"You, the blonde. You're first."

The woman she'd picked was quick to respond. She was fast, but she didn't have the ability to predict. Was Novari really faster than this woman? Perhaps not, but her reactions bordered on precognition, which called for an entirely different game.

Novari ducked a high kick and spun, driving her elbow into the back of the woman's neck. There was a crack, then the woman rolled to the ground, stunned.

"Tall boy," Novari said, nodding to the man to her left, "your turn."

Novari had picked an easy woman to start, to instill false confidence in the next challenger, who flexed his shoulders and lumbered towards her. Tall boy was easily the most talented on the crew, and he knew it.

Novari hooked her leg around both of his arms once he struck, driving him to the ground. He rolled to avoid, but she crouched beside him to stop him from moving onto his back. She pressed her knee into the curve of his neck.

Tall boy sputtered, unable to breathe for a few moments before he tapped. Novari lifted off and gave him a shove to clear the match space. She turned around, meeting an appropriate reaction from the crew. Tall boy was talented, and that was the first indicator of Novari not quite all talk.

She picked out one more talented man to embarrass before she glanced at the navigator. "Time?" she asked.

"Fifty-five seconds."

Novari rolled her shoulders. "Out of practice," she mumbled. Love had made her slow. Damn Seira for being right.

The man that Novari knew as Skinner stepped forward. "I'll have a go," he offered.

Novari glanced at him. She liked him.

Skinner was good—quick and strong, fast reactions with an attention to detail. Novari knocked him unconscious into the mast pole. She took out the next, then the next. One man, far too aggressive for the incompetent skill set he possessed, gave her a nasty cut on her cheek. Novari broke his nose for it, then shoved him away to focus on the next.

She gestured to the next one, some stubby girl. Novari spoke simply, without the aggression she felt burrowing in her bones, "I'll do this one time." She kicked the girl in the stomach. "One time, you get to touch me without repercussions." Stubby girl tapped. "The next time someone lays a finger on me, calls me the Avourienne girl, or makes any other clever jokes, you'll wish tapping was an option."

Crooked-teeth girl—Sheer—stepped forward, shouting across the deck, "I could care less if Slint lets you on board." The wind began to pick up, nearly drowning her next words, "You're forever the Avourienne girl to me."

She tossed Sheer her knife, and the strategist caught it. "You can use that, if you'd like," she offered. "Even the playing field."

Sheer threw the knife away, refusing to take the advantage. It embedded into the wooden rail behind Novari, who examined crooked-teeth-girl's form. She was one of those fighters that could be good, in theory, but she just didn't have the determination to work hard for it, to suffer for it.

"What's your name, love?" Novari asked.

Sheer stalked forward. "I wouldn't dream of telling you shit."

Novari grinned. "I'll have to guess, then." She ducked under the first hit. "It's Rhea, isn't it? Rhea Sheer?" She kicked her in the back of the knees, forcing her to the ground.

Rhea bared her teeth. "Lucky guess?" she sneered, spinning to rush again.

Novari stepped out of the way and tripped her, sending her spiralling into the deck. "Not exactly. Bardarian has a record of this crew."

Rhea recovered quickly, getting to her feet. Something flickered in her eyes at the words.

"He has a little more on you than everyone else, though," Novari noted. "He wrote that you're disconnected in your movements, you take a long while to think, and you're a little tentative in the sheets."

Rhea made a low noise in the back of her throat. She barrelled forward, attempting go for the throat. Novari redirected the force, catching a fistful of her shirt just before her crooked teeth shattered on the lip of metal along the railing.

"How, I wonder," Novari said, pulling her back up, "would he know such a thing?"

Rhea attempted to spin, but she ended up putting her stomach right into Novari's knee, once, twice, a third time.

"It's quite bold, don't you think?" Novari asked. "To preach hate for the same man whose bed you jump into the first chance you get." She tossed Rhea back towards the rail. "Do you really loathe him, love, or do you just despise that he declined your request to join the crew—yes, he wrote about that, too."

