If you're as brilliant as you act, you won't need to put a finger on him." I'll make you do it—because you're the only one who can do it right. Her mother's internal monologue didn't feel internal at all. We'll make it fun, set a little competition in motion.

Novari spun her chair around and tapped the table to stop her movement. "Just so I understand clearly," she said, leaning back again, "you want me to interrogate him, yet you refuse to allow me to pick the options; I'm forced to follow your incorrect assumptions?"

"Incorrect assumptions?" Seira snarled. She leaned over the table across, the two of them at either end. These scenes were a common occurrence, but the other people at the table still exchanged glances.

"One," Novari said, holding up a finger, "leaving out the option he has it off the ship and not on him. Two"—she held up another finger—"assuming he won't call out your lie to keep him alive if he tells."

Seira stood abruptly, and the gazes of the other three followed her movements. She always stood to exert control, but Novari felt that staying seated was far more powerful. To stand meant that you needed the physical height difference to act confident. To stay sitting was to act indifferent, showing you needed no advantage to prove yourself.

Seira raised a finger. "You run circles around every living thing in this ocean, but you can't handle manipulating a pirate if it's not done your way? If you're so unsure—"

"I can do it," Novari interrupted. "Your words, your way, without my hands. No problem."

"Excellent," Seira replied. It was mocking and awful and Novari wanted to rip the look away. She felt the violence and the frustration stewing in her, but she just let it boil.

She could do it her way and lie, but if something went wrong, her mother would be right, and that was just not an option. If she did it their way and it went wrong, it'd be on them despite what she'd advocated for. She stayed quiet, boiling there as the others left her alone in the room.

The stench of algae was infuriating, the drip drip drip of the water near the corner, that deep part of her soul screaming out an old, repetitive thought. Just leave. You don't have to take this. Objectification, no control, no respect. You're better than this.

If she walked off this island now, she'd be branded immediately. The bastard royal, the pretty royal. People would have no clue she could throw a knife until she threw it, and by then it'd be too late for any fawning. By then, the nicknames and the reputation would be solidified concrete.

Drip drip drip. Algae algae algae. Infuriating lack of control and respect. Captain Bardarian was not his father's son, not a product of some lineage or aristocracy. He was Captain Bardarian, of his own regard.

That's what Novari needed. She needed, first and foremost, to understand how he'd done it, then get to work on copying it.

She spun the pen in her fingers. Ink had begun to dribble from the point, dotting her skin and running finger-like webs along her hands. She watched them spread like the lines of ink on her arm. The far more permanent ones. She'd get the map, prove everyone wrong. Earn a little satisfaction. She'd get her reputation under control separate from her bloodline.

And Bardarian could be nothing more than a line on this tattoo.