Chapter 1
I was at the docks for one reason, and one reason only: to get medicine for my Grandpa.
The poor man, like everyone else in our town, had Eye-Burning Disease; yes, that’s the actual name, and every so often, some shady sea-merchant would roll in with the “miracle cure” from gods-know-where.
It was rare, expensive, and snatched up faster than rum at a sailor’s wake and I was determined to get the stuff first, for Grandpa.
I checked in daily, hoping—begging—the gods or the tide or whoever was in charge of miracles that today would be the day I brought him relief.
That was the plan. That was the only plan.
So why, then, was I currently staring at a half-sunk dinghy with a hole the size of my future regrets?
It was tied to the dock with what looked like a stolen laundry line, leaking like a drunk. It was full of crates and boxes. No crew. No captain. Just trouble, and me, apparently, the idiot destined to poke it.
And then came the unmistakable sound of a screech. I’d heard that exact pitch a thousand times in the trees behind our cottage.
Oh no! There was a bird on the boat!
Someone had left a bird on the bloody boat to sink along with it!
Without a second thought, I launched myself onto the sinking plank of doom, as it groaned under my weight. Water rushed in faster.
I flinched and spun around, panicking—where was it?
There! Wedged in the corner, in a little wire cage, was the most gorgeous bird I’d ever seen. Feathers like a painter’s fever dream; blue and red, and even complete with a gold tail.
No. Nope. No way was I letting that thing drown. I snatched the cage, flailed back toward the dock, and scrambled back up.
I set the cage down and stood up, my feet dripping and furious. Who in the seven hells abandons a creature like this? It should’ve been flying; screaming across the sky with the others, not rotting in a cage on a sinking coffin.
Truly, if I had wings half as good as this birds, I’d be gone. Free. Up there in the clouds with the wind in my hair and no one to answer to.
With a dramatic flourish (and maybe a little self-righteous flair), I threw open the cage door, ready for a glorious explosion of feathers into the wild blue yonder.
The bird didn’t move. If anything, it scooted farther back into the cage.
What the…?
I reached into the cage to give the stubborn thing a helpful nudge toward freedom that it desperately wanted, needed—and the ungrateful little beast swiveled it’s head and looked at my hand.
And then it then stuck out it’s beak and pecked me.
It pecked me! Like I was going to roast it and eat with some potatoes. I did think about it for a second. It would have been good.
I yelped and jerked my hand back, staring at the tiny dot of blood blooming on my finger.
“Rude,” I muttered, sucking on it.
Fine. It wanted to play the hard game. Maybe I was too aggressive.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out my lunch: stale bread, days old, but still technically, still edible. No green mold...well throughout the whole loaf.
I tore off a corner, crumbled a bit between my fingers, and made a neat little offering outside the cage—pretending the feathery god inside might actually accept my sacrifice.
The bird didn’t move. Not a twitch. Not even for bread.
Who didn’t want bread? It was basically gold!
I glared at it, then considered sticking my hand back in, but my throbbing, offended finger screamed at me not to. I sighed and sat back on my heels.
“Maybe you like it in there,” I said out loud. “Maybe the cage makes you—oh gods—forbid—happy.”
Well, if that’s what it wanted; if that ridiculous little rainbow-feathered brat liked being in a cage, then fine. I should just leave it right there.
I stood up, glaring at its gorgeous plumage as if it had offended me. Which, honestly, it kind of had.
But the sun was blazing today, the kind of heat that felt like it was peeling your skin off. And of course, the cage sat in full exposure. No shade. No mercy.
I turned back to the sad excuse for a boat.
There were still a few crates on board, left behind like the rest of this disaster. Maybe I could stack them up, make some kind of sun shelter. Maybe, maybe, the owner would come back and take care of the bird properly. Or, you know, explain why they’d almost let it drown.
And so, because I was apparently a one-woman animal rescue unit now, that’s what I did.
I stepped back onto the sloshing, half-sunk dinghy, grabbed a crate, and hauled it to the dock. Then another. Some were light. Some were suspiciously heavy and smelled like pickled failure. But they all made decent shade.
