Such earnestness from him was rare, and I found myself in an equally unexpected role of reassurance. “You won’t. You’re going to do this. You’ll find these traitors and cut off their resources. You’ll be a hero.”

   A glimmer of his dry humor surfaced. “You’ve got a lot of faith in me. How do you know I’m not actually a terrible spy? You’ve barely known me two months.”

   “I’ve known you for almost a year,” I corrected. “Anyone who can pull off being a monk, a Flatlander, and . . . whatever you are now won’t have any trouble rooting out a handful of disgruntled men.”

   “I hope you’re right. A handful of disgruntled men can do a lot of damage, especially men who are used to power and entitlement.”

   “I know. Because they’re not the ones who actually have to deal with the consequences.” A coldness settled in the pit of my stomach as images of the past played through my mind. “The innocents do, people who don’t even want to be involved.”

   “Adoria won’t become Sirminica, Mirabel.”

   The gentleness of his tone startled me as much as shouting would have. “How did you know that’s what I was thinking?”

   “Because I pay attention. Because I can tell you’re not just running to a new place—you’re running from an old one. You wear your ghosts.”

   I shivered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

   “It’s what the Balanquans say when you keep the spirits of your loved ones close. That your pull is too strong to let them go on to the next world.” He gave me a pointed look. “And sometimes their pull is too strong. Like your father’s on you.”

   I just stared at him.

   Grant shrugged and said, “I told you, I pay attention.”

   “My father was a hero. He saved countless lives.” I grew angry, seeing Grant’s blasé expression. “I don’t owe you my life history! And I don’t see you bursting with stories about your father either.”

   “You want to know about him?”

   “Like you’d really tell me.”

   Grant shifted his stance against the rail, leaning over it and crossing his arms so that I only saw his profile now. He stayed silent for so long that I thought he’d relinquished the topic until he said, “He was Osfridian. My mother met him when she came to Cape Triumph with a trading group. They never married, and she never saw him again after she left. The Balanquans believe fathers should be in charge of teaching sons. If your father can’t, another male relative does. My uncle did for me, but he hated it. He hated me. And when I was ten, he finally claimed it wasn’t right to deny me my ‘real’ heritage. He sent me back to Cape Triumph to find my father, but he wasn’t there. Hadn’t been for years.”

   “What did you do?” I was reluctant to speak, fearful he’d stop if he actually noticed he was opening up for once.

   “This couple felt sorry for me and took me in—clothed me, fed me. They didn’t have any children of their own. They were good people, but they weren’t my parents, and I was angry about that. I got angrier and angrier as the years went by. I only wanted my father. Then, one day . . . he came back. And he was not a good person. Do you want to go inside?”

   The abrupt question startled me, and I realized he’d noticed me trying to pull my cloak closer against the chill in the air. “I’m fine. Keep going. Why wasn’t he a good person?”

   Grant hesitated, and I thought for sure I’d lost the moment. “Because he was an outlaw of sorts, not that I knew that at the time. I didn’t know anything about him, really, but when he offered to take me with him, I didn’t look back. I was fourteen. We went south—to the lands the Sirminicans abandoned when the war came. And I lived a life—and did things in that life—that are going to haunt me for the rest of this one. I thought I wanted it. I thought following my father’s path was the right thing. But after almost three years, I woke up one morning and realized I didn’t want that path. I needed to get out of that life before I turned into something that couldn’t be undone—what my father had already become. And so I left. I let him go.”

   I shivered, though it had nothing to do with the cold. Grant’s past shared a lot of traits with mine, but I couldn’t bear to admit it.

   “I told you mine. Are you going to tell me yours now?”

   “Why do you care so much?”

   He shifted his stance, rearranging the way he leaned on the rail. “Because . . . because I’d like to understand why you’re you.”

   “My father was a hero,” I repeated. “Fighting to protect others is a noble thing.”

   “I’m not denying any of that.” His tone was actually mild, but he had that look in his eyes, the one that could penetrate right into a person’s soul. “And I can see that drive in you. You’re ready to take on the world for the sake of justice. But I also see this look you get when your father comes up. Something about him bothers you.”

   I suddenly felt stifled and trapped, despite the wide-open deck. “Your interrogation bothers me!”

   “I’m trying to be nice.”

   “Well, you aren’t very good at it.”

   Anger kindled in his eyes. “I can’t believe you once accused me of being hard to like.”

   “You don’t have to like me,” I reminded him. “We just have to work together.”

   His response was to take off his long coat and toss it to me. “Put this on.”

   “Why?”

   “Because it’s freezing out here. And I do like you.” He sounded as though it annoyed him to admit it.

   I clutched the coat to my chest, the heavy brown wool still warm from the heat of his body. The ire faded from me, and I looked down. “I just don’t want to talk about my father, that’s all.”