Rhea's eyes landed on the knife still embedded in the railing. She wrenched it out, turning around to slash at whatever she could reach. Novari simply sidestepped again, kicking her just hard enough in the back to send the strategist stumbling forward and dropping the knife.

Novari caught it. "You can have that back," she said, tossing the knife. "You know something, Rhea? You're not the only one. In fact, Bardarian has intimate notes on more than a quarter of the women on this ship." Novari glanced at Slint as Rhea readjusted the knife and moved forward. "He plays you for a fool, Jon."

"I'd bet he has notes on you, too," Rhea spat, finally throwing the knife.

Novari ducked. "I'm sure he does," she said, hooking Rhea into her arm, "but I didn't have to beg him for more." She slammed her head into the rail one final time, leaving her to fall unconscious onto the deck.

Novari quickly moved on, having wasted too much time with Rhea. One, then the next. One at a time. Easy, hard, hard, easy, easy. Eventually, Novari got to the first mate, but he was one of the easiest.

Hiding her deep breathing, she glanced over at Slint, who still held that unimaginably easy smile. She drew closer to him.

"Five minutes and fifty seconds," the navigator announced.

"Well I'm no king of the sea," Slint whispered, "but I suspect I could hold you off longer than ten seconds."

Novari didn't doubt he could. She said back, "Any captain with a sense of self-preservation knows not to lose in front of his crew."

Slint grinned, glancing at the navigator, calling the six minutes. "You're a brilliant woman," he said. "In fact, I think you could be an asset. Would you like a position?"

Novari kept her face steady, her rules intact and her calm in place, but her irrational hope spread wings and flew along with the screaming would. "And what would that be?" she asked.

"I think it would be first mate."

It was that easy.

*

The Avourienne was a calm, unhurried place. Things were well-oiled down to the tiniest detail, sidestepping urgency in favour of nonchalance. The Starling, though, was nothing like that. Everything occurred rapidly, at the quickest pace. Doors were thrown open, crew members shouted across the deck to avoid walking—even their feet were louder against the deck.

Bardarian had held an air of performative politeness that Slint lacked, a silent way of communication that the Captain of the Starling couldn't quite replicate, but not for lack of trying. Following Slint, Novari felt her posture begin to slip. She'd hardly realized how being around someone taller had momentarily pulled her shoulders back as far back as they could go.

On the Starling, Novari slept in the first mate's room, adjacent to Slint's. She had her own desk, her own window and a queen-sized bed. She felt too big for everything else, but that bed felt too big for her.

She often got up in the morning and kicked her foot against the wall to get Britter's attention, but he ever came. Once, she even patted the bed to coax Minnow up onto the sheets. Countless times, she rolled over at night to find Bardarian, but he was never there.

At first, they were just memories, just harmless reminders of him and his ship. She'd remember, but then she'd keep remembering for too long, and the reminders began to curl at her insides, turning far from harmless. It was constantly in the front of her mind—remember when he said this, when he did this? When he told you this, when he taught you that?

She'd remember, and then she'd remember, and she couldn't stop remembering, so she stopped sleeping alone. She avoided those on the Starling expertly, but she always took someone back with her when the ship was in port, hoping one of them would make that bed feel smaller, feel full. Sometimes she could sleep in their presence, but more often than not, she couldn't.

When she slept on the ship, it was in the strategy room with Slint and the quartermaster, Hannah Brynn. Brynn was the only person on the ship that wasn't outright terrified of Novari, and the only one comfortable enough to crack a smile and a joke. After the strategists would leave, Brynn, Slint and Novari would throw around stories and liquor, and Novari would revel in that fact that they listened when she spoke. They didn't talk over her; they didn't dare cut her off. They processed everything she said, and they took orders from her. Slint filed away every piece of advice Novari gave and took her word as law.

She found sleep came easier with a drink. It was one, then it was two, then she couldn't fall asleep without it. Slint began to look at her from his desk when they were throwing ideas around and ask her how many she'd had. After nightfall, she forgot more things than she remembered.

