Gild (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 1), Raven Kennedy [good books to read TXT] 📗

rag to swipe over his sweat-lined face. “Well? What the fuck are you waiting for? I’ll boil your fucking hands if you don’t get to work. This meal ain’t gonna cook itself.”

I tense and so do the others, but then Rissa strides ahead, leading the way once again, getting the others to follow suit.

I stay at the back of the group, trying not to flinch every time Cook screams at us or tosses food our way. We hustle to do everything he says, even with our teeth chattering, our clothes and hair sopping wet. When one of the saddles accidentally makes a puddle on the floor, he kicks her down and makes her sop it up with a tiny, useless rag.

And all the while, as I chop and stir and wipe, with Cook snarling and the pirate guard watching, I try to work my ribbons loose, try to get the knots undone bit by bit without anyone seeing.

I have no idea who sent that messenger hawk to the captain, or who’s coming here, but I know the options are bleak. No one good would come to dine with the Red Raids.

Yet no matter who’s coming, I’m grateful for the interruption. If it weren’t for that letter, I would be in the captain’s clutches right now. The thought makes me shudder.

Even so, I know that this reprieve is temporary. Fleeting. I know that before this long, horrible night is through, I’ll be stuck in the captain’s clutches again. So all I can do is try to work my ribbons, and hope I don’t get caught.

Chapter Thirty-One

Quarter wasn’t exaggerating when he said that Cook was a mean bastard. The only sort of direction we get are pans thrown across the room when we don’t move fast enough or a snarl if we dare to ask him a question.

We all rush around the narrow galley like chickens with our heads cut off, throwing things together with shouted directions barely more detailed than, “Go make the fucking biscuits,” despite the fact that none of us have ever worked in a kitchen and have no idea how to make anything.

The room grows hot and humid from the steam and smoke, sweat gathering to mix with the rainwater on our already wet bodies. It’s uncomfortable to say the least, but Cook doesn’t give us an inch to slow down, and none of us dare to look idle.

The entire hour is anxiety-ridden and feverish, and it seems like we make enough food to feed the entire ship twice over. When the ship rocks to a sudden stop, our only warning is the booming growls of the fire claws that preclude it.

Everyone lurches on their feet as our momentum comes to a skidding halt, but we barely have time to get our bearings before Cook is yelling at us to start bringing up the serving ware above deck.

With tin plates and tankards in hand, we file out, following our watchdog who leads the way. When we get upstairs, I find that the storm has ebbed, leaving only a stubborn wind behind.

We follow the pirate through puddled spots on the deck, to the door located to the right of the ship, all the way to the back, past the captain’s quarters. Inside is a small dining area, though it’s packed tight with rows of wooden tables and built-in benches. There’s barely room enough to walk between them, but we all slip down the aisles sideways, quickly unloading everything.

I somehow end up beside Mist, and the woman gives me an ugly glare sharp enough to prick my skin. She slams down her plates in front of me, apparently unwilling to stand next to me any longer than necessary.

She elbows her way past me to leave, the other saddles shooting me looks as Mist storms out. With a sigh, I pick up the pile of dishes she left and start to distribute them on the table. I’m the last one to finish, the rest of them already filing out to return to the kitchen and get the food. I follow several steps behind them, and the pirate watching us smirks as I walk past.

I still haven’t been able to take out a single knot in my ribbon. Aside from them being wrapped so tight, they’re still damp, and it’s making the task that much more difficult.

Frustration makes my lips press into a thin line, yet that frustration sizzles out when I get onto the main deck and notice that the saddles have stopped dead in front of me. And there’s also something...different.

It takes a moment for me to realize that it’s the silence.

The constant noise of shouting and growling, as well as the sound of the ships skating across the Barrens with the pelting rain and whipping wind is gone. All is quiet. I skirt around the saddles, squeezing between their group and the railing to get a better look, to see what’s brought on this muted stillness.

When I push my way to the side, my eyes sweep over the scene. All the Red Raids are gathered together at the middle of the ship, each and every one facing the lowered gangplank.

Captain Fane stands at the center, his band still hanging around his neck but his hat proudly sitting on his head. Quarter stands slightly behind him to the right, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Tension—the kind specific to anticipation—is pushing its presence around to everyone. It’s pushing even more incessantly than the bitter wind, keeping us still and silent. My heart starts to beat quickly, nervously, though I have no idea what awaits.

But something...something is coming.

I glance around, confirming that no one is looking my way, everyone too caught up in whatever the captain is waiting for, on whoever sent him that messenger hawk. Even the guard dog pirate is standing on the other side of the saddles, watching the ramp. I can’t waste this distraction.

Wedged on the outskirts between the side railing