The Gift

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply

Maeve takes her red blanket with her when they leave Breakwater. Sinbad doesn't question her. She can have whatever she wants, as far as he's concerned. He'd buy her a new one or the materials to make it if she asked for it, give her whatever might make her happy. But he can't without raising suspicions and she doesn't want him to, besides. So he holds his tongue, sometimes the only thing he seems able to do right these days, as she wraps the soft material around herself like a hug.

Back in Crete the night is kinder, warm and soft, without the oppressive chill of rain beating down. He listens to the ship as they stand in the darkness of the galley, faint moonlight peeking through the hatches above. The silence is complete—no snores, no rustles of straw mattresses. They beat the others back. He's a little surprised, honestly. They stayed north later than they should have, which is his fault. He drew her back down when she would have risen and reached for her clothes, not yet ready to let her out of his arms, to end what might be their last tryst together for some time. With Talia aboard and the spare cabin destroyed, they have to be more careful than ever. He hates it.

"Apparently everyone is having a good time in town." She smiles faintly, speaking into the soft darkness. There's a wistful quality to her words that hurts him. She wants to be with their friends.

"They needed it." They all need to blow off a little steam. He suspects Talia may be able to help with that. If there's one thing the Black Rose knows how to do, it's have a good time. "I just hope I don't have to rescue Doubar from lockup in the morning. Or Talia." It's been known to happen. Not so much when Sinbad's around to mitigate any potential damage before it occurs, but he can't always be his brother's keeper. Nor Doubar his.

Maeve huddles in her blanket despite the warm Mediterranean night, a darker shadow among shadows. He wants badly to touch her, to hold her against him for just a little while longer, but the darkness is not complete and their friends could return at any moment.

"What did you want from Antoine, anyway?" She cups a large crockery jar in her hands. Even corked it smells softly of mint.

"He's looking for ginger for you."

Her head dips slightly in acknowledgment. "He won't find any. Not in Eire, nor Britannia. It'd be faster to sail for Malabar ourselves. I'll be fine. Wren gave me something."

He's grateful for whatever she has in that jar, but he's still determined to get her what she wants if she'll let him. "Just the same, we made a deal. He said he can't promise anything but he'll try."

"What sort of deal?" No hint of suspicion enters her voice, which, to Sinbad, says a lot about how far they've come together. When they first met, not only would she have refused to let him give her so much as a dipper of water, but she would have regarded any deal struck on her behalf as suspect.

"They have to split up the kids for the coming teas." He hopes this deal doesn't bother her. Antoine and Niall have done so much for them, and he'd like the chance to repay their kindness...even if it does require babysitting. "I told Niall we'd take some of them."

She laughs. Not a reaction he expected, but at least not the refusal he feared. Her laughter is loud and long—the kind of full, aching belly laugh he hasn't heard from her in far too long. He revels in it.

"What's so funny? Including Talia there's six of us, plus three contract men. I think we can handle a couple of little boys for a few days."

Her laughter continues, bubbling out of her like clear water from a spring. It's so beautiful. He has to figure out how to make her laugh like that more often. "What do you know about small children?"

Not a lot. He'd be more confident taking the older boys, but Niall says that's not a good idea. "I don't, but Doubar does. You do."

That bubbling laugh continues, warm and amused. "I'm laying odds against you, just so you know."

He doesn't mind. She can bet against him all she wants in this instance, if it makes her happy. If it makes her laugh like that again. "I'm glad you're amused. Go to bed, mo chailín. Get some rest while you can. Tomorrow we have to start on repairs to the ship."

She sobers, and he can picture perfectly the look of distaste on her face, the way her mouth curls in dislike, though he can't see it in the darkness. "And work fast," she grumbles, turning for her door. "I don't like sharing my cabin."

He does, but only with her. Soon enough, if all goes well, his cabin will be hers, too. The baby she carries can have her old cabin when it's old enough to sleep alone. Or maybe, once they free Dim-Dim, their mentor will choose to stay on board for a while. Sinbad hopes he does. He's really not sure about this fatherhood thing, and Maeve's immediate laughter at his willingness to bring children aboard the Nomad only proves she has as little confidence in his ability as he does.

He settles in his bunk, beyond tired. His bed is too big and too empty without Maeve, and he finds himself out-of-sorts and grouchy without her warmth curled against him, her whisper in his ear. He's happy that she had a moment of true, unbridled laughter, but now that he thinks about it, he's not sure he likes the cause. She's willing to give him the child he needs to save his soul, but she seems unconvinced of his capacity to care for it. She certainly doesn't believe he can care for Niall's boys for a few days.

And really, why should she? He feels as adrift as she believes he is. He tucks a hand behind his head, staring up into the blackness, smelling the lingering hint of sulfurous smoke from Firouz's accident. He wishes Maeve had a little more faith in him. That he had it in himself. He wishes...many things. That he could keep her close in the light. That she didn't wear such a clear target on her back. That his mentor could be found soon. One thing he's learned since losing Dim-Dim is how much everyone needs guidance from time to time. Even adults. Even heroes. Even him. Without Dim-Dim and unable to speak honestly with his men, he's had to rely on Maeve's brothers. He appreciates their support, but it's not the same. Dim-Dim is the closest thing to a father he's ever known, Doubar more than a brother. Without that ballast to steady him, he feels less than secure. Less than whole.

And that's no state for him to be in as he attempts for the first time to care for a new life, a son or daughter wholly his responsibility. Maeve will have to bear the burden of his ignorance, and he hates knowing this. He was raised by a tutor and an older brother, not a father. He doesn't feel slighted, doesn't feel they failed him, but he does feel unprepared for what's coming, what he saw even tonight when Maeve lay undressed in his arms—the slightest rounding of her belly and soft swelling of her sensitive breasts that speaks of the life growing slowly within her. His child is there—very real and very alive. It's coming. Barring disaster, he's going to be a father soon. From a certain point of view, he already is.

