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

Kit strode back through the palace, anger building like a storm along the horizon.

She’d do her duty, by gods, because that’s what duty was. Adversity, Hetta had told her daughters, was to be faced head-on, chin lifted, and fists raised. But she didn’t want to haul a viscount across the sea. She didn’t want to listen to his complaints or commands, or watch her words to avoid offending his sensibilities. Which might prove a problem given the state of the guest cabin . . .

She exited the palace, blinked in the sunlight, took a breath. She had sixteen hours, give or take, before the Diana was ready to sail again, and she’d use every damned minute of it. There was much to be done. First thing—get a message to Jin about the Diana’s mission. He had a wife and two children, and sixteen hours wasn’t much to spend with them. But it would have to be enough.

“Flower, missus?”

Kit stared down into the grubby face of a small girl.

She was thin and young, her light skin dotted with freckles (and dirt), and her hair was a mass of tangled curls cut just below her firm chin. Kit guessed she was eleven or twelve, and that she’d taken the flowers—and their earth-clotted roots—from the palace’s front border.

Kit lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t need weeds stolen from someone else’s garden.”

The flowers hit the ground, immediately abandoned. “I can also deliver things. Or carry things. Two bits.”

Kit snorted at the price, but she didn’t like the hollows in the girl’s cheeks. “What’s your name?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”

“I have a task that needs doing. An important message delivered, and I need to know the name of the girl delivering it.”

“Louisa.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” She held out her hand. “Silver.”

Kit couldn’t fault her courage, even if her prices were high. “Copper,” she said, pulling a coin from her pocket.

The girl looked at her pityingly.

“You know the Crown Quay?” Kit asked.

“Where the queen’s ships are.”

“Exactly. I need a message delivered to the Diana. The message is for Jin, one of the ship’s officers.”

The girl pointed to the braiding on Kit’s uniform. “Officers have gold on their coats.”

“They do. I’ll give you the copper to deliver it. And if Jin wants to send a message back to me, there’ll be another copper waiting for you.”

She watched Kit for a moment, nodded. “I can take a message.”

“Good. The message is this: ‘Diana sails at dawn. CR will provision tonight. Go home.’ Repeat it back to me.”

Louisa rolled her eyes. “Diana sails at dawn. CR will provision tonight. Go home. Repeat it back to me.”

“Very amusing,” Kit said, and offered her the coin. The girl snapped it away, slipped it into a pocket of her short and dirty jacket.

“Do you know the Brightling house?” Kit asked.

Louisa’s eyes widened. “Where the foundling girls live. They say a wee fairy lives with them.”

Hetta was small, if entirely human. “If Jin has a return message, it can be sent there.”

Louisa looked her over with obvious skepticism. “And I’ll be paid another copper if I deliver that message.”

“Yes,” Kit said. “That’s a promise from a captain.”

With a nod, the girl sprinted toward the river.

Kit wanted a hot bath, tea with milk, a penny story, and a good biscuit. But there’d be no biscuits waiting for her in the Brightling house. Mrs. Eaves, the housekeeper, believed in mutton, hard-boiled eggs, and exceedingly dry toast. Spicy foods, she liked to say, led to spicy tempers.

Kit remembered she’d managed only a slice of meager toast while the Diana had slipped up the Saint James toward New London. And considering what she’d likely find at home, she thought of the stall Jin had shown her one rainy evening—and the dish she’d found there.

She passed the church again, then moved briskly through the narrow alley, past the stalls selling penny dreadfuls and romances, fried pastries and sugared fruits, to the counter where a woman in white, her dark hair a gleaming knot atop her head, seemed bathed in fragrant steam.

Kit put down a silver coin, and it was swept away, replaced almost immediately with a bowl of thick noodles in broth dotted with flecks of spicy peppers she knew would flay her tongue with heat.

And dug in immediately.

Two bowls later, when her hunger was finally sated and her mouth aflame, she strode down High Street to the building Mrs. Eaves had once called New London’s premier temple of sin. Portnoy’s Confectioners was a temple of puddings and biscuits and scones and desserts, a fantasy of sugar in glossy green boxes, and the pistachio nougats Kit loved most of all. She bought a box for her sisters, a paper cone of nougats for herself that she’d eat on the walk home.

New London became quieter as she walked toward Moreham Park and away from the bustle of shops and merchants, away from wagons hauling goods, and carriages waiting to disgorge their passengers for an afternoon of shopping. When she reached Francis Street, shade from towering oaks and elderwoods dappled light across the walk, and birds in the park proper chirped happily in the afternoon sun.

She stopped at No. 62. The familiar town house of painted white brick, with its gleaming black door, and round shrubberies behind the short black gate. A bronze sign, small and inconspicuous, posted beside the door was the only indication the town house was anything other than a typical residence. brightling home for foundlings it read in tidy block letters. est. 1792. One year after Hetta had returned from the Continent alone, having buried her husband on a high cliff near the sea.

Sir Harry Brightling had been a smart and canny man, born into “genteel” poverty before making money in some investment or other. He’d also been, at least based on the stories Kit had heard, a kind and generous man who’d loved Hetta to distraction. The Brightling house had been born of his wealth and her love, and bore the name he’d given her.

