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Chapter 5

"Did you sleep well?"

Kit's question startles me out of my reveries. The sun has come up without me noticing, reflecting brightly off the almost still waters.

"Didn't see you all day yesterday," he tells me. "So the Dalmatian found some place for you to sleep then?"

"What?" I blurt out. "Oh, no. I mean... Yeah... sure. I'm sorry, I was somewhere else. I think I slept. I was just... thinking..."

"About what?" Kit asks. He starts cleaning his teeth with a small coarse brush, and at the question, spits into the ocean.

"A tiger," I say distantly. "And some other things."

"Oh," Kit exclaims. "Yeah, I apologize on his behalf. Krish was likely only grumpy because he was hungry." He ambles back towards the stairs leading below, and I follow him out of habit. "Don't take it personally, you didn't do anything wrong. He's just been antsy and mean lately. I'll make sure he doesn't bother you."

"That's kind," I mumble distantly, only vaguely aware of what he's talking about. "A Naweshi name, isn't it? Krishna, or Krishana-"

"Krishnananda Singh," Kit fills in for me. "He's a mean one, don't know why Ajag picked that one for our first mate."

"Oh, actually, speaking of the captain-"

"Stay away from him."

"E-excuse me?" I turn to the weasel. The response comes so quickly, and with such apparent venom, that I'm left speechless.

"Stay away from him," Kit reiterates. "Keep your distance. Don't let him talk to you one on one."

"Wh-why?"

"Never mind why, just listen. You're my assistant, aren't you?"

"Alright." My ears tuck back to their accustomed, submissive position. All the fire in my blood from my talk with Duck has vanished.

"Come along, it's time for breakfast."

Down below, Kit sets about preparing the ingredients, while I light the fire in the stove. A large pot is soon filled with chopped, salted meat, strange looking vegetables and a mishmash of herbs, some oil and water.

I'm quite shocked at the display, and not a little confused. The weasel plops any odd ingredient into the pot, seemingly at random and with no real thought to its properties, taste, or smell. I don't know why he put the oil in to begin with, because he boils everything in water anyways, and he boils it for far too long. The vegetables will end up soft as mushrooms, and the meat will be stringy and far too salty. It should be washed first. But Kit just carries on. He cooks the flavour right out of the stew as I'm watching. And though he has put in herbs and condiments, they do not compliment the dish even slightly.

Duck's talk might have uprooted a lot of habits which had been forced into my head from I was very young, but I can't bring myself to complain about Kit's food. And the rudeness and forwardness I offered that dog troubles me, even after the conversation has ended. Consciously, I know now that I have the right to complain, at least to the Dalmatian in charge. I'm free, and I'm not due any more punishment for speaking my mind than anyone else aboard. But Kit is the ship's cook. One does not criticise the ship's cook, he said as much. And I like him, I don't want to get on his bad side. For all I know, he might have some secret Castellanian trick that will save this dish as it comes to a rolling boil. But, by the time the weasel announces that the food is ready, and that I should ring the dinner bell, such a trick has not been forthcoming.

It's not a bad smell, per say. The scent of food on the boil rarely is. But Matron would've beaten me bloody if I'd made such a mess in her kitchen. And all the while, Kit smiles a weary but content smile, as if he'd done something good in the world by preparing this stew of his.

The meal tastes exactly as I predict. To be fair to Kit, it is at least filling. Salt, and a pinch of pepper helps me swallow it down, and it sits very heavy in my stomach after that. I've never been a picky eater, of course, nor have I often been given enough to fill my belly on. But even I know the difference between a well-made meal, and one which can only be described as a filling one. The latter one isn't always a blessing, as it has a tendency not to sit as heavily as it gives the impression of, when your stomach realise what you've just put in it. Since I stood for most of the cooking at the brothel, I'd at least eaten nicer meals than this, albeit considerably smaller portions.

Kit's cooking doesn't give me the troubles either, despite what Zeeke predicted. It couldn't possibly. I've grown up on cardamom, cumin and peppers. On days-old rice and stale bread and watered wine which has gone bad. My constitution is ironclad, compared to these sailors. If this is all the fare they live on, no wonder they suffer.