That thought makes him ache for Dim-Dim. For his mentor's calm confidence, his knack of saying just the right thing that puts the world to rights. Dim-Dim raised him himself, didn't pass him off to a female servant to rear, though the caliph surely would have provided one. He knows the things Sinbad does not—how to quiet a crying infant, how to soothe it, keep it from harm. He remembers with clarity the easy way Niall stopped his two-year-old from walking off the table tonight, hands reaching for the sturdy little body without thought, no interruption to his words as he spoke with Sinbad and Antoine. These are things Sinbad doesn't understand. He's trained to sail, to fight. Not to parent.

And Maeve shouldn't have to teach him even as she tends to a newborn, recovers from giving birth, and whatever else the Tam Lin Protocol requires of her. He can't ease her burden now, but he can damn well ease it after Samhain—after his soul is safe and they no longer have to hide, to lie. When this mess is over, he decides, they're going to take a break. Go somewhere—hell, maybe Malabar, as she mentioned—and just...rest for a while. Extended shore leave. She'll have a newborn and they'll all need a pause, a reset, to even their keel before they begin a new chapter in this journey. In fact, Malabar sounds pretty perfect, unless she wants to be close to Cairpra. He can imagine exploring exotic markets at a leisurely pace, napping on hot white sand, no more worry that the food she eats might be poisoned, the people near her might be Rumina's puppets. She'll be able to rest, to care for her newborn without fear. Doubar will have a lot to make up to her, but he'll manage. She loves the gentle giant even now, despite everything.

Sinbad dozes, imagining a blanket tossed on a hot, bright beach, the damp jungle pressing close to the shore, Maeve asleep beside him, a tiny newborn cradled to her chest. It's something he never particularly wanted, that baby, but even in a hazy, half-asleep dream the sight of his sorceress holding her own child as tenderly as he's seen her hold Keely's...it does something to him. Something he can't describe. Like his heart's turned to sticky goo and it's melting all down his ribcage. Is that normal? He's not sure. Maybe he should ask her brothers. It doesn't feel bad. It's warm, and he feels soft pressure on his chest.

"Asleep already? That's not the Sinbad I remember."

His body jerks. The image of hot sand and jungle, diamond waves in the background, disappears. He reaches instinctively for Maeve as she vanishes, she and her newborn, as if they had never been. His hand flails, finds warm skin. For a moment as his mind struggles to surface from his dream, calm floods him. The dream is gone, but she's still here. She's here and all's well.

Except something's not right. His groggy mind fumbles for clarity. Warm female breath laced liberally with wine touches his skin, but Maeve wasn't drinking. And she's not supposed to be in his bunk.

Fingers circle his wrists lightly, bring his hands forward to rest against warm cloth. Cloth covering very curvy, very female hips. Too curvy, and Maeve's skirts are light and flowing, not heavy and tight. His hands clamp down and he pushes firmly. This is wrong—all of it is wrong. He knows the smell of his sorceress even in his sleep, every inch of her body, how she feels under his hands. He shakes his head hard, as if he might rattle his brain to full wakefulness, and sits up.

"Oh, come on now. You never did like letting me be on top." She releases his wrists and pushes on his shoulders, trying to pin him back down.

"Talia." Of course. He blinks in the darkness and resists her firm but teasing shove, angling himself out from under her and dropping his legs over the side of his bunk. He should have guessed immediately, but waking from the half-dreamed, half-hoped vision of peace was violently jarring and he's not happy.

"Who'd you expect?" She laughs in the darkness. "You haven't shared a bed with your brother since you were little. And from what I hear your pretty hothead isn't interested."

His 'pretty hothead' will murder both of them if she finds them like this, or hears anyone call her that. This is not good. This is so very not good. Talia's hand rubs his bare chest and she licks his ear. From the smell of her she's tipsy at the least, and she's not being quiet at all. He pushes her away again gently, but she either doesn't notice or doesn't care; she's back again instantly. "Did you forget where your cabin is?" he hisses. "And keep your voice down."

"Why?" She laughs, moves her mouth from his ear to his cheek. He knows this body—they've fucked a handful of times, and back then he had no complaints. But nothing feels right as she presses her smaller self against his chest. She's not Maeve. He wants the smell of rain and new grass, not sour wine. It's not a smell he particularly minds, but it's not right. "Everyone already knows I'm here. And why." She clears her throat. "I ought to have a bone to pick with you, you know, for not telling me yourself. I might be grumpy about it tomorrow. Too much good wine tonight for that." She laughs heartily.

"It must have been very good wine."

Oh, no. He flinches back as the door opens, light spilling in. Maeve's dry, amused voice preceded her and she stands in the doorway, fully clothed save her boots, cupping a fat candle in her hands. "Thought you might like some light."

"Thanks," Talia says, squinting. "Now scram. I'm not averse to sharing, but I don't know you that well."

Maeve snorts. "By all means." She puts the candle near the door and steps back. Sinbad wants to grab for her, to insist that it's not what it looks like, but he can't. It's kind of exactly what it looks like, even if it's not his fault. And if anything will rouse Rumina's suspicions, dropping Talia to run after Maeve will do it.

A thump sounds on the wall separating the captain's cabin from the crew's. "Will you get on with it already?" Doubar bellows from the other side. "Some of us would like a little sleep before dawn!"