Hetta liked to tell her daughters that she hadn’t needed to give birth; she’d only needed to find her children and gather them home. Seven girls were residents now—Kit, Jane, Astrid, Bettina, Georgina, Pari, and Marielle—all allowed to live in the Brightling house as long as they needed. In exchange for Hetta’s financial and emotional support, they were expected to master their studies, learn and practice Hetta’s Principles of Self-Sufficiency, and when they were grown, make a contribution—financial or otherwise—to family or nation.

Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 1: Never take for granted the generosity of others.

Kit pushed through the low gate, took the steps to the front door, and opened it . . . to the sounds of combat.

She looked into the parlor. Two girls, identically dressed in white trousers and shirtsleeves, white masks on their faces, pointed épées at each other in the center of the room.

“Point,” said one girl, stepping back and lifting her mask. Her pale face was freckled, her hair short and red, victory gleaming in her green eyes. “And that’s a win for me.”

The second swordswoman lifted her mask to reveal a markedly similar face, although her tight curls were pinned up at the back. “You cheated!” she said.

“Absolutely did not.”

“I saw no cheating,” Kit said, and the girls squealed, and launched themselves in her direction.

“Kit!” They wrapped their arms around her.

“How was your trip?”

“Was there treasure?”

“What about pirates?”

Bettina and Georgina were twins, and they approached everything with the same singular focus and vigor. And they craved adventure in the way of thirteen-year-olds who couldn’t wait for the freedom to find it, and refused to accept the notion that Kit was a mere courier.

“We found what we were looking for,” Kit said. “And I found this on the way home.” She held out the Portnoy’s box.

The girls looked at each other, nodded. Bettina took the box. Georgina ran to the doorway, looked into the hall.

“Clear,” she said, and Bettina went to a corner of the room, dropped into a crouch. Using a fingernail, she flipped up a short plank of the floorboard, revealing a small compartment. She added the Portnoy’s box, then pressed the floorboard down again and stood.

The loose board in the parlor had been a popular hiding spot even when Kit was a child.

“Cheeky girls,” Kit said, when they both came back grinning. “Where are the others?”

“Jane is upstairs, as always,” Bettina said, joining them again. “Pari took Marielle to the park. Astrid is calling on Mary Cartwright.” Her tone dipped a bit at the last. At nineteen, Astrid was determined to marry her way into connections, wealth, and stability. Kit couldn’t fault her desire for security, even if she didn’t understand the desire to memorize the list of the season’s most eligible Beau Monde members. Come to think of it, Astrid and Grant would probably get along royally.

“Get back to your practice.”

“Come on,” Georgina said, slipping her arm into Bettina’s. “I’ll give you one more chance to beat me.”

Bettina snorted as Kit slipped through the long central hallway to the kitchen. And was stopped by a wooden spoon held at arm’s length like the finest of swords.

“Halt.”

Kit followed the spoon to the woman who wielded it. She was slender but strong, with pale skin and silver hair. Her dress was gray and starched so stiffly it might stand on its own.

“Mrs. Eaves,” Kit said. And was glad her gift had been hidden.

Mrs. Eaves pulled the spoon back, looked down at Kit from nearly six feet of imposing height. “It doesn’t appear you’ve eaten for a month. I hope you managed to feed your crew.”

“The queen is frugal. We prefer to throw them overboard when they start complaining of hunger.”

Mrs. Eaves’s mouth thinned in obvious disapproval. But as much as Kit enjoyed their sparring—and surmised Mrs. Eaves did, too—there were other matters at hand.

“I sail again in the morning,” Kit said, before Mrs. Eaves could voice that disapproval. “I’d like a bath after supper, please.”

Try as she might, not even stoic Mrs. Eaves could hide the flare of concern that creased her brow. “You’re leaving in the morning? But you’ve only just returned.”

“Someone needs our help,” Kit said, and felt the weight of the words and the obligation. Tomorrow, she’d don her coat, deliver a coin into the sea for luck and thanks, and command her ship and her crew into danger. But right now—in the warm kitchen of the house on Francis Street—she allowed herself a moment’s regret, and a moment’s gratefulness.

“In the morning,” Kit said again. “And a bath this evening would be most welcome.”

“Then it will be done,” Mrs. Eaves said, and nodded stiffly. “I believe we’ve yet some of the lavender salts you enjoy.”

“Thank you.”

Their agreement dissolved the temporary truce, and Mrs. Eaves squared her shoulders again, narrowed her gaze. “What contraband did you sneak into my house?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Kit said, and slipped away.

The potting room, with its long table, tile floor, and views of the garden, had become the domain of Kit’s closest sister, Jane.

It was a simple room, with whitewashed walls and chairs near the windows, perfect for reading. But that wasn’t the kind of contemplation that most commonly happened here. Work was done at the well-worn table in the middle of the room. Jane had scoured the kitchen for bottles and jars and pots, had borrowed books from Hetta’s library. And she’d directed her energies toward solving the mysteries of the world’s substances.

