❛ between us there must be no lies. ❜
there isn’t any, Edward told him earlier, which was a lie in on itself.
his contradictory nature makes itself know here; he knows all of me, inside and out—there isn’t anything in this world I wouldn’t tell him; and yet he still keeps parts of his doings obscured and in fear of what—? Disappointing him? Edward knows the captain, he’s sure that if the man were to be disappointed with him about anything, it would be about the purser keeping the secret from him for this long, not about his actions. Still, the longer Edward’s been keeping the trade to himself, the harder it was for him to explain it.
perhaps some things deserve to always stay hidden.
i’m a thief. i love you.
it’s a late night when he finally feels brave enough for one of those truths; they had a few drinks to help them sleep but it’s only the captain who’s managed to give into slumber; Edward sits there at the edge of his berth, eyes trained on Malachy’s face, peaceful for once; the captain turns in his sleep, back to Edward and it finally untangles the purser’s tongue.
“you know how the officers always complain about their wages? that they remain so low?” it’s always the rich ones; the men sitting on their family fortune, the ones who got their position not with their own hard work but a word, a recommendation, whispered into the right ear, “even though the Admiralty has been paying well. Too well.”
“i think they figured me out. That I ask for more money than the ship needs—but it fixed the roof of an almshouse last spring. And it bought clothes for the children at Saint Philomena’s last winter. A better use of the money than a promotion for a man who doesn’t need it.” Names come to mind, names who belong to those who remain comfortable back in London and who’ll be desperate to claim some kind of involvement in what they are doing here.
it’s easy to admit all of this when the captain’s asleep, unable to actually hear him. It gives Edward a sense of relief and accomplishment, no matter how false.
“i’ve done this for years and it’s finally catching up to me.” Run away on the Promethean, he had to, so the rumors die down. “I don’t know what it’s going to be like when we return.”
he turns to look at the captain’s sleeping form; he has to stop himself from reaching out to touch him, though he wants to—for his own comfort, for his own sanity.
“i like to imagine you’d be willing to help me, if you knew. But I don’t know how to tell you, other than this.”
a hand rests on the captain’s shoulder after all, gentle, almost afraid.
“it shouldn’t be this hard. Not with you.”