"You're an alcoholic," Slint said to her one night, looking up from his desk at her.

Novari had shrugged. "I do my job well."

"A high-functioning alcoholic."

Novari had simply repeated, 'I do my job well' and Slint hadn't brought it up again.

She'd tried and failed to train the crew. She'd give them her best tips and her best exercises, but they never caught on like Britter or Rusher had. They never were able to last more than a few seconds in a fight with her.

Skinner had a thing for her; he'd bring her water to her room when she'd been in there planning for a long time. When she'd ask him to bring her a bottle, he'd nod politely and bring her one. Then he'd stay to ask her if she needed help. In the mornings, when she stumbled from the strategy room still drunk, he'd smile at her and tell her she was looking lovely that morning.

Rhea hated her, and Novari hated her back—but not for the reasons everyone thought. She hated Rhea because of that night she'd had with Bardarian, no matter how short or trivial it had been to him. Rhea proved that other women existed before Novari, and they would exist for long after. She hated that she'd become a name in the middle of his list, no bigger than any other. It clawed at her mind, festering all sorts of awful thoughts.

Nothing made her feel anymore, not those port lovers and not her job, so she turned to the only man she thought might settle her mind: Slint, who maintained the epitome of professional. He handed her things in a way that would ensure their hands wouldn't touch, maintaining his distance at all times. He'd never look at her too long when she was talking to him, but he always glanced over at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention. He kept his thoughts good and bundled up, and as much as Novari respected him for it, she found it equally infuriating.

He was desperate to keep Novari, clearly. She was doing the majority of the work; there was no one on the Starling that could follow even a fraction of her thoughts as Britter had, so she no longer bothered to explain. She took out all the spies collecting information on the Avourienne and worked with the navigators to avoid the Devil's ship against Slint's command. It was the only control she had over herself.

"What's he like?" Brynn asked that night, her blonde hair shimmering. "Was he as tall as everyone says he is?" She poured the rest of her bottle down her throat.

Novari tilted her head to the side, hair spilling over the side of Slint's couch. "Taller—at first. But it's almost like he gets shorter the longer you know him."

"How tall do you think he is?" Slint asked from his desk, shuffling some papers. He didn't drink, but he always participated in the bridge crew's intensely important discussions. "Like an exact height."

Novari frowned. "He's like"—she lifted her hand above her head—"I don't know, here on me?" She was laying down, but she felt the point was still made.

"That's probably like six-five," Brynn remarked. "That's tall."

"He is quite tall," Novari said.

"Do his eyes change colour?" Brynn asked.

Slint sighed. "Oh, not the fawning, please."

Brynn held up her hands. "Hey, I'm one of the only women on your ship that hasn't slept with him. Silta—do his eyes change colour?"

Novari tilted her head again. "I don't—" She cut off, suddenly unsure. She had vivid memories of his eyes being a dark navy, but she also remembered a day where they had been lighter than that. "I don't think so," she said finally.

Hannah snorted. "You think that'd be something you'd know."

Novari tipped her bottle back, feeling Slint watch her. She glanced at him, and he looked down.

Hannah let out a long sigh. "It is time, my superiors, for me to retire. I will see you in port ass-early in the morning."

Novari gave her a little wave and finished her drink. She gestured as Hannah left. "Send in Skinner with another!" she shouted after her.

"You really should put that boy out of his misery," Slint mumbled from his desk, looking down at his papers.

"Who, Skinner?" Novari asked.

Skinner burst through the door. "I have another for you, ma'am," he told Novari quietly, presenting her with a bottle of rum.

"Thank you, love," Novari said. "Hold on—before you go—I have a question for you."

"Silta," Slint warned.

Novari hushed him. "Skinner, love, are you miserable? In misery?"

"Not at all, ma'am," Skinner replied.

Novari spread her arms and looked at Slint. "See?" she said.

Slint waved his hand. "Get out of here, Skinner. Don't come back. She's had enough."

