It was dark by the time Brune knocked on my door. My hands were red and raw from knotting and unknotting the length of rope I kept looped around my waist.

"Decent," I called because I knew it would make him roll his eyes.

He opened the door, his bulk filling nearly the whole frame.

"We've been cleared by customs and the dock guards. The rest of the men have gone ashore for the night. No one should bat an eye at you if you leave now."

My heart leapt in my chest; I was glad for the gloom of my cabin so he couldn't see the color rise in my cheeks. "So, am I officially free to go?"

"Would you like me to put the manacles on you and walk you to the dock and set you free to make it feel real?" he grunted. He began to rummage in the deep pockets of his battered jacket.

"I think that would draw the eyes I'm so keen on avoiding," I said, standing up and sliding the rope through my belt loops.

Brune produced a rusted key and held it out to me. "Take this anyway. To remember all the good times we had together."

I took the key, little flakes of red rust fluttering to the floor. A lump lodged in my throat and I swallowed hard. Spinning the key through my fingers to distract myself, I put it away with a flourish. "Admit it, Brune, you're going to miss me."

He grunted again. "Like a nail through my foot I'll miss you."

"I knew it," I said with a grin.

He produced a small leather pouch from his other pocket and held it out. I took it on reflex, startled by its weight.

"A parting gift from me and the crew," he said before I could ask.

I hefted the bag in my hand skeptically. Most of the crew ignored me, one actively and vocally hated me, one was too terrified to look in my direction and perhaps one other I would pick to be my second in a fight and not feel like I had to watch my own back.

"Aye, mostly me," he amended after a moment. "To make sure you land on your feet when your boots hit the ground for the first time in seven years. Whether or not you get your land legs back after that is up to you."

I looked into Brune's pale blue eyes. "Thank you," I said. And I meant it.

"We leave the morning after tomorrow if you decide the land is no longer to your liking."

"The smell of real, hot food and sun-baked earth and horses and wind not saturated with salt and dead fish will be to my liking," I said, hoisting my rucksack onto my back.

"We'll see, blueblood."

I pursed my lips and brushed by him. The clomping of his boots created a double-echo of mine as I jogged up the stairs to the deck. I paused for a moment and looked at the muted glow of the lanterns lit at regular intervals along the dockyard. The scene blurred for a moment and I wasn't sure if it was my eyes adjusting to the light or a sudden glaze of tears. The city was nothing but shadows and stars as it sprawled up the hillsides. A breeze tugged my hair free of its knot and I took a deep breath, but all I could smell was salt laced with rotting fish leftover from the market.

"Be careful, Fayore. The city may have changed in the seven years since you've been gone," said Brune.

"Or it could be exactly the same," I said softly. I wondered which would be better. "Only one way to find out."

I held out my hand and Brune clasped it roughly with both of his.

"Farewell, Captain. Calm seas –"

"And clear skies," he finished.

I turned and began to walk down the gangplank, keeping my eyes trained on my boots. Halfway down, I paused. I took the key from my pocket, turned it a last time in my fingers, and tossed it into the sea.

For the briefest second when my boots hit the dock, I tensed, waiting for something to happen. For guards to shout, for swords to be drawn, for the cold bite of iron as it clamped over my wrist. But none of those things happened and I kept walking. Purpose made my stride long and my steps firmer as I made my way down the dock towards the stairs that led to the narrow lane that bordered the rock wall that kept the sea from the encroaching buildings.

I realized that I should've asked Brune if he had a suggestion for where to start. His words about finding my land legs echoed in my ear. He doesn't know Franc. He wouldn't know where to look, wouldn't have heard anything about her. I'd have to find her myself. You use to be the only person who could find her.

I kept moving down the street, refusing to look back towards the ship. Franc had been the princess of whispers, so whispers would be what I would start with. And the place to hear whispers would be a tavern.

Ducking down an alley, I moved one street further inland. The taverns along the docks would be full of transient sailors. They might have gossip about ship cargo and wayward captains, but nothing that would help me find Franc. The taverns towards the city center would be full of wealthy merchants and traders who would order golden wines and dark ales fetched by pretty girls they would try to slip extra coins to in the hopes their beds would be warmed. No, it was the in-between taverns I wanted. The ones that catered to those who had enough pocket money for a couple of pints to round the edges of their days and blur thoughts of tomorrow so in the evening light the future didn't seem so stark. The ones that street urchins lurked round back of to snatch scraps after the kitchen closed for the night and the trash had been hauled out back. These were the ones that whispers moved freely.

