She purrs.

I smile.

God, I have missed the water. The beach is not the same. I jump up, untie the boat, and then take my seat and ease her away from the dock. The Pacific is strong and the waves are looming, but I’m not in a rush. So I take it slow. Just casually meander my way towards the yacht. It takes a good while for me to get close enough to see her name—Barely Legal, another very telling sign that these are Company people—and then a few minutes later I can see a crew member waiting for me in the garage.

Megayachts always have a tender boat. It’s a limousine used to shuttle passengers to the shore. Our yachts actually have two, but the sailing ship, the one I escaped from last year, only had one. A quick look inside the garage tells me this one has space for two, but none are here at the moment.

The crewman says nothing to me as he secures the vessel, and I ignore him as well. I’ve grown up around servants and I learned to ignore most of them very early. Not because I was snooty, just because it was a rule. I was not allowed to talk to people, status in life notwithstanding, and that was something I took very seriously. James didn’t even know my name until I told him that morning under the pier. He asked me on the beach back when we become Six, but I kept that secret like I was supposed to.

Actually—my mind wanders as I make my way through the garage and towards the entrance into the main part of the ship—Nick saw me drawing pictures in the sand. I was trying to give James a hint so I drew all the instruments I could remember from an orchestra. The last one was a harp and I had been hoping he would guess my name when he looked down at it.

But Nick came, calling me sister, which meant he was mad. And then he ushered me away from James and back to the ship.

Where I proceeded to spend the day not with James, as I had thought, but with Vincent.

I could not tell the difference.

Of course, I was six.

I open the hatch and walk into the ship. There’s a ladder so I climb, because I know full well I’m not going to find the owner of this boat down here. The next floor up also has a ladder, so I climb again. This floor has decks. But not the deck I’m looking for. So I go up one more level. This is a big-ass ship.

I hear soft music playing in the saloon area and when I step in, the cramped companionway opens up to a room filled with sleek, modern furniture.

“There she is,” a woman’s voice says from off to my left. She’s middle age, maybe mid-fifties. Her hair is dark and piled high on her head in an extravagant updo that contrasts with her beachwear. She tips her sunglasses down her nose and stares at me with brilliant green eyes.

So they get them from their mother, I catch myself thinking as she stands and extends her hand, walking towards me. “Harper Tate,” she coos as she waits for me to shake her hand. I do that, I’m on autopilot, and her grip is soft and so are her hands. “Finally, we get to see the golden child.”

I step back. “I’m sorry,” I say politely. “I’m at a disadvantage here.”

“Oh,” the mother coos again. “Albert, I do believe your son has neglected his manners.” She looks over my shoulder and I turn to greet Albert.

I’m so glad my back is to the mother, because Albert is a drooling old man in a wheelchair. His head lies against his shoulder and his hands are secured to the arms of his wheelchair with Velcro strips.

He’s wearing a bib.

This. Is James’ father.

The titular head of a Company family. And from what my father said, only this family competes with our rank. Company royalty, he called my future children.

I look back to the mother and take her in again, this time seeing her for what she really is. The actual head of a global shadow government. A woman who not only bargains the lives of girls but sends sons off to kill on command.

“Mrs. Albert Fenici,” she says as she watches me. “Now tell me, dear, what can I do for you?” If my stunned silence bothers her, she keeps that tucked away. “Oh, come now, Harper. Relax. We’re practically family now. I’ve been told you’re a nervous girl. Have a drink with me and settle down on the couch over there.” She points and I wander over there automatically.

I don’t know why I’m so off guard. I’m just… surprised to learn the person in charge of all these atrocities is a woman.

“How is Vincent treating you, dear? Well?” I don’t answer. “And how is your father? I haven’t seen him in ages.” She smiles and allows herself a small laugh as she drops ice cubes into a tumbler from behind the bar. “What’s your poison?”

“Huh?” I ask back, coming out of my stupor.

“Your drink, dear. What do you like to drink?”

“Bottled water, please.”

She laughs again and pours me something from a bottle all right. But it’s not water. “Try this.” She walks over to me, her gauzy robe flaring out behind her and her strappy stiletto sandals clicking on the hardwood deck. My nanny was wrong after all. Stilettos are perfectly acceptable footwear on a ship.

I put a hand up as she tries to give me the drink. “I can’t, I’m sorry. I took an Ativan today and I shouldn’t drink when I take the pills.”

“Oh.” She looks at me in a new way. She—studies me. As if she’s trying to detect the effects of the drug. But after a few seconds she takes the drink back to the bar and sets it on the stone counter.

I guess whatever she poured me is not her poison of choice.