Part of Sinbad wants to punch his brother in his fat, cheerful face. Another part of him wants to curl up in a corner and disappear. He's never in his life, not even as a child, felt so mortified. Embarrassment is not an emotion he's used to and he wrestles with the unfamiliar sensation.

Talia doesn't seem to feel the same. She laughs. "I'm working on it, big guy," she calls through the wall. "Your brother's a tad reluctant. Or having an off night." Turning back to Sinbad, she appraises him with bright hazel eyes that don't seem entirely able to focus. "Listen, I don't know about the whole kid thing, to be honest. That was never my bag. Some girls like 'em, some don't. Personally, I find them loud. And...damp." She wrinkles her nose. "But I need my ship back. I'm willing to at least consider a trade."

The irony of the situation isn't lost on Sinbad. That's exactly what he would have wanted from her, had Maeve refused him. A trade—a transaction. His soul for whatever she wanted in return, in this case the rescue of her confiscated ship. But her willingness to deal is now a very big problem. He shakes her off as gently as he can and rises to his feet, pulling his shirt over his shoulders. Sleeping even partially bare is no longer an option if Talia's going to make a habit of turning up in his bed. "I'm grateful," he says, struggling to remain outwardly calm, to remember that he needs her help. "I think we can probably make a deal. But now isn't the time to discuss it. We can talk in the morning." Once she's sober. Once he finally figures out what to say.

"No way, buddy. I'm not saying this is a one-time offer or anything, but you have a demon after you. No," she corrects, waving her hand to refute her words. "Not a demon. The demon. Doubar was very clear on that point. And a witch. Was there a warlock, too? I forget. Doubar kept rambling, and the wine was really good. Anyway, I should be running the other way, you know? A kid is a hassle I do not need, and even if I hand it over to you in nine moons like Doubar said, that's still nine moons I'll never get back. A belly I might never get back." She slaps her flat stomach affectionately and laughs. "And there's that demon. The witch. I make enough people mad at me, I don't need yours, too." She drops to her back on his bunk. "But I'll do it. For my ship back." She holds a finger up. "Though that may be the wine talking, so, you know, you might want to take advantage before I change my mind." She cackles loudly.

"Do it, little brother!" Doubar's voice booms through the thin wall. "Take advantage now, ask questions later. Better yet, don't ask them at all. You know what they say about gift horses!"

"HORSES, DID YOU SAY?" Firouz's hearing-impared bellow joins Doubar's. "RONGAR, SLOW DOWN. I CAN'T UNDERSTAND WHEN YOU TRANSLATE SO FAST. TALIA DOESN'T WANT A HORSE, SHE WANTS HER SHIP. AN EMINENTLY REASONABLE TRADE FOR SINBAD'S SOUL, IF YOU ASK ME." He pauses. "NO, I REALIZE NOBODY ACTUALLY ASKED ME. I SAID IF."

"Will you shut your mouth?" Doubar demands. "Jump the girl, Sinbad, ask questions later. That's your big brother talking."

"I'm not asking questions. I'm giving orders." He's done. His nocturnal activities, or lack thereof, are nobody's business but his own. And Maeve's. She stands just outside his doorway, looking like she's trying very hard to keep a straight face. Once more, he's glad she's amused. He's sure as hell not. He pulls Talia gently to her feet and propels her to the door by the shoulders, not letting her duck away.

Maeve's attempt at composure fails and she laughs. "Is that how the Black Rose beds down? Try each bunk until you find one that doesn't buck you off?"

"Listen, sweetheart, you didn't want him." Talia stumbles into the table but recovers. "I'll never understand why. He's a great fighter but he's fantastic horizontal, too. In case you were wondering. But you had your chance. I'm happy to deal."

"Tomorrow," Sinbad says firmly. Why isn't Maeve furious? He expected her to be furious.

"Yeah, I may not be so happy to help tomorrow. Or I may, depending on how much ale's in your hold. Any woman would have to be plastered to agree to what you're asking."

They're actually short on beer at the moment, but they have plenty of cider courtesy of Antoine. Whether a sober Talia is more trouble than a drunk one, he hasn't decided yet.

Maeve observes Talia with misgiving as the pirate approaches her door. "You better not snore."

Doubar yanks open the door to the crew's cabin. "I don't much like this comedy act," he growls. "I'll willingly be kept up all night if it gets me my nephew, but if not, I suggest everyone go back to bed." He glares at Sinbad, and at Maeve for good measure.

"I'VE CONCLUDED THAT DEAFNESS IS A DECIDED INCONVENIENCE," Firouz bellows from behind him. "BUT POSSIBLY AN ADVANTAGE AS WELL. IMAGINE THE AWKWARDNESS, DOUBAR, OF LISTENING TO A RELATIVE'S COITUS?"

By their door, both Maeve and Talia dissolve into cackles.

"The hell with all of you!" Doubar slams back into his cabin, banging the door behind him.

Sinbad is too tired to laugh. Too tired to wonder about the puzzle that is his sorceress. Talia is easy; Maeve is not. She ought to be furious at him, at finding Talia in his bed, but she isn't. She seems to think it's the best joke she's heard since he agreed to care for her nephews for a few days. He's glad, once more, that she's amused, but he sure as hell is not.

"Go to sleep—everyone. That's an order. Or we can start work on repairs right now, since you're all so wide awake." He likely won't sleep tonight anyway. Not without Maeve. Not after what just happened.

"With what supplies?" she asks evenly.

They have none yet. "I'll figure it out." He grinds the words through a clenched jaw.

"Good luck with that," she says sweetly, chuckling even as she turns back to her cabin. Sinbad closes his door and blows out the candle she left. Maybe when they gather supplies tomorrow he should invest in a bolt for his cabin. It might help avoid any further midnight incidents while Talia's aboard.

