The Bright and Breaking Sea (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 1)

She woke at dawn to find the rain gone, the sun just above the horizon, the sky smudged purple and orange.

She washed her face and dressed in her spare uniform, then searched out the schoolroom again, only erred once while traversing the labyrinthine wing. The door was open, as were the windows, and a fresh breeze blew inside.

She checked on her sailors, found them all awake and sipping on tea. She began to walk into the room, but the physick glared back at her before moving from Teasdale’s bed to Cordova’s. Teasdale offered her a wave; Kit waved back.

“He’s a good physick.”

Kit nearly jumped at the voice, turned to find Mrs. Spivey behind her.

“His manner’s a bit cold,” she continued, “but he’s delivered a dozen children and cured twice as many fevers.”

“As long as he helps them, he can have whatever manner he likes,” Kit said.

“Good morning.”

They glanced back, found Grant in the corridor. He’d gotten a shave, and his jaw was scraped clean again, square beneath his dark brows and turquoise eyes. He wore deerskin breeks with his dark boots today, and a greatcoat in the same honeyed color.

“Grant,” she said.

“Captain,” Grant said. “How are the patients?”

“Improving, it appears. Although the physick has not deigned to speak with me, nor am I allowed to enter the room.”

Grant nodded. “I thought you’d want to drive to Queenscliffe to check on the ship. I’ve a curricle harnessed.”

She felt immediately calmer at the thought of returning to the ship, the water, if only temporarily. Less so at the thought of climbing into a death trap to get there.

“That’s kind. But if you have estate concerns that you need to manage, I’d be happy to walk.”

He raised his brows. “It’s four miles.”

“I enjoy a good walk,” she said. On her own damned feet.

“At present, the Diana is my estate concern. And I can collect some items Mrs. Spivey needs from the village, which will save her the trip.”

“In that case, I suppose I have no other option.”

And gods help them both.

She’d thought of curricles—in the rare instances she’d been forced to consider them—as dares. It was as if their designer had decided two horses simply weren’t dangerous enough on their own, so added a rickety bench balanced on narrow wheels at their back.

If Grant noticed her white-knuckle grip on the seat, he managed not to mention it.

They reached the village, and villagers emerged from buildings as the curricle passed, then watched from the dock as Kit made her way to the Diana. The hole in her side was bigger now, and Kit couldn’t hide the wince, even though she understood the reason. They’d need clean edges for a clean patch, not the irregular tear made by the cannon.

You can’t get through the thick, Kit thought, hearing Hetta’s voice recite Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 9, without going through it. This, at least for the Diana, was the thick.

Grant stopped to chat with villagers, and Kit continued through them, could feel their curious stares, could just see their approving nods at the periphery of her vision. Then she put it away, climbed the rope ladder with the swiftness of a salty hand, and chuckled at the mild applause.

“Captain on deck!” someone shouted, and the sailors above came to attention.

“At ease,” she said, and looked around at the work underway.

Mr. Oglejack had indeed found a spare yard, and had set sailors to work planing it down to replace the lost topmast. Damaged decking was being pulled up, the pitted gunwale being sanded.

Jin was chatting with Simon. He looked up, caught her eye, and came her way.

“Captain,” Jin said. “Been a while since we’ve had a fancy lady on board.”

“Hilarious as always,” she said dryly, and was relieved to return to the company of those she knew and understood. “How’s the crew?”

“Very well, m’lady,” Jin said, and made a little bow.

“I will write you up for insubordination.”

“Perhaps you could request a servant prepare the documents for you?”

“Hilarity,” she said. “Report.”

“A few crew members had too much tipple last night, but the town’s full of sailors who outdid ours in drink, so that’s something.” He gestured toward the high street of shops. “The bakery reportedly makes a very good meat pie. I hear there’s still a bit of coin to be spent. As long as that’s the case, they’ll be very welcome here.”

“We need the repairs finished by the time it runs out,” Kit mused.

“As you can see,” Jin said, “the villagers are skilled and efficient. They found more hull damage beneath the waterline, but nothing as big as the hole.”

“The hold?”

“Still dry, or at least no wetter than usual. The hand pumps are ready, just in case, but we haven’t had to use them yet. How are the patients?”

