Sea of Ghosts - Alan Campbell [34]
As the postboat slipped past, Ned threw a single envelope towards Granger’s wharf. It looped momentarily in the air, before missing the wharf altogether and drifting down onto the open hull of Granger’s rotten little boat.
Ned laughed. ‘Sorry Tom.’
‘Every time,’ Granger muttered.
His vessel, Hana, was sitting lower in the water than ever before. He allowed his gaze to linger a moment on the name he’d painted across her bow. He could barely make out the faded letters among the cracks and blisters. The hull was in bad shape. Brine had leaked through cracks in the resin along the keel and pooled in the bottom. Thankfully the letter had landed on the centre board and remained dry. He balanced his foot on her port gunwale, but her hull tilted and the letter slid an inch closer to the brine. The toe rail cracked under his weight. A sloshing sound came from somewhere under the thwarts. Even at full stretch, he couldn’t quite reach the letter, so he ripped loose a couple of long sections of toe rail and used them like pincers to grab the envelope.
It was addressed to Mr Alfred Leach c/o Captain R. Swinekicker, Halcine Canal and it contained four hundred gilders in fifties, and a letter. Granger pocketed the money and wandered back upstairs, reading the letter.
Dearest Alfred,
Your last letter didn’t give me much time to raise the money. I was forced to visit that money lender in the Trove Market. Please forgive me, I know how much you despise them. Sally spoke with him alone, and – god love her – she managed to convince him to lower his rates. Bright girl, that one. So you needn’t worry too much. It’s all done now. Ronald and Gunny send their love. They keep asking if you ever mention them in your letters.
I tell them yes, of course. I tell them that you miss them, as I’m sure, deep down, you do.
Love,
Margaret
Granger crumpled up the piece of paper and shoved it in his pocket. He went back to the stove and ladled the cooling porridge into two bowls. Then he washed and refilled the water jug and carried the lot down to his captives.
The moment he entered the cell he could see that Ianthe had mustered her rage for another outburst. Her jaw was tight, her eyes brimming with cruel intent.
He tried to pre-empt her. ‘Should I just throw this into the brine and save you the effort of rejecting it?’ By the time he’d closed his mouth he regretted ever opening it.
She actually snarled. ‘Fish porridge? Isn’t that like cannibalism for you? Boiling up your own relatives to feed to your prisoners?’ She was speaking through her teeth. ‘I know beggars eat that muck, but they normally have the decency not to inflict it on others. Take it away and bring us something edible, or just leave us to starve to death.’ She snorted. ‘That’s what you’re going to do anyway, isn’t it? When the council payments run out?’
‘Inny, please!’ Hana reached for her daughter, but the girl snatched her hand away.
Ianthe had adopted an air of smug self-righteousness. ‘I can’t believe you slept with him,’ she said to her mother. ‘Did he wear a bag over his head? Or did he rape you? That, at least, would be understandable. You’re never really fulfilled unless you’re somebody’s victim.’
Hana’s cheeks flushed.
‘That’s enough.’ Granger stood there in the open doorway with an armload of crockery: a great lumbering, red-faced fool. Ianthe must have known about her parentage from the beginning. How do you keep secrets from a psychic? But he was surprised to find the girl’s hostility directed at her mother, rather than him. He set their food down on the platform, weary and anxious to leave. ‘I don’t care if it’s not what you’re used to, it’s all I can afford right now.’
‘Poor you,’ Ianthe scoffed. ‘If only you had four hundred gilders in your pocket.’
He stopped. A slow grin spread across his face. ‘Four hundred gilders, Ianthe?’
She snorted.
There was no doubt left in Granger’s mind now.