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The cool air has faded as they have travelled further south, and as they steer into Lij’s harbor, warmth has taken place. Despite the season, despite the evening beginning to settle in, the sun is still winning against the winter’s overcast.
He’s no longer used to the heat on his skin, but it is favorable to the musty warmth of Ketterdam’s warmest days. With his coat shed and his gloves folded into his back pocket, the sun is seeping into his skin, turning his hands and forearms from their ghosty white to a rosy pink.
It is just as they begin to pull into the harbor that he recognizes that he has not truly felt what it is to be home since the day he’d left with his brother all of those years ago. While it is the reprieve from Ketterdam’s shadows that has brought him to this thought, it is not just the place that has inspired the feeling.
Captain Ghafa, his Captain, is made to be under bright skies.
She had thrived in Ketterdam, found something she could find some freedom in and filled her spare time with those things that she loves within the city. But here, guiding her ship into the port, she looks more than free. Even with the stress of everything that has occurred within these past weeks, there is a lightness to her, a sense of peace. While he is less than hopeful that they will ever be able to do more than aspire to such things, he can neglect reality for a while to contemplate that idea. Peace.
It might be the lingering effects of his illness speaking, but he could sit on these steps, watching Inej, for hours longer. Having to still travel to the farm, to see his old home after a day like this… it’s a bitter end to the best time he has had in recent memory.
And as pained as he is to bring the moment to an end, he is not cruel enough to prolong their time on the ship by forcing Inej to complete all of the tasks required to dock.
“I’ll secure the rope,” he says, standing from his seat on the steps as the ship finally finishes bumping its way into the berth.
Before he can get a grip on the rope, Inej pulls it from his hand. “You will not. You’re still unwell.”
He is. Standing still, he can feel his lungs struggling to keep up with him, his arms hanging heavy at his sides. And yet, he’s not willing to stand around and hope for someone to pull his weight; especially not her, after she’s travelled across the sea to reach him. She would genuinely drag him to the farm if she had to, he’s sure. But the entire thing comes down to a matter of willingness, and he is unwilling to participate in his own uselessness.
“There’s work to be done, regardless,” he argues. “I wouldn’t get to the farm at all, if I stayed sitting on my ass while you’re--”
“There’s not much more to be done, actually. Just furling the sails and collecting our things to deboard,” she says, winding the rope around the cleat on the dock, making quick work of a clean hitch before dropping the end. “We’ll take a carriage to the farm. And even if we weren’t, I wouldn’t have you walking all that way in this state.”
They had never ridden on the carriages, when he was young. His father forbade them, said that the whole service was a scam, as the price to maintain the horses and pay the drivers should have been half the price that they charged. The carriages in Ketterdam were the same; something for the pigeons that had too much to lose.
“The cost of the carriage is outrageous,” he protests, if only for the purpose of attempting to honor his father’s wishes. “I’ve walked from the Geldin District to the Slat on a broken leg, darling. I can get two towns over on empty roads.”
She sighs, turning back from the middle mast, crossing to where he stands. “I know you can, but I will not have it. Sit,” she insists, taking his hand (it is still a shock, still nauseating, and yet, her hand is the only one he would find any amount of joy in holding) and leading him back over to the steps. “It will only be a moment. I want to climb to the nest to put the sail up, since she’s going to be here for a few days. Wait for me.”
And what is there to say? It is hardly worth using his little bit of energy to argue with her. His stubborn girl.
“Always,” he promises.
Just as he had feared, their peace had waned as soon as they arrived at the farm.
His home is haunted.
It’s a reach to attribute the wafting smell of the flowerbeds to the wrath of his loved ones, but the house had never creaked or moaned as far as he could recall. It had stood strong through the harshest winters and strongest storms; there had never been even as much as a cracked window. And now, tonight, every slight breeze shifts the porch posts, rattles the doors.
What has he achieved in the name of letting his ghosts rest, after all? With Pekka Rollins out in the country, living with his family? Having shown up here with his life of horse-drawn carriages and gifts of pirate ships? He’d never regret the things he has, but his father must be irritated. Enough to shake the shutters, at minimum.
