had been male.
Even that had become familiar. Since leaving Iceland to search for Källa, she’d become accustomed to new cities, a new life—and to seeing men everywhere. They were exactly as Annika’s mother had described them: much like women, but hairier. And, when part of a group, stupider.
The shout came again. Closer, louder. Annika slowed. A uniformed port officer had left the guardhouse and strode in her direction, his thick mustache shadowing his frown. Annika glanced to the side. No one stood nearby. The guard’s gaze had fixed on…her.
Annika’s heart clenched, then began racing.
Oh, no
. But he was only one man, and not in a group. Whatever it was, surely she’d be able to reason with him.
A gray dropping splattered against his hat brim. The officer didn’t seem to notice. He spoke again and
she
felt stupid. She didn’tunderstand a single word. Most likely it was Spanish, but so quickly said that she couldn’t make it out. Stopping a short distance away, he held out his hand, impatiently flicking his fingers.
He wanted something from her. But what?
Annika glanced down at herself, looking for the answer. She didn’t carry anything but her umbrella, and didn’t know how to ask him what the problem was. Her knowledge of the language didn’t extend far beyond
No estoy infectada
and
¿Cuánto cuesta?
Her fingers tightened on the umbrella stem. Her imagination didn’t help her now. She could only picture the worst. Sudden nerves made her words loud and shrill.
“Parlez-vous français?”
Annika had been forced to learn French when she’d joined
Phatéon
’s crew, and not just because Captain Vashon hailed from the Caribbean islands. French was the trader’s language—and this was a port city. Surely he understood a little.
Dismay slid through her when his mouth firmed. Slowly, he said,
“Muéstreme…sus…cartas.”
His voice sharpened on
cartas
. Annika wracked her brain. Had she been blocking a cart or another vehicle? Was it something else? Not the identifying papers she had tucked away in her purse; she knew the word they used for that:
documentos
.
But they only asked for those when she was passing the inspection point on the sentinel’s north side. Why stop her while she was leaving?
Once, she’d been briefly detained in Manhattan City when a constable had asked where she’d acquired her clothing. Even though he’d spoken English—an odd version of it, to be certain, even odder than she’d heard spoken in London—it had still taken Annika several minutes to realize that he suspected her of
stealing
the clothing, because the expensive fabric lay beyond a stoker’s means. And despite her explanation that she’d purchased the silk on the cheap at the French markets and sewed the pieces herself, he hadn’t seemed to believe her until a nearby group of women had come to her aid.Laughing at the constable, they’d assured him that Annika couldn’t have stolen the clothes, because no woman of quality would own anything so ridiculous as a white skirt over indigo trousers, pairing it with a lavender blue bodice.
No lady would ever be seen in a costume resembling a Liberé flag.
Today, Annika wore crimson and yellow. Perhaps the colors had marked her in some way—and she supposed that she
did
resemble a Lusitanian flag. But what of it? They weren’t at war with Castile.
There were no women to save her now. She scanned the faces of the people nearby, hoping to recognize someone whom she could call upon. Though several travelers had turned to watch the encounter, she didn’t see any of
Phatéon
’s crew members.
And what stranger would dare help? Not here, not in Castile.
Panic fluttered wildly in her chest. She faced the guard again. “Do you speak English?” As he had, she spoke slowly, trying to make herself understood. “Please tell me, what is the matter?”
With another sharp word and gesture, he shook his head. His hand shot out, seizing her wrist. He turned