"So, what did you think?" Kit asks, expectant as I finish the last dregs of my bowl.

I want to explain that I will happily cook instead and release him of that responsibility. But the thought of hurting his feelings is too much for me, so I swallow down my mouthful and smile back at the weasel instead.

"I've perfected the recipe so that it can be made much quicker than was intended," Kit explains. "Used to be it'd take me all morning, but now I have much more time to spare."

"I look forward to being of help," I tell him diplomatically. "I have a few ideas for how it can become even better, if you want to hear them."

"Maybe later. Can you fetch in the bowls as the men finish with them? And a pail of seawater?"

I gather the bowls obediently and pile them up on Kit's workbench.

"I try to keep my surroundings as clean as possible," Kit explains unbidden as I start scrubbing the wooden bowls in the salty water. "That was what my father taught me."

"I never had a father," I mumble inquisitively. "What was yours like?"

"A sight to behold, fox. Father was a gentleman's gentleman in the city. A proper valet, not your average servant. The absolute finest, most prestigious serving position one can imagine. That was my destiny, once. My father taught me everything he knew, because I was once to follow in his footsteps." The weasel sighs, a distant smile hiding somewhere in his eyes, behind what could only be described as sadness. "Imagine that, fox. Me, in fine clothes with straight combed fur. Good shoes, tights, silk ties." Another sigh escapes him, more audibly disappointed now.

"What happened?"

"Father died of a sudden illness," Kit's voice drop to a whisper, "and left me with nothing but debts. In Castellania, debts are very damning on your character. I couldn't get work anywhere, so I had no other choice. Now I'm here, cooking for these ungrateful bastards."

"I'm grateful," I mumble, flicking my ears down guilty as if it's all my fault. But Kit doesn't seem to notice. For a while, we scrub the bowls in silence.

"I'm going to take a little nap, okay?" Kit says eventually, "Do you mind taking care of the rest?"

"Not at all, Kit," I tell him. I've worked harder than this on days I'd consider lazy. So long as I'm on my feet, and eat and drink every now and then, I can keep going for days without proper sleep.

As Kit sleeps, I carefully sniff at each pot of spice scattered on the work bench. Salt is, as always, the predominant smell. There's fistfuls of yellowy white sea salt in a large pot. The herbs hanging from the rafter above the worktable are familiar to me, for the most part. Malabar leaves, cassia, cloves and bundles of dried pepper, black and white respectively. A rather odd selection. I wouldn't put half of the spices I can identify anywhere near the others, and I don't trust any of the ones I don't know the names of. There are no flowers here. Through what I can smell and see in the kitchen, I can make some assumptions about the crew. Even if the ship isn't from Castellania, I suspect many of its crew probably are. I remember Castellanians don't much care for flowers in their food, nor do they care for chilli peppers, dried or otherwise, neither of which are present here. Every Naweshi house keeps these plants in little pots and gardens everywhere. Chillies even grow along the riverbanks, and everyone can pick them as they please. They keep for a long time, and can be both dried and pickled, and they do wonders for a sore belly. Which I'm sure is a problem here, where there are none. And that seems to be just how things stands aboard the Tamarind.

The vegetables linger in some storage room below, and there's only one kind of meat, mutton. Then, of course, there's all the bounty of the sea underneath us. I could prepare a traditional dish of seafood if the sailors pull up a few white snappers; that'd really surprise them. I wonder what Kit would say, though.

I feel sad on his behalf. Coming onto this ship, and everything that followed it, is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. But Kit doesn't want to be here, clearly. He has been forced to take this position due to his unhappy circumstance. It's really unfair, and he doesn't deserve the abuse the sailors heap on his cooking. I should do something to remedy that.

The duke has requested coffee if at all possible, to help sink his meals. But I don't know where the coffee is and Kit is napping, so I decide to improvise.

Some Castellanian officers, who were regulars at the pillow house, would occasionally take tea certain times of the day, and I had of course perfected several recipes. Every establishment in Nawesh can prepare tea, but to dampen the bitter taste, spices are sometimes added, often with great success.