Maeve's cabin is barely big enough for her tiny bunk and her books, but she doesn't care. It's hers. She's not happy at the prospect of sharing. She lowers herself to the straw mattress in the darkness and wraps her thick down blanket from Breakwater around herself once more. Tucking it tight, tight as Sinbad's arms, she curls on her side and closes her eyes.

A moment later a very warm, drunk body shoves in next to her.

"What are you doing?" she hisses, instantly furious. No. Absolutely not. "Get off! You get the floor."

"No way, sweetheart. I'm not sure what just happened with Sinbad, but I'm a captain same as him. I don't sleep on floors."

"You slept in the hold well enough."

"You locked me in!"

"It's standard procedure!" Maeve shoves her hips back, pushing at the body behind her. She'll share her space if Sinbad orders it, but she won't share her bunk. It's not big enough for two adult bodies, so one of them is going to have to deal with the floor. And that won't be Maeve. She's slept on plenty of floors in her lifetime—slept on this floor for a while, in fact, at Dim-Dim's feet. She will not do so at Talia's.

"Whatever you two are fighting about, you can settle it in the morning with fists like proper sailors. For now, hold the noise!" Doubar hollers from across the galley.

"I THOUGHT YOU WANTED THEM TO MAKE NOISE?" Firouz pauses. "OH, WRONG 'THEM'. NEVER MIND."

"The next person who yells is going to be tipped overboard," Sinbad bellows. "You can swim ashore and sleep there!"

Talia ignores all of this. She's smaller than Maeve but strong and undaunted, like the sturdy little highland ponies her nieces and nephews ride. She refuses to be shoved to the floor. "What's your deal, anyway? Why'd you refuse him?" she hisses back, barely lowering her voice despite Sinbad's threat. She chuckles. "I've never known any woman to turn that man down. Any unmarried one, that is." Her body is firm despite the wine on her breath as she digs in, perfectly willing to sprawl on top of Maeve, refusing to give ground.

"Why do you care?" Maeve grits her teeth and shoves the pirate again. In general she likes the warmth and comfort of other bodies when she sleeps—likely a remnant of old habits, when she and her siblings slept in a tangled pile to keep warm outdoors in northern winters—but she does not want Talia on top of her. She reeks of sour wine, which normally isn't a big deal, but Maeve's daughter doesn't like it and her belly lurches dangerously.

"I guess I don't care, really." Talia shoves back just as hard as Maeve shoved her. "It's just, you know, not normal. I've never seen him turned down before. I guess it happens. Nobody can get lucky all the time. But he tends to inspire loyalty in people. Altruism. All those do-gooder things. And you're part of this crew, aren't you? The do-gooder-est of do-gooders. Do-best of do-gooders?" Her drunken mind tries to wander off but gets confused and abandons the attempt. "I was going somewhere with that."

"Yeah. Out of my bunk." Maeve kicks her shin.

Talia curses but doesn't give ground. "Right, I remember. Doubar says you turned our boy down. He's really upset about it. I'm not, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't make sense. And I don't think that's the wine talking."

Maeve tries pressing close to the wall, breathing the smell of warm wood, but it doesn't help. Talia's still on top of her, which she hates, and her daughter still thinks she stinks. "You don't really want to give him a child," she says, gritting her teeth. She may puke on Talia in another moment if the pirate doesn't move. "Why should I want to?" She tries breathing through her mouth, but it doesn't really help.

"Because you're permanent," Talia says, yawning. "Or as permanent as a girl gets around here. Which isn't very, in case you were wondering, but setting that aside, you wouldn't be here if you didn't like the man. Why say no? You're not a sailor, sweetheart. Not at heart. Not like me or Sinbad. If you say you're here for love of the sea, I won't believe you."

She didn't say no. But Talia has her all wrong anyway. "I'm not here for him! I have my own quest, which has nothing to do with you." And precious little to do with Sinbad, technically, but she and this crew are all so closely intertwined now that it's pointless to make that distinction. She's here to save her brother, which requires Rumina's defeat or death. Besting Rumina will require Dim-Dim's tutelage. And she can't recover Dim-Dim without Sinbad's help. It's a daunting set of challenges and, when looked at in that light, she maybe understands Dermott's frustration a little better. How is she supposed to find Dim-Dim, defeat Rumina, and break a curse while caring for a baby? So far she hasn't been able to do any of it even without the added burden of a child.

But it's far, far too late to ask these questions now. She made her choice. Her daughter lives within her, an innocent soul as much in need of protection as Sinbad's. Her path is clear; there's no way out but forward and no place in her heart for regrets.

"A quest?" Talia yawns. "Yeah, something about the old man, right? I never met him." Her sharp chin drops forward onto Maeve's shoulder. It digs painfully—probably unintentional, but even so. Maeve pushes her hand back, catching a palmful of Talia's face, and shoves.

"Hey!" The pirate curses and kicks off her boots. "You know, you really don't play well with others. No wonder Doubar doesn't like you."

That stings, though Maeve will never admit it out loud. Doubar did like her. Loved her as much as she loved him—or at least she thought he did. "Doubar's never climbed into my bunk, so how would he know?"

Talia snorts. She's slowly falling asleep despite Maeve's continued pushes. "Maybe it'd loosen you up if he did. You ever seen the big guy naked? Well, duh, you live here." She laughs again, sour wine heavy on the warm night air. "He's even better endowed than his baby brother."

"I really, really don't care."

"Is it Rongar you like, then? Strong, silent type? Tall, dark, and handsome? I could see it. Though the lack of a tongue is a mark against him in bed, I'll admit. Still." She stretches and rolls further on top of Maeve's blanket-wrapped form, apparently deciding an aerial attack is better than a land war.

