Does that prickly guy hate the Bloodkin that much, like thorns bristling at a shadow?
Curiosity flared like a moth to a candle; a beat later it sank like a pebble in a well—none of her business.
As long as he didn’t hassle her, his opinions could blow past like wind skirting a reed.
Besides, she was human; the Bloodkin label was only a paper mask.
The two went back to their room to rest; night spread like ink, and the voyage stretched like a long river.
Time slipped fast; deep night held its breath, and water outside kept Lucimia awake like a drum under thin planks.
The hammock swayed like a net she couldn’t trust; on impulse she rose and stepped out.
Let’s see how Rexi’s sleeping, she thought, her mood drifting like a leaf.
Lucimia stepped out; the corridor was hushed, black as a shut eye, and waves thudded on the hull.
Two steps brought her to Door Nine; she pushed, found it unlocked, the wood yawning like a careless mouth.
On a wreck of a sailboat, guest rooms carried locks like missing teeth.
Her own door braced with one wooden bar felt as useful as straw.
She went in, shut the door, and looked to the hammock; Rexi sprawled, breathing soft, calf jutting out like a fish tail from a net.
Half her long hair blanketed her back; half draped her arm like spilled ink.
Lucimia leaned in and poked her cheek; no reaction, like a pebble tossed into a dry well.
You sleep like the dead; if someone moved on you, you’d never notice—no vigilance at all, she muttered, head shaking like willow fronds.
She dropped a Fuzzy Orb there to guard Rexi, a tiny moon on watch, then slipped back out.
This time was different; the prickly man stood at her door, a shadow nailed to the frame.
He heard her and turned; a frown first, as if peering through fog, then a sharp tsk, and the door swallowed him.
Lucimia watched him vanish; the corridor went still again, ash after a spark.
So odd… did he just come back from the latrine? Lucimia frowned, a thorn under skin prickling just for her.
Am I that easy to hate; fine, hate me, but why keep rubbing it in like salt on a cut?
Shouldn’t you hide it in your chest, or is that just his nature, a jar with a cracked lid?
She mulled it, thoughts buzzing like gnats; nothing clicked, so she let it go and returned.
Still, what if spite made him tamper with her room; she opened her Magic Eye and swept once like a lighthouse.
Finding nothing, she rested easy, heart settling like a stone in sand.
At dawn, gongs and drums ripped them awake; anger surged like storm waves, and curses burst like sparks.
Which bastard is it, damn it—thunder in a tin sky?
It’s barely light—are you sick—who the hell is banging thunder out there?
Lucimia and Rexi woke too and stepped out like fish breaking the surface.
Room Eleven’s door gaped; a frail old man trembled by the jamb.
The bearded man stood there, the one beating gong and drum, with two guards behind like posts in fog.
Today his face was grave, yesterday’s grin shaded over like a clouded moon.
The prickly man came out too, saw him, and snarled, voice like a knife, "You got a death wish—waking me up?"
The bearded man didn’t flinch; his stern look held like stone in rain.
This time’s different, like a cold wind at noon.
Different how—talk sense or shove off, he scoffed, breath smoking like winter.
He kept his tone low and waited until most gathered, patience tight as a drum, then spoke.
"I woke you because something serious struck this boat," he said, words dropping like stones in a well.
He stepped aside and pointed at Room Eleven, hand lifting like a lantern to guide.
Lucimia, Rexi, and the prickly man were closest; they looked first, and the scene hit like lightning.
The old woman lay on the floor; a bloody hole gaped at her neck, and terror clung to her face like frost.
Half-eaten ham sat on the table; the basket’s eggs and coins were gone like birds from a nest.
She was dead, and it looked like murder, the word weighing like iron.
Lucimia frowned; for no clear reason her gaze slid to the prickly man, and his met hers like crossing blades.
Neither look was kind, their eyes dark as storm water.
Then the rest saw it too, and panic scattered like a flock taking wing.
"What’s going on—why is there a corpse?" someone shouted, voice splintered like a broken oar.
"Dammit, beard, explain—how does someone die on your boat; is this tub even safe," another yelled, words hammering like hail.
"Are your guards just dead weight, like scarecrows tied to a gate?"
Voices pecked at once; the bearded man snapped, "Quiet!" his shout cracking like a whip.
Silence fell; no one expected yesterday’s clown to show fangs today, a paper mask torn.
"Ahem." He cleared his throat and pointed at the trembling old man, finger steadying like a cane.
"He found the body," he said. "They’d just met and chatted on board."
"Elders rise early like hens; at first light he came and found her dead."
He paused. "This is clearly murder, and the basket was looted," he said, the words nailing a frame like carpentry.
"Our crew slept on the other side, and guards watched the entry; the likeliest killer is among you here," his net tightened like dusk.
"What, you’re accusing us?" a passenger flared, anger spitting like sparks.
"Why not your guards—maybe you’re in on it," he snapped, suspicion crawling like ants.
The bearded man bristled. "Why would our guards kill a guest—over a basket of eggs; don’t we need our business," his tone rang like iron.
"Hmph, who knows you lot; you always fleece us, maybe you’d kill for eggs too," the burly man threw, words like rocks.
He already nursed a grudge, a knot hard as wood.
The bearded man drew breath, but the prickly man stepped forward and clapped, calling for silence like a bell.
Eyes swung to him like iron to a magnet.
He stood in the corridor’s center. "He’s right; the killer’s very likely on this passenger side," his voice steady as a blade.
"Uh..." The burly man hadn’t expected a fellow passenger to agree, and his heat cooled like steam.
"So you’ve narrowed it down—you know who the killer is," he asked, voice level like a drawn string.
"Yeah," the prickly man nodded. "I not only know who did it; I have grounds," his words flew like arrows.
Hearing that, Lucimia’s brows tightened; a bad feeling rose like a cold tide, and she guessed his next move.
When her intuition warned, it was usually right, like wind before rain; when it was quiet, nothing came.
The prickly man turned to Lucimia; she already knew, knowledge settling like a shadow.
He pointed at her and barked, "The killer is her—this black-haired… Bloodkin," the accusation thrown like a spear.
