Finals are finally finished!! Summertime awaits! With months of hospital clerkships but let's not ruin a good thing just yet. Anyway, here is the next chapter I promised for when I finished.
I want to say a special thanks to AwkwardMD for being my humor consultant on this chapter and I'm lucky to have one of the funniest writers on the site backing me up when I can't come up with a joke.
Enjoy!
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Ch. 6
There were subtle differences in the grip he kept on her. At first it had seemed they were all the same; a domineering, controlling hand wrapped so completely around her upper arm. In the weeks that followed her first performance Roland had made such a habit of clasping her arm whenever they moved about the ship that she began to take note of when his hold was lower and looser, or when his fingers felt like strangling iron bands across her muscle.
Today his thumb marched up the back of her arm instead of curling around its counterparts. His hand's position was lower, almost at her elbow and the weight of it would have been comfortable if she could admit it. As it was, his absolute control over her movement outside the cabin had initially flared her confidence, confirming that she'd gotten to him. But weeks later that triumph had faded and the familiarity of the routine had settled over her as she allowed herself to be steered down the steps and onto the lower deck.
Roland walked just behind her as they picked their way past the swaying hammocks on the way to the galley. Loud voices erupted next to them and Kenna started, taking a step towards Roland. The contraction of his fingers and arm aided her momentum and she found herself pressed tightly against his side. Three sailors were shouting over a game of dice, their overlapping voices reverberating in the small space.
"That's not how it works!" one of the red-faced men shouted. The other two, a small Welsh man she recognized as a dancer, if a poor one, and a larger African, stood their ground.
"Don't be daft, Ned, you can't change the rules whenever you lose," another called back, leaning in and squaring his shoulders.
The third gestured at the dirty cubes at their feet. "If ya roll two of the same then you can't just claim the pot, you have t—"
"See? Even Osei knows the rules and he's only just learned," the second one jabbed a thumb towards the larger black man.
"Of course he thinks them's the rules, 'cause you taught him your sheep-fucker game with no thought to the real way you play a fucking game of dice."
Kenna saw the first man grip his knife where it was tucked in his belt. The other two were bristling and the Welshman had turned bright red at the mention of fornicating with cattle.
"You would know from sheep-fucking seein' as you've been diddling the dairy goat for nigh on two weeks now."
Three blades whistled from their sheaths. In the heartbeat of silence that followed Roland stepped forward without releasing her, a large laugh rolling out towards the three of them.
"You can't tell me two fours is worth nothing on the pot." His voice was calm and full of good humor. Kenna felt it crack the tension up the middle, the air around the three men changing instantly as they turned their eyes towards him. But Kenna saw the set of Roland's shoulders, the strain that coiled in his neck and down his arm to where he held her behind him. The men pulled away from one another, the two arguing together put their knives away before the third would agree to do the same. They turned towards their captain and began speaking their grievances at once.
He turned back towards her, the men's voices still arguing over one another but with a distinctly less murderous tone. "Head to the galley and collect our meals. I'll be there in a moment." He released her and Kenna immediately felt unmoored. For a full moment she kept her place behind him as he turned back to the arguing crew members. It should not have been be difficult to step away from him, and so she pivoted and scurried the rest of the distance to the galley, ignoring the edge of panic that came with the movement.
The cook waved her in past the small group waiting, bowls in hand. Some of them had stepped out to watch the ruckus and she recognized the Quartermaster making himself scarce as he slipped by her, the sour faced Master Gunner following behind. The latter was recognizable in that he was the only one who never came to hear her sing. The scowls she received when they did cross paths did not recommend him as an audience member so it was satisfactory for both parties that he stayed away.
She put her hands inside the enormous pockets of the coat she wore and curled her fists tight. The crew were usually chatty during the evening meals, she'd heard them joking and singing, some not altogether terribly. But she felt the room hush a bit as she moved past them unescorted for the first time. Some heads were bobbed in greeting but no one spoke to her as she made her way towards the cook and his assistant.
"G'evening Missus Bell," the cook spoke, as she neared him.
"Good evening, Mr. Munro," she gave him a small, tight smile in greeting, her hands still knotted in her pockets.
"Gid Evenin'!" the assistant chimed in, pouring the mead as he bounced over. In contrast with most of the crew, Mr. Hansen was incessantly chatty around her. A fair few had tried to engage her in conversation these last few weeks, but none so doggedly. Mr. Hansen had subjected her to more stories than she could count, and she'd found each deliberate attempt to divert her more and more grating.