She funded her studies and purchased new wares with the profits of the things she’d already invented. Solid soap that never diminished or dissolved. A fertilizer made of ground turnips and beets—the only appropriate use for either, in Kit’s opinion—that nearly turned their small garden into a jungle. A paste that provided all the nutrition a body needed for an entire day’s work—and that tasted as revolting as it looked.

Jane was two years younger than Kit’s twenty-four years. She was tall and pale with blond hair, blue eyes, and a wide mouth. It was presently curved into a frown as she peered down at a thick book, used white gloves to carefully turn the pages.

It relieved Kit immensely to see her. But then she narrowed her eyes. “Are you wearing my gloves?”

Jane’s squeal of delight rang through the room. “You’re back!” she said, pulling off the gloves and running to her sister, wrapping Kit in an embrace. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Kit said. “And those are my gloves.”

Jane snorted. “You hardly ever wear them.” She smiled slyly at Kit. “If you’d been here, I’d have asked you first.”

“But since I wasn’t, you helped yourself?”

“I had work to do.”

“You might as well keep them now,” Kit said. “They’re probably soaked in deadly chemicals, and I have to sail again at dawn.”

Jane’s smile fell away. “We’ll hardly have time to catch up.”

“Then we’ll have to catch up quickly,” Kit said with a smile. “My mission was successful, my crew and ship are safe, and I’ll be sailing tomorrow with a viscount. Oh, and I saw Kingsley.”

“Did you?” Jane’s brows lifted.

“It was a very brief meeting.” She decided on sparing the confidential details.

“And how was he?”

“Amusing,” Kit decided. “And he defended my honor when a soldier delighted in explaining that magic is nonsense.”

Jane smiled approvingly. “Then Kingsley has better sense than the soldier. Have you considered telling Kingsley that you enjoy his company, and suggesting he escort you to a musicale?”

Kit’s mouth thinned. “I have no interest in musicales.”

“No one of sane mind has an interest in musicales,” Jane said. “That’s hardly the point.”

“Which is?”

Jane made an exhausted sound. “To spend time in the company of someone charming and handsome.”

“In order to provoke an offer of marriage,” Kit finished. “And as I also have no interest in resigning my commission to spend my days with needlepoint and social calls, I’d rather provoke a sea dragon. The cost is too high.”

“Even for Kingsley?”

“For anyone.”

Jane just sighed. “Where are you going tomorrow?”

“I’m sworn to secrecy,” Kit said. “But it’s a mission of utmost importance and valor.”

“You’re being mysterious again.”

“I try to be mysterious at least thrice a day. It keeps the blood moving.”

“Speaking of mysteries and missions,” Jane said, moving around the table, “I have a little something for you to try.”

Kit narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I’ve forgotten the vinegar candies? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, also shame on you, because I’m your devoted sister.”

Jane picked up a velvet pouch that lay on a corner of the table. “So devoted you stopped by Portnoy’s and didn’t bring me so much as a nougat?”

Kit’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“You smell of chocolate.”

“The twins have the package. Well concealed.”

“Concealed in their belly within the hour,” Jane predicted. “Hold out your hand, please,” she said, when she’d reached Kit again.

Kit extended her palm, marked with the history of her Alignment, and Jane spilled the contents of the bag into it—two glass marbles, smooth and cold, and spun through with color. Kit held one up so sunlight shined through it, sending blue light glimmering across the floor. “They’re beautiful. But why did you make marbles?”

“Thank you. And they aren’t marbles. They’re explosives.”

Kit went completely rigid. “I beg your very serious pardon. You just dropped explosives into my hand?”

“I call them sparkers. They’re quite inert. Unless you drop them.”

Kit’s expression was murderous. She hadn’t planned on returning to a battlefield tonight, nor expected that her beloved sister would actually lob munitions at her.

“Just a bit of a joke,” Jane said. “I mean, they are explosives, but dropping them won’t do anything. They have to be triggered. There’s a small depression in the glass. Press it until you feel the glass heat. Then throw it. Quickly,” she added, as if Kit might need the incentive to put distance between herself and a warming explosive.

Frowning, Kit carefully lifted one from her palm. The glass was smooth but for, as promised, a gentle divot on one side that was slightly rougher than the other so it could be triggered even in darkness.

“I thought they’d be useful since the Diana has no guns, and your mission is certain to be dangerous.”

Kit just looked at her. “I have no idea what you mean. I am a courier.”

Jane’s sigh was long and haggard and rather impressive. “Kit, you are a wonderful sister but a miserable liar. The queen is too smart to waste someone of your impressive talents as a watery messenger girl.”

There was silence for a moment, as Hetta was the only one in the house aware of her actual duties, and Kit was honor bound to silence. A disappointment, as she was eager to complain about being partnered with an egotistical viscount.

“At any rate,” Jane said, respecting Kit’s silence, “they’re very effective.”

Kit lifted an eyebrow. “How effective?”

Jane’s smile was wicked. “They’ll blow a hole right through the hull of an enemy ship. So don’t trigger it unless you intend to do serious damage.”

Surely Kit could find a use for that.