"I have legs, Jon, I can walk myself to the rum if I want," Novari pointed out.

"I'd be surprised if you could walk at all when you're that drunk."

"I could kill you still, Jon."

"Stop calling me that."

Novari grinned at him. Skinner stood silently to the left of her head. Novari waved her hand. "Away with you, Skinner. On standby."

"Not on standby," Slint retorted. "Skinner, get some sleep. Silta's a shameless player who would be done with you in less than five minutes."

"I think Skinner could do better than five minutes," Novari replied, arching her back a little to look at him.

"Out Skinner," Slint said, turning down to his papers. "That's an order."

"Bye Skinner," Novari called after him.

"Shameless," Slint noted when Skinner had fled.

"Fun," Novari corrected. "I've just gone through everyone in port. Yesterday, I forgot I'd slept with one of them already. Embarrassing as hell."

"For the man that got played by you twice or for yourself?"

"Well, both."

"As long as you stay away from my crew, you can do whatever you please."

Novari paused. "Do you think I've lost my dignity, Slint?" she asked, her voice high and amused.

"I think Bardarian does the same things and doesn't get accused of being anything other than irresistible."

Novari pointed her finger to the ceiling. "That is an excellent point."

Slint stayed silent for a moment. This was usually the point where he'd go off into his room, taking Novari's bottle away and advising her to get some sleep. She would doze off on his couch or stumble over to her room and toss and turn all night. But tonight, she wanted things to be different. She wanted to know something, anything to keep her mind turning.

"Are you in love with me?" she asked. It didn't come out as absurd as she thought it might. It seemed like a reasonable question.

"I think everyone is in love with you," he answered, signing something.

Novari sat up, the liquid in her drink sloshing. "But you don't offer me bottle service or bring me food right to my door."

"That's because I'm not a lapdog. Skinner is pathetic. He wants your compliments and that dazzling smile."

"And what do you want?" Novari asked him, giving him a dazzling smile.

"I want you to give up booze."

"That's not what I was asking."

Slint stood now, his collected, nonchalant attitude firmly in place. He leaned against the wall across from her, his eyes cold. "The truth? I'd like you kiss me senseless as you whisper obscene things to me in the dark—just like everyone else."

Novari searched his eyes. "Very original."

"But I'm not a port boy," he said, "and I'm not an idiot. I get the sense that the price for your touch is demise. Bardarian learned that lesson so I didn't have to."

"You think you have the restrain to live like that?"

"I know I do. As long as you stay over there, where you belong."

Novari lifted an eyebrow. She laid back down.

"Do you think you'll stop?" he asked her. "With the rum and the men. When you're older and you've had your fun."

Novari considered it. She knew the answer: She wouldn't stop, she'd only get worse. It was an addiction, a distraction, not just a young frivolity. Still, she lied, "Maybe."

"Then I'll wait."

Novari laughed. His patience wasn't what she wanted. She wanted someone to love her again, not lust after her. She thought Slint could be that for her, the someone who loved her that she didn't have to love back, but he saw her as something unattainable, didn't see flaws or believe he was every bit the person she was. He couldn't love her like Bardarian had.

"Are you that patient a man?" Novari wondered.

"I am," he said.

The firmest thing she knew about Slint was how unbelievably impatient he was, how little control he had over his soul. But for her, he'd become the very thing he struggled to be.

She used to want that unflinching devotion; it used to drive her, make her feel powerful. Now, it felt overused, boring, even. She wished, just for a second, that someone would stand up against her again. Would disagree, offer some challenge. She wanted someone with enough self-respect to stand by their decisions despite her influence.

Novari grinned, hiding every inch of pain searing in her body. She hid the feeling of falling, the feeling of helplessness. She hid the depression that clouded her mind and her vision. She hid the feeling of being sick of herself at every moment.

She did what she did best. She plastered her poker face over her broken soul and lied to herself about the very concept of regret, about what she truly valued.

She couldn't bear to admit she'd thrown away what she wanted so badly.