“They’ve a very skilled physick. And while I would never admit this in his presence—or Grant’s—he’s rather bossy.”

Jin just looked at her.

“Insubordination,” she called out, and headed for the stairs.

Kit found a hive of activity in the forecastle. At present, Mr. Oglejack and Mr. Bailey were involved in a heated discussion over how tight to make the wooden plug they’d prepared.

“It will swell when it hits the water!” Oglejack said. “If it’s too snug now, it’ll pop right out again.”

“And if it’s not tight enough,” Bailey said, “it’ll pop out before you leave the damned harbor.”

When the sailors realized Kit had entered the room, the din quieted for a moment, then picked up again at twice the volume as each man tried to sway Kit to his side.

Kit stared at them blandly until they stopped shouting.

“Thank you,” she said in the ensuing silence, and looked at Mr. Oglejack. “While I think you’d be absolutely right if the hole was beneath the waterline, it may not swell enough above to keep the plug seated. So seal it now but”—she said, holding up a hand as she saw a fresh barrage being loaded—“in the event Mr. Bailey and I are both wrong, we should have an extra plug that we can plane down and use if the first one does, as you said, pop.”

Neither man looked especially pleased by the result, which Kit figured was a pretty good sign she’d done the right thing.

She checked the hold herself, then went back to the deck to watch the work, when someone called her name.

“Captain.”

Kit refocused, found Mr. Oglejack on the deck a few feet in front of her with one of the village carpenters, a piece of decking, and a wooden box of tools. And there was plain discomfort on Mr. Oglejack’s face.

“Yes?” she asked.

“You’ll beg my pardon, but the, well, the pacing is making it a bit hard for us to accurately plane the decking.”

She looked around, realized she was the only person standing in this part of the ship, and didn’t remember having walked here. She’d been pacing, something she did only when working things over. A marauding water buffalo, Astrid had once called her.

“Pardon,” Mr. Oglejack said sheepishly, cheeks blushing.

“No, it’s my fault,” Kit said with a smile she forced into place. “I was thinking, and hadn’t realized I’d stepped into your workspace. My apologies, gentlemen.” She went back to the helm, crossed her arms, and felt her foul mood returning.

“Irritating your own men?”

Kit refused to look at Grant. “I’m observing their progress.”

“I’m aware,” Grant said. “But your very fine carpenter is right; they won’t get as much done with you hovering over them like a governess.”

“I don’t hover,” she said crisply. “I lead. I manage.”

“You’re slowing their work.”

This time, she bared her teeth at him. “And what else am I supposed to do? Learn to cook pasties? Perhaps a bit of embroidery while Mrs. Spivey brings me tea and biscuits.”

Grant’s expression stayed mild. “If she’s biscuits, have her send some up for me, as well. And I’m fairly certain you can’t tell a needle from thread.”

“I’ve mended a shirt now and again,” she said, sounding defensive even to her ear.

“Impressive,” Grant said, a corner of his mouth lifting. “If you’ve no antimacassars to tat, perhaps you could take a walk around the village, or the grounds of Grant Hall. There’s a lovely view of the sea from the hills behind the garden at Grant Hall. I’ve some business here, but you can wait for me. Or you can pace back on your own.”

She growled, even as she knew hovering wasn’t going to help. And besides, women in the penny romances were always going for walks on the moors or by the ocean or across a hedged ground. An enemy was nearly always lying in wait to ambush them, but they usually enjoyed walks up to that point. She could try a meander. Maybe it would help her burn away some of the excess energy.

“Fine,” she said.

“Captain.”

She looked back at Grant.

“If you reach the sea, you’ve gone too far.”

She took the same road back, marveled at how much she could hear when the noise wasn’t damped by speed or hidden by the clomp of horses and the squeak of wood and leather. The sky was overcast, and birds tittered nervously, as if expecting the sky to break open. Insects whirred and buzzed in the air, and frogs she couldn’t see made sounds like drums farther away.

It took just over an hour to reach Grant Hall, and seen from the ground it might have been a public park. The lawn seemed to stretch in all directions without end. There was an enormous pond stocked with darting orange and black fish, hedge gardens that needed trimming, with green walls twice as tall as she was. A labyrinth of herbs. Fields of wildflowers. And acres of closely cropped grass that led toward the sea and the echoing waves.