The street was mostly empty, though light and noise and warmth spilled from open doors. I hesitated outside an establishment I had briefly worked at, wondering if it was worth the risk to duck inside and claim one of the corner tables. I didn't know if the owner would remember me or care if he did. Surely the barmaids would have turned over by now, too old or run off by the owner's wandering hands. I shuddered at the memory of his piggish face and moved on, deciding it would be better to preserve my anonymity as long as possible.

I chose a pub on the far end of the street, leaning off the corner like one of its drunken patrons, the peeling gold lettering proclaiming it The Drowning Rose. Pulling my cap from my bag, I tucked my wayward hair away and pulled the lid low over my eyes, before slipping inside. The interior was dark and empty enough I could weave my way through tables without tripping over boots or canes or bags. It smelled of old leather and spilled beer and roasting nuts. My stomach rumbled as I claimed a corner table and set down my bag, making sure to loop one strap about my leg so someone couldn't make off it with it.

I ordered a pint of dark beer and a basket of roasted chestnuts from the barmaid and listened to the chatter. Conversations were easy enough to catch snatches of as customers too deep in their cups to realize how loud they were being boasted and gossiped and whispered loudly behind false hand barriers. I heard that one of the governing families' eldest son was to be married soon but that the to-be wife was several years older and comely. The butcher was charging an arm and a leg for something that someone swore was dog he was trying to pass off as beef. The old orphanage was finally being torn down so that the new merchant quarters could be built. And a party of dispellers was being dispatched to Blue Elm on the next full moon.

I smiled into my tankard at that bit of gossip. It seemed that hadn't changed in the seven years since I had been gone. Blue Elm was the largest of the breadcrumb islands trailing back towards the mainland, infamous for its hauntings and deaths. Named for the copse of elm trees at the island's center whose bark was a dark blue the color of a fresh bruise, it drew tourists in the daylight and would-be heroes trying to prove their bravery at night. The island had been once been home to an old family of supposed mages, whose blood was as blue as the sap from the trees. Stories about them had been sanded down and restained over the years, so one couldn't tell what the original one had looked like. But the common grain in them all was that they were the strongest of the magic wielders in times of old, when magic was as common as gulls...and legal. It was said the ghost of the last daughter still roamed the copse, a blue stain where her heart should be.

I tuned more closely to the conversation, but gleaned nothing more I could use. When the barmaid came back to ask if I would like another drink, I flashed a copper piece and said, "This is yours if you can answer my question."

"Miss?" she asked, eyes locked on the money.

"Has a woman with auburn hair and grey eyes ever come through here? Goes by Franc or Francesca. She would've ordered pear wine and eaten sugared almonds by the basketful."

The girl shook her head. "No, miss. I've not seen such a woman here."

I sighed. It had been a long shot anyway. I flipped the coin to her and she caught it clumsily. "I'll give you another if you gather whatever bread has been burned and deemed unsellable and meet me at the back door in five minutes."

She nodded eagerly and hurried off.

I gathered my things and went around to the back where I traded my coin for two loaves of black bread. Then, I ducked down a narrow alley that stank of garbage and called, "Come out, come out, little street mice. I've got some food."

Three dirty children peeled themselves from the walls behind the overflowing dumpster. Wide, hungry eyes regarded me from sooty gaunt faces. It seemed this hadn't changed either.

"Aye, and what's the trap?" one of them asked.

"No trap," I said. I split the first loaf into three parts and tossed each of them one. They were chewed and swallowed before I had time to ask my question. "I need news of a woman called Francesca. Tall, auburn hair, grey eyes. Used to live in the Haven and sing for coins on street corners. She'd be about my age."

The three dirty children looked at each other warily.

"Me mom told me 'bout her, 'fore she died," said one of them. "Said her voice was sweeter than pear wine and like to drive men mad. Said one even proposed to her right there on the street. Him in a nice jacket and shiny shoes and her in a blue patched dress. She laughed and refused, but the man keep coming back every day, bringing her little gifties, until one day she's gone."

"Gone?" I asked.

"Gone," repeated the child.

"And when was this?" I asked.

"Me mom told me the story when I was this big." The child held a hand to their chest.

I put my best guest at roughly three years ago, accounting for poor nutrition and stunted growth.

"And you haven't heard anything about her or seen her since?"

All three children shook their heads. I sighed and broke up the second loaf among them.

I crouched down. "There's a fresh loaf of bread in it for each of you if you bring me any news about her you can find." Three pairs of eyes went wide at the thought. "Meet me here tomorrow, after eight bells."

They scampered off like stray dogs, hot on the scent of prey. I could only hope their sharp little ears would hear something.