I stacked them around the cage like I knew what I was doing, like I wasn’t dripping sweat, bleeding, and halfway losing an argument with a parrot.
By the time I was done, I had transformed the sad little pile of crates into a full-blown luxury villa—for a bird. A shaded fortress fit for a feathery tyrant.
Honestly, it was a masterpiece. Possibly overkill. Definitely more than the ungrateful thing deserved.
The dinghy, however, had not survived the experience. It was now practically underwater, bobbing like a soggy cork, held together by a length of what I was now convinced was stolen laundry line.
And the bird…well, for all its stubborn pride, looked thirsty. Its beak drooped. Its eyes half-closed.
Frankly, I felt the same. I scanned the pile of plunder I’d hauled out and spotted a small wooden bowl tucked among the mess. Perfect.
I grabbed it and marched to the nearest docked boat, where a burly sailor leaned over the side, whittling something that may or may not have been shaped like a weapon. I cleared my throat.
“Excuse me,” I said sweetly, gripping the bowl in both hands like some desperate, sunburnt orphan. “Could I trouble you for a bit of water?”
The sailor looked at me like I’d just crawled out of the sea on bleeding knees, which was kind of the truth. His face twisted into a deep, sun-weathered grimace of pity, like he couldn’t decide whether to give me water or a full sermon on poor life choices.
Good. Let him pity me.
I wasn’t wearing my best clothes, just the soft, faded cotton I used at home for chores, loose around the shoulders, stained in places I pretended not to see. The sort of outfit that made people assume you were harmless, desperate, or dumb.
Let them underestimate me. That usually worked in my favor.
The sailor gave a small grunt, then turned and reached into a barrel behind him. The water sloshed as he dipped a tin ladle in and poured it carefully into my wooden bowl.
“Thank you,” I said, clutching the bowl in both hands, nodding like a grateful idiot.
Before he turned away to his weapon, I asked, “Do you happen to know whose boat that is? The one—well, the one that’s currently drowning?”
He looked over at the barely-floating dinghy, then back at me with a shrug so wide it might’ve dislocated something. “Not a clue,” he said. “Wasn’t here this morning. Just showed up. No one saw who tied it off.”
That wasn’t helpful, but I thanked him anyway and moved on, bowl in hand like some wandering dockside ghost.
I drank some water and gave some to the bird. I spent the next hour touring the pier, asking anyone who didn’t immediately turn their back if they knew the owner.
A few sailors grunted noncommittally, others just rolled their eyes or gave me that ‘why are you bothering me with this?’ look that men reserve for things like lost earrings and moral accountability.
Shrugs. Muttered ‘no idea’s.’ One man spat on the dock and walked away without saying anything at all.
By the time I circled back to the bird, I was no closer to an answer.
With no answers and no leads, I made a decision. I would wait.
I couldn’t risk the bird getting stolen; not after everything I did for it.
I didn’t trust half the sailors here not to toss the cage into the sea for a laugh, and the other half would probably try to sell it back to me at sunrise.
So I settled down beside the makeshift fortress, tucking myself into the narrow shade cast by the crates. The wood was warm at my back, the dock creaked softly beneath me, and the gentle slap of the tide against the shore became a lullaby I hadn’t asked for.
The sun had begun to shift in the sky.
I must’ve dozed off.
I woke with a sharp inhale, heart pounding like I’d been caught doing something wrong.
The light had changed; the sun high up and above now.
I sat up, blinking hard. Still no owner. Still no answers. And worst of all—still no medicine.
My stomach twisted with guilt. I’d wasted precious time playing guardian to a bird that didn’t want saving, for a man I didn’t know, on a boat that wasn’t mine.
Meanwhile, my grandfather, my whole reason for being here, was sitting back in the town, waiting for a cure that didn’t come.
I looked at the creature one last time. “You better be worth it,” I said.
Then I stretched, bones popping, and stood with a groan. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I added. “Don’t go dying or flying off or getting stolen. That’s an order.”
With that, I turned and walked off down the dock toward the merchant stalls. Half a day gone. Nothing to show for it but a bruised ego, a bloodied finger, and a colorful bird who may or may not have hated me.