"I didn't come south looking for any man!" Maeve snaps. "Get off of me!" Talia's drunk, yes, but that doesn't mean Maeve is any more forgiving of the way the pirate's talking about men Maeve considers her brothers.

"A woman, then?" Talia snickers. "I wouldn't put it past you. That would explain a lot, actually. Why you'd turn down your captain."

That's it. Maeve turns over and shoves her hard. Talia hits the floor with a sharp thud.

"Yes," Maeve snaps, out of patience. She's positive Sinbad won't toss her overboard no matter how much noise she makes, threats be damned. She climbs to her feet, abandoning any attempt at sleeping in her bunk tonight. Even if Talia wises up and remains on the floor, she still reeks of wine. "A woman. An evil sorceress, the same one who sold Sinbad's soul. I came south to kill her, and eventually I will. Get out of my way." She leaves her cabin with swift strides.

Talia probably snores anyway, she consoles herself. Wrapped in her blanket, she climbs topside. Trying to share that tiny cabin with a snoring, smelly drunk would lead to one of them killing the other. Sinbad wouldn't like that. She bites hard, clamping her jaw down on nothing.

Honestly, she'd like nothing more than to cross the black galley, crawl into Sinbad's bunk despite the danger, and let him hold her for the rest of the night. Everyone else can get fucked for all she cares. But she can't. She does her best to comfort herself with Wren's words instead: she's not alone. Even if she has nothing else, she has her daughter.

Down below, the night seethes with tension. Up here, all is peaceful. Stars prick the sky, a single candle in a lantern above the tiller. The man on watch lifts his hand in greeting but does not bother her. She's grateful. She breathes the salt-sweet Mediterranean air, softer and sweeter than either the chill of her homeland or the oppressive Arabian sun. Yes. This is fine. Better than staying below. Her daughter doesn't like the close, stuffy air, the strong odors of food and people, but this will do nicely. She sits next to a large coil of rope and curls on her side, pillowing her head on the spirals of twisted hemp, breathing the clean smell of the fibers, the salt of the water. The man on duty doesn't question her.

She tucks her blanket tight around her body. Underneath, she rubs her belly gently. Yes, this is better, she decides. She can't be trapped in her cabin by the smells of cooking food if she doesn't sleep there. She closes her eyes in the soft night wind. None of this is her daughter's fault and she refuses to be angry with her. But she does wish, not for the first time, that she had a spell to hurry along the next few moons.

"Maeve? Maeve!" A gentle hand touches her shoulder, shakes her softly.

She pulls her head out of her red blanket, blinking blearily. "What? What's the matter?" Oh, she aches. Sleeping on hard surfaces has never bothered her before, but apparently her daughter doesn't like it. She winces as she pulls herself upright. Dawn has just broken, white and pale gold, the sea quiet around them. She digs her fingers into her eyes, feeling the ship bob lazily underneath her. It doesn't bother her belly today—maybe sleeping in the open air was a good choice despite how she hurts.

"What's going on?" Sinbad crouches close, hovering with concern. She can see it in the snap of his blue eyes, the tension in his hands as he struggles not to touch her. "Ahmed!" He gestures swiftly to the man on duty. "What happened? Why didn't you wake me?"

"Nothing happened," the man protests, rushing to his captain's side. "She was there all night. She didn't seem in distress, so I let her be."

"Which I appreciate." Maeve pulls her hair back, brushing away the bright strands that cling gently to her skin. She rubs her eyes again and inhales deeply. "Let's just say that Talia and I didn't see eye-to-eye last night, and fighting over it wasn't worth being pitched overboard." She smiles dryly at her captain.

He looks horrified. "I'd never toss you overboard. Doubar probably. Talia certainly. Not you."

"I know." Though the confirmation is nice. Oh, she badly wants to kiss him. Soothe the troubled look that still mars his face. She hugs her blanket tighter instead.

"What didn't you see eye-to-eye about?" he asks, sounding resigned.

"Who belonged on the floor."

He really doesn't like that. She can tell by the tense muscle in his pretty jaw, the way his mouth almost disappears. She forces her own mouth not to smile but she can't stop the prickle of satisfaction inside.

"I'm sorry," he says, touching her gently, a brief squeeze of her shoulder before he has to drop his hand. She's the definition of forbidden fruit right now, as he knows all too well. "Next time there's a disagreement, wake me. Wake the ship, I don't care. We'll hang a hammock in there today, and fix the spare cabin as soon as possible."

This is perfectly acceptable, as long as Talia gets the hammock. Maeve's belly can handle the rocking of the ship most of the time but she doesn't know that she could bear sleeping in a swing. Her daughter's going to have to get used to the movement of the water, though. Her parents are nomads. She'll be born on the sea, raised on the sea. It's in her blood, her birthright from her father.

"Are you okay?" he asks, watching her carefully. His hands can't touch her but his eyes do, sweeping over her with care, though she's bundled to the neck in her blanket and he can't actually see anything but her face.

"Fine. Better than I would have been otherwise, I think. Does Talia snore?"

He looks at her blankly as she climbs to her feet, ignoring his offer of an outstretched hand. "How should I know?"

She raises an eyebrow at him.

"Aye, but I never actually slept with her. I mean, I did. But I didn't. It's a...what's that word Firouz uses? When you don't want to say what you actually mean."

"A euphemism."

"That's the one. I slept with her. I never slept with her."