The garden, left abandoned for the past decade, has eaten up half of the yard.
Sitting on his splintering porch, vines are brushing up against his ankles, sprouting through the cracks in the wood. If the house is ever going to remain occupied, he’s going to have to hire a long-term groundskeeper for the property; in the meantime, his own amateur job will suffice. Maybe, tomorrow night, he would sleep a bit easier knowing that he had accomplished something to honor somebody’s memory. That the ghosts, however angry, would have to recognize his attempt at reconciliation for what it was worth.
But tonight, it’s exactly this that is keeping him awake. Because for every crime that he has committed, every item that he has stolen and building that he has trespassed upon, the desire to crack the lock at the local supply store is one that he cannot entertain. Getting those tools is the first logical step toward peace, and yet, he is being morally barred from doing anything about it until sunrise.
Thus, the untame garden and the agitated dead are going to continue to postpone his sleep. Despite the cracks in his porch steps, he has his ledgers to work on, and he has settled among the garden beds. Like his small town morals, these stairs are another thing he should have outgrown; however, looking up at the stars from this spot, he might be able to forget that he had ever left.
Behind him, the door creaks open.
“You do have to sleep, eventually,” Inej whispers, pulling the door shut behind her. “Would some tea help?”
“At this hour, I might as well go for coffee.”
As she settles on the step next to him, the blanket dangling from her shoulders brushes up against his arm. Even after all of these months, he never has to question if she’s around; immediately, his fears begin to dissipate, receding into the back of his mind as his focus centers on her.
Inej is radiating warmth, even in the cold of the night.
This is what he thinks of each time that she draws close, each time that the feeling begins to be too much. It’s the first thing on his mind, even before she’s moved closer, pressing herself against his side. It is growing to be almost enjoyable, being this close with that assurance of life.
“Why don’t you bring the ledgers to bed?” she asks, head pressed to his shoulder. “It’s a bit cold to be outside with no jacket.”
“It’s too warm inside. I can’t focus.”
“It is not, it’s perfect,” she argues quietly, reaching for his stack of paper. “Were you unable to focus because you were falling asleep?”
“No, why do you ask?”
Had he made a mistake? He glances down at the papers in her hand as she flips through them, the majority being blank. All the work he had completed had been done right as he had come outside, as he tried to think of something other than being evicted from the house by his family’s unrest. It had been a distracted job; he wouldn’t be surprised to stumble upon an error or two, later.
For Inej to notice his mistake, though, it would need to be grievous enough to stand out to someone unfamiliar with the work. Which is no issue between the two of them, but if it was caught by anyone else…
“Oh, just because it doesn’t appear that you have actually done anything since we left the ship. Are the ledgers just an excuse to leave the porch lamp burning? And to sit too far from the fireplace?”
“I’ve done a few pages,” he sighs, relieved. “It was just a while ago.”
She clicks her teeth, giving his papers back. “Come back inside with me. I need your help to figure out how to secure the shutters properly, they keep opening. And you’ll do better work at the kitchen table, anyway. We can put out the fire.”
And how is he to deny that request? It would be unfair -- self-contradictory, even -- to refuse to help after an entire day of swearing by his own strength and being turned away. And after sitting with her, brought down from the stress of being here by her company, to deny her help with keeping the warmth in the house.
As nice as it is to be out of the house, away from the source of his panic, going back inside is inevitable, even if it were only to collect his belongings.
And isn’t there a possibility that Jordie might be more upset with him for running away, for abandoning their home by choice to return to Ketterdam alone? Might this be a misinterpretation, a misunderstanding between himself and his brother?
He’d like to hope so, even if it’s not realistic.
“Alright,” he agrees quietly, reaching for his cane, hooked on the railing beside him. “I’m not sure if the windows can be fixed tonight. But we’ll keep the fire going, I’ll survive.”
And with that, they head indoors. Finally, after fixing the hinges, the shutters stay closed for the night, and the house falls quiet.