On a hillock of some of that grass, she passed a wooden building shaped like wheat sheaf, wider at the bottom than the top, but easily thrice as large. A barn stood nearby. A wooden door was closed, the side path leading to it well-worn and flattened, but she could hear what sounded like grinding from inside, and there were several large round stones propped against the building. A gristmill of some kind, she guessed.

She kept walking, and the ground became rougher as she neared the sea, cratered rocks interspersed with moss as green as peridot, tiny white flowers adding softness to the craggy landscape. And then the stone fell away, and blue stretched into infinity. It churned white along the rocks below her, deepened in color to the horizon. The little peninsula leaning forward into the water so blue was the only thing she could see below.

She closed her eyes against the wind, let it break against her, and listened for the song of the sea. The sea was a hundred feet below, its song just as distant. But even from above she could hear the faint melody, turbulent as water battled back rock and stone. It was a war—not just between landscapes—but between magic. The fluidity of water, the urge to move, to go faster, to slick through currents. The solidity of stone, standing tall against change, against capriciousness. And between, in the foaming water and water-smoothed rock, was the battle line.

She felt the ground rumble, for a moment wondered if she’d managed to touch the magic without even being in the sea. And then she looked back.

Grant galloped toward her on an imposing black horse, fast enough that his hair blew back in the wind, his coat flying out behind him like a cape.

“Hello,” he said when he reached her, his turquoise eyes glinting.

“Hello,” she said, and looked warily at the beast who’d borne him. It was big but lean, its coat was so deeply black it seemed to shine blue in the sunlight, and its mane had been carefully braided.

“Would you like to ride?”

Her no was perhaps a bit too quick.

“You run headlong into a battle with pirates, but a horse disturbs you?”

“They have bigger teeth.”

Grant blinked. “I suppose that’s inarguable.” Before she could move away, he hitched a leg over the horse, hopped off, and shifted the reins over the horse’s head. “Come then, Captain. I’ll walk back with you, and stand between you and this vicious creature.” His coat lifted in the breeze, and he looked as much the commander inspecting the battlefield as gentleman preparing to negotiate a grassy heath.

Kit looked at the horse from behind her human barrier. “What’s its name?”

“Her name is Cordelia.”

Kit also didn’t understand giving horses human names. It was just unnatural. But she wasn’t going to say that aloud, and admitted to herself that Cordelia was a handsome horse, as horses went.

“Hmm,” Kit said noncommittally. But if she praised it, it might move closer. So she tried her best to ignore it. “There’s a building not far from here, shaped like a cone. What is it? I thought perhaps a mill, but it’s nowhere near water.”

“It’s a gristmill,” Grant confirmed. “But it uses magic, not water.”

She stopped short, looked at him. “It’s siphoning magic? That’s incredibly dangerous. And illegal.”

He gave her an exceedingly bland look.

“I don’t siphon magic,” she reminded him, and held up her palms. “I only touch it.”

“The gristmill doesn’t siphon, either. As you’ll recall, I understand the dangers of magic as well as you do.”

The image of Grant on his knees, shock and concern in his gaze, flashed in her memory.

“Right,” she said. “How does it work?”

“It doesn’t—not yet. But it will. We’re in the gods’ palm, you see.”

That was one of the old stories—that the magic had been unequally spread across the world as the gods battled for supremacy. When Kanos, the god of water, finally bested Arid, the god of stone, Kanos had fallen to his hands and knees in the sea, grabbed at the earth near the shore, imbuing sea and shore with magic.

“The soil in this area is thin,” Grant said, “the bedrock beneath it abundant in magic. The magic here has a vibration.”

Her brows lifted. “Really?”

“So I’m told,” Grant said. “Is there no vibration in the sea?”

“There’s an energy,” Kit said. “But it flows, just as a current of water, and the speed and strength vary. How are you using the vibration?”

“We’ve built a cellar,” Grant continued. “A wide well that goes down to the bedrock. A stone from the surface is placed on top. The vibrational difference between the two moves the top stone against the bottom and, we hope, will grind grain between them.”

Kit considered that for a bit. “That’s rather ingenius, isn’t it?”

“It will be if we can get it to work correctly. We’re still trying to find the right stone.”