And for some reason she can't fathom, that pleases Maeve. Maybe she should be irritated or jealous, angry at his admission that he has indeed fucked Talia at some point in their past. But she assumed as much since their first meeting, and he very clearly ejected the piratess from his cabin last night. Sinbad irritates her in many ways, but in this case she just can't get upset. He's doing his best. And he let Talia leave his bed—or wherever they were—after fucking her. He doesn't let Maeve.

"You're really okay?"

She nods. She's sore, but her belly is calm and really that's more important. She smiles at him warmly, though she knows she shouldn't, not in daylight. She's better than him at keeping her hands to herself, but neither is good about their eyes, their smiles. It's hard to resist the tug of his presence, the easy way he slouches against the railing, at ease but watchful, ever alert for danger. She's always respected his diligence as a captain, a leader, even before she liked him as a person.

She should go below—should leave him to his early morning rounds, his inspection of his ship at first light. She knows this. Still she lingers. She can hear the day's cook crashing through the galley, can smell the first hint of his cookfire. None of these are welcome right now, so she lets herself be persuaded by the cool morning, soft as sweet water, the man watching her with gentle eyes.

"What's the first step in fixing the galley?" She already knows the answer, but he likes to talk and right now she's just as happy to hear him.

"Washing and sanding the scorched parts. They're weaknesses in the construction. Can't build back up without a strong foundation." He eyes her cautiously, a look she knows well. He's choosing his words with care. "Is that something you'll do?"

She laughs. "You're nervous about asking me to clean."

"I don't want my head bitten off."

It's a reasonable concern, but in this case he has no need to fear. "I will not be anyone's maid. I refuse. But that's not what you're asking."

His body visibly relaxes at her answer. "No. I'd never expect you to do anything the rest of us won't."

"And that, captain, is the key." She smiles at him. Sometimes she really can't help it. "Dim-Dim did always say you were smarter than you look."

He grins back. "And that's exactly the sort of backhanded compliment I expect from you, mo chailín."

She breathes the cool morning, tucks her blanket tight around her shoulders, and lets the small contentment of the moment seep through her. When she thinks about the next few moons the fear is almost too much to handle—too many unknowns, too much room for disaster. But taken moment by moment, just like this, it's manageable. She can love him at arm's length. She can take Doubar's anger. Her brother's absence. One moment, one heartbeat, at a time.

"I'm sorry," he says, switching languages. "Tá brón orm. About last night. Truly."

"Why?" She watches him levelly. He's a good man. She wasn't happy when Dim-Dim told her his former ward would be appearing on the Isle of Dawn and a journey with him would comprise the next level of her studies. He didn't tell her—perhaps didn't know—that he would himself be waylaid by a demon, forcing her to teach herself as she struggles to find her master. But in leaving her with Sinbad, Dim-Dim gave her far more than he took with him. Wherever he is, she hopes he knows that.

"I was asleep. Dreaming about Malabar." A small smile flickers at one corner of his mouth. "You mentioned it. Have you been?"

"No."

"It's hot, and maybe rainier than Eire. But the thick jungle breaking onto soft beaches...if ever this world existed without sorcery, those jungles are where magic was born." He clears his throat. "Anyway. I was asleep. Then Talia was there."

She watches him, the discomfort he holds in his limbs, the way he fights to remain still despite what looks like embarrassment. It's adorable, actually, but she doesn't want his distress. "It's okay, Sinbad. Why would you apologize for that?"

He looks at her oddly. "Why aren't you mad?"

"Why would I be?" Her eyes travel the well-loved angles of his face. He really is a very good-looking man. She held that against him for...longer than she should have. Nursed a grudge because of what those pretty eyes, that lazy smile, made her feel. She's never been so swayed by a handsome man, and she did not like it when it happened with this one. She fought it despite Dim-Dim's assertion that she could trust him. But fighting Sinbad, as she's learned over and over in the time since, is an exercise in futility.

"I'm yours." His eyes are steady, no qualm as he says it. "Your céile. I may not entirely understand the difference between that and a husband, but I know enough. It's a pair-bond. There's no place for a harem in it."

She watches him, amused. "Do you want one?"

He winces. "No. It would bring far more trouble than pleasure, and you're all the woman—and trouble—I need."

She laughs, which she suspects was his intention. She's noticed lately that he does that—says things deliberately to make her smile. She appreciates it more than she could ever tell him. Without Dermott, and with Doubar so mad at her, laughter is in short supply these days. "Mo grá thú, beautiful man. I love you. Talia can't change that."

He looks relieved. She's glad. He's carrying as much fear as she is, and neither of them need any more. Everything is in flux right now, the foundations of their lives torn loose by the curse hanging over his soul. He needs something to believe in as much as she does. He can't lean on their absent mentor and can't be honest with his brother, but he has her. She can be strong for him, just as he is for her.

"Are you really okay with taking your nephews for the teas? We can still say no."

"Our nephews," she says mildly. "Face it—you're stuck with us now. And it's fine. It'll be chaos, but when is this life ever not?"

"When it's just the two of us." His eyes watch her. She knows that look very, very well. She knows exactly what he wants, and that he can't have it. Not with her, anyway. Talia would happily give it to him, but he doesn't want her. Despite herself, she can't help a low, dry laugh.

"What's funny? I meant it."

"Talia says you're good horizontal." She snickers.

"Oh, good gods." He passes a hand over his eyes. "Don't listen to a word that woman says. She's the best card player around, and she got that way because she knows how to lie. Far better than I ever will."

"Yeah, but in this case she happens to be right. I have firsthand experience."

He sighs, a long-suffering sound that leaves her caught between sympathy and amusement. "Do you want me to put her ashore, firebrand? I will. Just say the word. It's your call."