The popularity of tea has always been strange to me. It's just unpleasant in that way that's almost certainly good for you, like an herbal potion. But here at sea, it is a scarce commodity indeed. In fact, there is none. I don't have any milk either, but I have all the prerequisite spices, and some sugar to sweeten it with, so I try my best to make something the Duke will appreciate.

I hand the drink to Duck after it has infused for a good hour. While not overly enthusiastic about it, he accepts it as a viable substitute, and instructs me to furnish him with another one come the evening. Then he asks if I can help set his cabin in order. And thanks to my, in a sense justified, rudeness yesterday, I feel inclined to help.

The work is deceptively tricky, as Duck has very strict requirements for his cleanliness, far beyond what I'm used to. And then there's all the tasks I'm unable to do. I can't read even when Kit had told me how to do it, so I can't help Duck with his letters or organise his shelves. All in all, I could serve better. But then again, this wasn't what Duck had selected me for, and I'm constantly aware that I'm meant to make some kind of decision.

As I'm finishing up and about to leave, I catch the faintest glimpse of Duck in my peripheral vision; the slightest involuntary twitch of the dalmatian's nose. With a few careful sniffs at my armpits, I'm made painfully aware of an issue I've not yet found a solution for.

"Where might I wash?" I ask Kit that evening, after we've finished cooking the evening meal. "I need to have my fur brushed too before I go to sleep. I haven't had it cleaned for two days."

"What?" Kit asks, genuinely confused. "What do you mean? Brushed? You look perfectly alright, and you don't stink nearly as much as some of the men."

"Do I stink at all?" I ask, wavering. "I better not. I never stink. It's not proper for me to be unkempt-"

"You're not in Nawesh any more," Kit intervenes. "You're on a ship. Where we ration fresh water. Nobody is expecting you to clean every day, you mad fox, just relax."

"I expect it of me." I try to keep my tail flicking uneasily behind me. "How am I to keep clean for... for the entire journey?"

"Are you sure this is something you need, and not something you think you need, because that old owner of yours abused you."

I want to protest that assumption. Keeping clean wasn't just required, it is also traditional to where I come from. It's something every native of Nawesh does regularly, and it's what sets us apart from the Castellanians. We use flowers and oils, and keep our scents as un-intrusive as we can in the hot, humid summers. I think it's religious, but either way, it's a ritual I've always found comfort in, even if I've not been afforded much more than soap and water for the most part.

"I really don't like being this dirty," I mumble quietly. "It's important to me. To my..." culture? Somehow, it runs deeper than just that. "It's just important."

I'm not going to tell him that the thought of the ritual, the scent of soap and the feel of soft, newly oiled fur against my pads makes me feel... happy. That's private, and embarrassing.

"I have a brush and wash bucket," Kit concedes finally. "No soap and no oils though, unless you think cooking oil will improve your coat. And you won't get any of our drink water. I wouldn't want it said that we died of thirst while becalmed because of some fox who was too good for his own stink. You'll have to make due with seawater."

"Thank you, Kit," I tell him, ignoring his crude remarks. "That means a lot to me."

For some reason nobody has ever cared to explain to me, I grow thicker fur near the end of the rainy season. That fur has now begun to shed. Without constant bathing and brushing, I get awfully warm in those transitional months of hot and humid weather.

Kit heats the salt water, which makes our whole cabin smell very strongly. But the worst part is that there's no secluded spot to bathe in. Either the tiny kitchen, or out on deck, Kit tells me, so I begrudgingly accept the former. He promises, not without a smile on his muzzle, to watch out for others. I'm sure this is all very amusing to him, but to me, it's dead serious.

For all the limitations to my freedom, I had at least enjoyed the access to a proper Naweshi bathroom back at the brothel, which was often empty early mornings when I woke up. Once or twice a month, I might have to share with some girl or other. But their presence, even with the foul language and rude comments, never bothered me half as much as Kit's kind and courteous watch duty does now.

Seated on a stool with my feet in the water pail, I dip the soft brush Kit has given me, and rinse my fur as well as I can. I can do my back and tail on my own, after years of practice. Arms, chest, belly, sheath and thighs, as has been my routine. Somehow, it feels bordering on obscene to do all this with him here. I can't help it. I'm constantly aware of his presence. I don't fail to notice his occasional glances my way, whenever he thinks I'm not looking. At least he remains at a courteous distance, mumbling rhymes and lines for his poems, seemingly at peace. I'm not at peace, but in time, the water against my fur calms me somewhat.