That explained the bevy of them outside the building, Kit thought. “I’ve never heard of anything like this before.”

“That’s because it’s the first time it’s been attempted. There’s a water mill on the neighboring estate, but the river’s course changed, and the mill’s virtually useless now. If this effort is successful, it would mean a great deal to the village.”

“I suppose even a viscount can have a good idea occasionally.”

“Be careful you aren’t too generous with the compliments,” Grant said dryly. “Your crew may think you’re going soft.”

They reached the house, coming around the back this time, and Grant offered the horse to a stableman who ran out from a nearby building. They made their way inside, found Mr. and Mrs. Spivey in the foyer, staring through the front windows.

Mr. Spivey turned back. “My lord, there’s a carriage coming up the drive.”

“Oh?” Brows arched, Grant moved to the windows, looked outside.

A carriage pulled in front of the house—glossy gray with crimson accents, driven by a pair of bay horses.

The driver hopped down, opened the doors, and a man emerged, tall and thin as a rail, with pale skin, curly brown hair, and a cheerful smile. He wore all black, though his waistcoat was patterned with small dots and his cravat held a fluffier knot beneath his long face.

“Well, that’s very timely,” Grant said, and moved to the door. “It’s the Howards. Mr. Howard is the inventor of the gristmill.”

Curious, Kit followed Grant outside.

“Grant!” said Mr. Howard when Grant reached him. He pumped Grant’s arm. “Good to see you again. So glad you’ve returned safely.”

“Matthew. Good to see you as well.”

Matthew turned back to the carriage, offered a hand to the woman who emerged. She took it in a gloved hand and stepped down. She was as petite as he was tall. Light brown skin with a cap of short, black hair peeking from beneath her bonnet.

“Tasha,” Grant said, and bowed over the gloved hand she offered him. “You look radiant, as always.”

“And you’re charming as always, my lord.”

Then the pair of them turned their eyes to Kit.

“Matthew and Tasha Howard, this is Captain Brightling of the Queen’s Own.”

“A pleasure,” Matthew said, offering her a bow. “It appears the repairs on your ship are coming along.”

“She appears to be in very good hands,” Kit agreed. “And it’s lovely to meet you.”

“Your Diana is a beautiful ship,” Tasha said.

“The queen’s Diana,” Kit said. “Mine only for the borrowing.”

Tasha smiled. “Spoken like a true sailor.”

“And Tasha would know,” Grant said. “You may know Tasha’s father. John Lawrence.”

Kit blinked back surprise. “Admiral John Lawrence?”

“He is,” Tasha said with a smile. “So I know how to judge a good bit of clinking and a neat bowline.”

Kit smiled.

“Let’s go inside,” Grant said, and extended his hand toward the door.

They moved into a parlor Kit hadn’t yet seen, with buttercup-yellow walls and wide windows facing the back garden. By the time they took their seats, Mrs. Spivey was wheeling in a tea tray.

“You’re a marvel, Mrs. Spivey,” Tasha said, taking a cup and saucer and a thin golden biscuit. “Thank you so much.”

Unable to decline fresh tea with milk, Kit took a cup, added an extra splash for good measure.

“My father always said he couldn’t get enough tea with milk when he returned from a mission.”

“It becomes a luxury one grows to appreciate,” Kit said, and sampled one of Mrs. Spivey’s golden biscuits, found it crisp and sweet and a perfect foil to the hot tea.

“What brings you by?” Grant asked, when everyone had been served.

“The gristmill,” Matthew said. “The granite wasn’t successful. It doesn’t turn so much as shiver atop the bedrock.”

Kit considered that. “Where was the top stone from?”

“The cliffs near the village,” Matthew said. “Why do you ask?”

“Kit is Aligned to the sea,” Grant said, and she nodded.

“The flavor of magic can be quite different from one geographic area to another, even from county to county,” Kit explained. “If you use a stone from another part of the Isles, that difference may produce a stronger effect.”

“Well,” Matthew said, putting his teacup on the table. “I hadn’t known there might be such a nuance. There’s a boy Aligned in the village, but he’s new to the, well, practice, I suppose you’d call it. If we can get it to work—and I’m feeling quite energized now—we could build mills all over the Isles.”