"Of course I want you to. I want my life back." She stares into the brightening day, the heat of the sun just beginning to kiss her cheek. "But getting rid of her won't solve our biggest problems, and you're right. As annoying as she is, I need a decoy."

"Name someone else, someone you'd rather have aboard, and I'll find her."

But Maeve shakes her head before he stops speaking. "This game is as dangerous for a decoy as it is for me. Why would I intentionally do that to someone I like?"

Sinbad's chin dips in acknowledgment. "Point. And who knows? She may not stay anyway after I set her straight."

"She will if you agree to help her get her ship back. Which you will."

"We're asking her to do something dangerous. It's only fair."

"I wasn't complaining." She wants to touch him. She always wants to touch him, but sometimes the desire hits her hard from out of nowhere, like now, as she watches him struggle to keep everything together, to please everyone, to be the competent leader when inside part of him has to be falling to pieces. She wants to solve this for him, to shoulder at least part of the burden he bears, but she can't. She can't even hold his hand.

"This won't last forever, Maeve."

His words are softly soothing. It's both a blessing and a curse—nothing lasts forever. Right now she chooses to see the blessing. "I know. But just so you know, I don't want Talia for a midwife."

He chuckles. "You already have one of those."

"Maybe." She doesn't want to think about Keely right now. This rending will be easier to put right than the one with Dermott, but that doesn't mean it will be effortless. Or pleasant. And the way she feels right now she'd rather have Cairpra anyway, though whether Cairpra knows anything at all about midwifery she has no idea. But Cairpra gives her the same solidly comforting feeling that Dim-Dim does, and that's something she misses more with each passing day. "Can we return to Basra? Not immediately—I know we need repairs and to deal with Talia's ship. But before Samhain."

"Whatever you want." He seems pleased with this request, pleased that she's asking something of him. Something he can give. "Depending on how much trouble Talia's got herself in on the mainland, we may have to anyway. Omar owes me a small fortune, and money may be the only way to get the Black Rose out of our hair and back on her own ship."

"Speaking of." Maeve winces as a curl of smoke laced with the smell of cooking food wafts from below. "I need to go roust the rose and get my herbs before that smell gets any worse."

His bright eyes dim, watching her unhappily. "I'd bear this for you if I could."

"I know." Fuck, she loves him. Even as he's the cause of the creeping nausea in her belly. "But you can't. So let me do what I have to, and take me to Basra sometime."

"As soon as I can. I promise."

Maeve's door is shut when she goes below, but she doesn't care. That's her cabin, not Talia's. She pushes it open, reaching for the key to her trunk even before she sheds the blanket from her shoulders. She doesn't usually bother locking the chest Queen Nadia gave her, but she doesn't want Talia snooping through—potentially pocketing—her belongings. To that end she shakes out her downy blanket and folds it, ready to place in the trunk.

"Dawn's here," she says, and kicks the wooden frame of her bunk for good measure. "Shouldn't you be pestering someone by now?"

A weary groan emerges from under the brown wool blanket.

Maeve kicks the bunk again. She knows a hangover when she hears it, and she's not the least repentant. Not when the pirate kicked her out of her own bunk.

"Knock it off, hothead." Talia buries her face in Maeve's thin pillow.

"You better not have bugs. And what did you call me?" She eyes Talia's bulk under the blanket, unsure yet whether to take offense. Sailors tend to settle disputes with fists, as Doubar intimated last night, and she's not averse to a good brawl. Sinbad probably won't let her, however, considering what she's carrying. One boot in the wrong place could spell disaster for them all.

Talia's face peers out from under the blanket. "You have strange hair. You throw fire. You blow like a volcano. I'm just calling it like I see it." She holds her head gingerly as she slowly turns and sits up. "Oh, gods. Every time I tell myself it's the last time."

"And every time you're lying." Maeve has little pity. Not after last night. She retrieves her new jar of herbs from her trunk. It smells softly of mint, which is better than unwashed skin and old wine. This herbal mixture would probably work reasonably well on a hangover, too, but she has no intention of sharing.

"Hey, that's nice." Talia squints through a cracked-open eye at Maeve's downy blanket. She leans forward and rubs the red fabric between her fingers.

"Keep your grubby paws off my blanket. You can have that one." Maeve nods at the brown wool in Talia's lap. It may have to be deloused now anyway, for all she knows.

"I'll trade you."

"You will not. This one's from home." Maeve yanks her blanket free of Talia's appraising fingers and drops it in the chest, then locks the trunk swiftly.

"Home?" Talia reaches for her boots, moving as slowly and painfully as a wizened old man. "Oh, hells, this head. I thought you all must sleep under, I don't know, bark or something."

Maeve glares. She's used to insults about her people, but not usually so early in the morning. Not on the Nomad, which used to be a safe space for her. A home. "My people don't care to live in cities. That doesn't mean we're as backward as you seem to think."

Talia lifts one shoulder in a painful shrug. She pulls herself slowly to her feet. "What's that smell? What do you have?" Her squinted eyes find the jar in Maeve's hands.

"None of your business." Maeve backs swiftly out of the tiny cabin. She needs to get a mug of water and return topside before her belly gets any worse. Doubar mutters moodily at her when she slips past him as he stokes the cooking fire.

"Don't put me on the cooking rotation, big guy," Talia says, draping herself over the table. "You won't like the results."

"Why can't Sinbad find a decent woman who cooks?" the first mate growls. "Get out of here!" he barks at Maeve as she passes behind him again with a mug. "If you won't work, at least leave me to it!"

She's tempted to throw her water in his face, but then she'd just have to fetch more. She snaps her fingers instead, and the cooking fire roars in response, rising high, singeing the hairs on his knuckles. "There. I cooked."

