Warship

The outline of the warship grew clearer and clearer on the horizon: a slate-blue hull, white sails, and a seagull flag stretched taut by the sea wind atop the mast.

It was adjusting its course, its bow cutting through the white waves as it headed straight for White Wax Island.

Roy's hand unconsciously settled on the hilt of the blade at his waist.

"What do we do?"

Mila did not answer. Her eyes remained fixed on the warship, her pupils narrowing slightly.

"A dozen or so pirates." She spoke, faster than usual, but every word was crisp. "Are you sure you left no survivors?"

"I'm sure." Roy's voice tightened. "I threw all the bodies into the sea. I scuttled that wreck too. I checked at low tide—the mast wasn't even sticking out."

Mila fell silent for a breath.

"Then they might be pursuing those pirates," she said. "We act like we know nothing. Go home now."

She turned and left, her steps short but quick, dead leaves crunching beneath her feet.

Roy froze for a moment, then hurried after her.

The two of them passed through the white wax woods and circled back along the path behind the house. The sea wind chased at their backs through the gaps in the leaves, carrying a cold, hard scent of metal that did not belong on this island.

When they got home, the house was empty. Damian was at the docks, Barlow was at the market in the neighboring town, and Old Man was in the workshop.

Mila pushed open the door and went straight into the kitchen.

She rummaged out a piece of clothing from the wooden box beside the stove—the one Roy had worn yesterday. The bloodstain on the front had dried a brownish color, glaring against the pale coarse cloth.

Mila rolled the garment into a ball and shoved it into the firebox. She struck the firestarter twice and lit a corner. The cloth began to burn, flames licking over the dried blood, turning it from brown to black, then to ash.

Then she went upstairs and came back down with an armful of things.

A sea chart, a compass, three muskets, bottles of gunpowder, bullets, and that bag of Beli.

She placed them one by one into the hidden compartment beneath the stove where they kept dry firewood.

The compartment was not large. She stacked the split white wax logs back in neat rows until it was full, hiding everything beneath them.

Roy stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her do all this. Not once did she hesitate. She moved as if carrying out a procedure she had rehearsed countless times.

"Is this necessary?" Roy asked. "Would they really search the house?"

"Better safe than sorry." Mila did not turn around as she continued arranging the firewood. "At least we can't leave them out in the open."

She shoved in the last log, brushed the wood chips from her hands, and stood.

"On this little island, in this little town, none of these things should exist."

Sea charts, compasses, muskets—none of them should exist here.

On an unnamed island, in a town without even a garrison, in a shipwright's home, there was no explaining the presence of such things.

Roy remained in the doorway. His brow was furrowed, and his lips pressed together and loosened several times. His hand still rested on his sword hilt, his knuckles faintly white from the force of his grip.

"What's there to be afraid of?"

His voice was lower than before.

"So what if we tell them I killed them? A dozen pirates—they deserved to die. They won't know about the Sharingan anyway."

Mila was closing the panel beneath the stove. Her hand stopped in midair for the space of a breath.

Then she shut the panel and turned around.

"You're right."

Roy blinked.

"You're right about everything." Mila rose to her feet and brushed the dust from her knees.

"You killed pirates. Pirates deserve to die. If you tell the Marines, they won't do anything to you. They might even praise you, call you a brave boy who took down more than a dozen vicious criminals by himself."

Her tone was flat, as though she were stating something as certain as the day's weather.

"And then?"

Roy said nothing.

"Then they'll ask how you did it."

Mila took a step forward.

"A boy living on a remote island, with no training, no military service, no experience guarding merchant ships. Alone, with one short blade and two wooden throwing weapons, he killed more than a dozen pirates who had spent who knew how many years fighting for their lives at sea."

She looked at Roy.

"How did you do it?"

Roy opened his mouth.

"You don't have to tell them," Mila said before he could speak. "You have the right to remain silent. The Marines won't do anything to you, after all. You killed pirates."

She took another step forward.

"Then they'll remember you. They'll remember that there was a boy on White Wax Island who killed more than a dozen pirates alone. The news will leave that warship and reach the next port where they dock, the base where they make their report, a report somewhere in Marine Headquarters. East Blue, a remote island named White Wax Island, an ordinary boy, killed more than ten pirates. Those words will appear on the same line."

Her voice lowered slightly.

"Then you'll become famous."

"Then a second warship will come—not to pursue pirates, but to find you."

Roy's fingers loosened from the hilt.

"Can you guarantee that the second warship will be as easy to talk to as the first?"

Mila's tone never changed from beginning to end. There was no rebuke, no mockery, not even sternness.

She was merely describing something bound to happen.

"Can you guarantee that no one among them will investigate exactly how you did it?"

"Can you guarantee that, after investigating to the end, they won't uncover that thing?"

"Maybe other pirates will hear that there's someone here who can take on more than a dozen men alone and come challenge you. Even if you can kill them all, won't that cause trouble for the family? Won't it set off other chains of events?"

Her gaze swept over the hidden compartment beneath the stove.

Roy fell completely silent.

Mila watched him in silence and brushed away the last bit of sawdust from her hands.

"Better safe than sorry isn't because we're afraid of them. It's because we aren't yet qualified to make them afraid of us."

She walked past him to the doorway and pulled the door open. Sunlight flooded in, casting her shadow long across the floor.

"One day, we won't need to hide these things."

She did not look back.

"I believe that day will come soon, but not today."

Roy stood in the kitchen, looking at the small pile of ash that had once been the garment in the firebox.

The fire had gone out, but the ash was still warm. Outside the window, white wax leaves rustled in the afternoon wind.

In the distance, the warship on the horizon had drawn closer. He could already make out the hull number at its bow and white figures moving across the deck.

He finally took his hand completely off the hilt.