“I understand you’re just getting started,” Kit said, “so there’ve been no ill effects from the mill. But more of them, all operating together, could have a more profound impact on the current. It could be dangerous.”

“We’ve yet to get one to work,” Matthew said. “So we’re a long way from a mill in every county. But I take your concerns to heart.” His expression sobered. “I wasn’t in the war, but I’ve friends who were, and of course Tasha’s father knew much misery. I don’t take magic lightly.”

Kit nodded, knew there was little else to say about it now, but still unable to shake that lingering unease.

“So, Kit,” Tasha said, turning toward her, teacup balanced carefully on her lap. “How do you entertain yourself when you aren’t at sea? Or perhaps on board the ship, as there must be slow times between fights and battles. Do you draw, or perhaps play music?”

“Neither, I’m afraid. My sisters have the talents there. I tried embroidery once, but put the needle through my sister’s finger, and that was the end of that. I do enjoy reading,” Kit added. “Especially penny dreadfuls and romances.”

“Oh, I love a good dreadful,” Tasha said with a grin. “Murder and drama and perfidy. They’re absolutely delicious. Everyone deserves a bit of adventure now and again.”

“Hear, hear,” Grant said.

Tasha looked at Grant. “And what do you like to read? I’ve seen your beautiful library; you’ve plenty to choose from.”

“I’m not a great reader,” he said. “When I do, it’s usually to do with the finances of the estate.”

“That sounds like dull stuff,” Matthew said.

“There are more interesting tasks,” Grant agreed. “If I’m lucky, Mrs. Spivey lets me count the rutabagas.” That got a chuckle from the Howards. “And lest Captain Brightling give herself insufficient credit, she may not be much with embroidery, but she captains a ship very creditably.”

“A compliment from Rian Grant,” Kit said, sipping her tea. “That must have exhausted your entire reserves.”

“Oh, surely you’re being too hard on Lord Grant,” Tasha said. “He always has a lovely word.”

“Captain Brightling and I are acquainted by our professional connection,” Grant said, watching Kit over the rim of his glass. “There is a certain required formality.”

Mrs. Spivey came to the doorway, then moved to Grant, whispered something in his ear that had him smiling. “A lovely suggestion,” he said, and looked at the others. “Mrs. Spivey has inquired if you might stay for dinner?”

Tasha looked hopefully at Matthew, but he shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, but we should get back. There’s work to be done before the day’s out—and I’d like to pen a message to some friends in New London about stone.” He looked at Kit, smiled genially. “I think you might have something there. And I thank you for it.”

Kit nodded, and hoped she hadn’t just set in motion a wave that couldn’t be stopped.

Friendly goodbyes were exchanged, and Grant waved away the carriage as it scritched down the rock drive.

“They seem like lovely people,” Kit said.

“They are,” Grant agreed. “Given her father’s position, Tasha could have every convenience in New London, but she decided to stay near the village where she grew up. They have a house not far from town.” He looked at Kit, brow furrowed as he studied her face. “You needn’t worry. He wouldn’t harm anyone intentionally.”

“The soldiers at Contra Costa didn’t mean to harm their own,” she pointed out. “That mattered little to the thousands they killed, which is why manipulating magic was banned.”

“And you know as well as I that the tide will turn again,” Grant said. “Such things are inevitable, particularly if some enterprising soul figures how a bit of gold could be made.”

“You think the mechanization of magic is inevitable,” Kit said.

Grant considered that. “I think humans look for every advantage they can find.” And before she could argue, he took her hand, looked at the dark dots across her palm. “Every advantage,” he said, lifting his gaze to hers.

“I don’t manipulate,” she said, and pulled her hand away.

“You don’t,” he agreed. “But neither will you be the last to use it for your benefit—even if the benefit is the safety of others.”

Kit didn’t like it, but knew he was right. Which was precisely why she needed to get out of Queenscliffe, to return to New London. She needed to talk to the queen and Chandler about the warships possibly commissioned for Gerard, how they might use magic, and what the Isles could do about it.

“There’s business I should see to,” she said. “Logs and correspondence to write. I should go take care of that.”

She gave him a nod, but didn’t wait for his response. And as she strode to the majestic staircase, rubbed her fingers against her tingling palm.