Talia cackles, but Doubar's furious. "The devil take you, woman! I wish for all the world that Scratch had claimed you instead of my brother!"

Maeve knows. Doubar would rather Scratch had claimed anyone else in the world besides Sinbad, even himself. It still doesn't make his words any easier to take. She's carrying his niece, but despite Sinbad's promise, she doesn't know that this will fix anything. Doubar doesn't want a niece. He wants a nephew. Maeve can save Sinbad from Scratch, but she can't give him that.

"Oh, my belly. My head. Don't make me laugh." Talia groans and lays herself across the table.

"Nothing to laugh about, girl," Doubar mutters, rubbing the singed hair of his knuckles against his sirwal before resuming his task.

"Apparently days of nothing but apricots can't sour your belly but a night of Cretan wine can." Maeve shakes her jar, then pours a tumble of dried herbs into her mug of water. She touches it briefly; steam swirls and rises.

"I smell mint." Talia steals the jar. "You weren't out with us last night. Why're you dosing?"

"DOSING? WITH WHAT? I WISH PEOPLE WOULD ASK ME BEFORE THEY START SELF-MEDICATING. YOU CAN'T JUST BUY A POTION OFF SOME RANDOM FORTUNE-TELLER AND EXPECT IT TO WORK." Firouz stumbles into the galley looking almost as bad as Talia. Behind him, Rongar looks far more alert.

Talia passes him the jar.

Maeve grabs for it. "Give that back!"

Firouz can't hear her. He sniffs the jar's contents, pours a little into the palm of his hand and examines it. "PEPPERMINT, OF COURSE. SPEARMINT. FENNEL. ROSEHIPS. BETTER THAN I MIGHT HAVE EXPECTED. WHAT ELSE?"

Maeve knocks his hand, spilling the bits of dried plant matter, just as Rongar firmly lifts the jar from Firouz's grasp and hands it gently back to her. She flashes him a grateful look. Most of the ingredients in Keely's childbearing tea are basic ones used the world over for many purposes—to settle the stomach, to soothe and fortify the body. But if he started examining each component, he'd find at least one or two that are only used for one very specific purpose. Wren specifically said there was raspberry leaf in there, and even Maeve knows only women with child drink that.

"Thank you," she says, shooting Rongar a grateful look and tucking her jar under her arm. He deserves to be first mate instead of Doubar, as far as she's concerned, for all the help he's been. She would have died from the monkshood poisoning without him, and now he's saved her from Firouz's inadvertent discovery.

He inclines his head to her with regal grace. Not for the first time, she wonders where the silent man came from. Even Sinbad doesn't know. His secrets are his own to keep, of course, and she'd never pry. She knows herself the need to keep some things silent. Still she wonders.

"SEEMS A HARMLESS ENOUGH PANACEA, ANYWAY," Firouz says, wiping his hand on his leg before settling at the table. "WOULDN'T BE A TERRIBLE HANGOVER CURE."

Talia's head perks up at this, but Maeve backs away from the table with her cup in her hand, her jar under her arm. "No," she says very firmly. These herbs are not costly and would be easy to find in almost any marketplace, but she doesn't know Keely's ratios and she can't exactly go around asking for raspberry leaf out in the open. Under those circumstances, she's not willing to share.

"Easy, hothead. I'm not going to steal your precious plants."

"You just did," Maeve mutters.

"You're no fun, you know that?" Talia closes her eyes. Doubar lets out a rough bark of agreement. "You need to lighten up. Life doesn't have to be so...so serious all the time. I mean, I get that Sinbad's in trouble, but you wouldn't help him so I don't think you get to pout."

"Well said, my lovely rose!" Doubar calls from his spot by the fire.

Firouz looks to Rongar for a translation, but the silent man is watching Maeve. He expects her to fight back, but what can she do? What can she say, when refuting Talia will give Rumina grounds to kill her? She shakes her head tightly, tightens her grip on her mug, and ducks topside. She's retreating, and she hates it.

"Hey." Sinbad sees her as she emerges into the warming sun. He's finished his morning inspection of the deck and he crosses swiftly to her. "Are they—" His words cease as Talia's voice drifts up through the slats in the door.

"I don't know about that one, big guy. Tell me again why she's here? Nobody likes her."

Beside Maeve, Sinbad goes rigid. She watches as his jaw clamps down hard, can almost hear the strain on his teeth.

"Don't."

"But—"

"Don't." She inhales slowly. She's been at war with the world since she was small. Since she was born. This isn't new. The only thing that's different this time is how much it hurts.

"But they can't—"

"How are you going to stop them?" she demands. "You can't. So go eat breakfast, and leave it alone."

Doubar's roaring belly laugh sounds from below.

"But Doubar—"

"I can handle Doubar." She can. She refuses to place any further burden on Sinbad, which is what turning this mess over to him will do. That's his brother, and the brother who helped raise him at that. She knows how she'd feel were Sinbad feuding with Dermott. She refuses to do that to him. Bonds break—all the time. Sinbad can't afford to lose his brother. She can walk this tightrope, dance this dance where she absorbs the brunt of Doubar's ire, leaving Sinbad unscathed. She has to.

Because, deep down, she's afraid. If she forced him to make a choice, which she never would, he won't choose her. He loves her, but he loves his brother more. And she'd rather continue like this, pretending it's her and her sailor against the world, than face the reality that, in fact, she fights alone. Dermott left her. Sinbad loves her, needs her womb, but his deepest tie will always be his brother. Not her.

So she will not probe this bruise, will not test his resolve. She holds her cup in her hands and stares into the rising sun. Tearless and clear-headed. As always. "Go to breakfast. Let me settle my stomach."

He goes.