Drying my coat, I'm dismayed to see the result of my efforts. My fur stands on end, unruly and coarse. Spatters of white salt comes out whenever I run my paws through my tail fur, and I smell as much of the sea as Kit does. My lush black has even washed out to a duller grey, with bits of white particles all over as if I've been baking with flour. My ears droop as I feel the strange texture against my pads, as if it were someone else's fur.

"I'm sorry," Kit says, "I truly am, you know. I didn't realise it meant this much to you."

"It's not that important," I say in an effort to convince myself, but it doesn't work. "It's... just a thing I care about. It's a part of who I am."

"A part of who you are?" Kit asks. "You have to be the only fox I've ever met, ever heard about, who places cleaning and grooming so high."

It's more than just a part of me. I suspect, because it has such a comforting effect on me, that it has something to do with the past I don't know. Kit's tone changes to an even more sympathetic one.

"You only have to hold out for six months or so, then we'll call on Dalmatia. They have proper bath houses. Famous ones, with all kinds of warm pools, and fur treatments, and scents from all corners of the world. It truly is a magnificent place. I'd love to visit there some day."

Hopefully, bath houses means something else to him. Because in Nawesh, they are seedy houses of social congregation where slaves serve ostensibly as personal groomers, but often more than that. I shake the thought from my head. Kit means well. He's already expended more effort to make me comfortable than anyone, even the Dalmatian, ever did for me. I'm just not used to that. Why must I taint this friendly soul with my suspicion? Why can't I just accept his kindness, and leave it at that?

"Well?" Kit asks expectantly when I don't answer him. "It's better now than it was, isn't it?"

"It's better than nothing, I guess," I sigh.

"Let me help you brush," he offers. "It'll get some of the salt out-"

"No, I'm quite fine, thank you..." I swallow a lump of uncertainty in my throat, hugging the sheets I've been towling myself with closer. "I'll have to clean my clothes though. If you'd be so kind, I'd like to ask to borrow a pair of trousers. Please?"

Kit lets me into his chest so that I can borrow what I need. But as I search for something suitable, my eyes land on the box I brought with me. I brush a claw gently against the carvings on the lid, and remind myself of the memories I share with this trinket. It feels like an anchor, keeping me in place when the world is in constant flux.

"That box..." Kit's voice pipes up behind me.

"What about it?" I ask, instinctively picking it up and holding it close to my chest. He's already given so much to help me fit in here. Trusting him shouldn't be such an effort, it really shouldn't. I don't want fear to have that power over me anymore.

"That's a very pretty carving," Kit points out.

"It is," I admit with a heavy sigh. Then I draw a deep breath, and get to my feet, turning to him with the box in both my paws. "I don't know where it's from or how I came by it. All I know is that I've had it for as long as I can remember."

"They're foxes, aren't they?"

I nod and finger the carving gently. Three foxes, arm in arm, carved inside a frame of leaves and intricately detailed dahlia flowers. There's a long silence, before Kit speaks again.

"The middle one is you, right?"

I swallow, and fold my ears back, letting my tail fall limply to the floor.

"You don't have to answer that," Kit says suddenly, breaking the pregnant silence. "Don't worry about it, okay?"

I want to share a little piece of myself with him. Something personal that helps him understand me, like how he did. I want to, but I've never done that before. I can't make the words come out. My parents only exist so long as I believe in them. It's a tenuous existence which I dare not disturb.

With night closing in, Kit turns in for the night, tugging his shirt off and climbing into his bed. He closes his eyes with a contented sigh while I'm sat by the table, looking over some older poems of his without much luck. I wait for him to fall asleep first, so that he won't ask me where I sleep. Then, when I'm sure he won't wake up, I slump against the wall next to the bed, head up against the foot end where a slip of Kit's much too long blanket hangs over the frame. It's as near as I dare come. But even so, I find no trouble falling asleep, as fatigue claims me with startling speed.