Captain Bjorn (Tales from The Compass Book 1) by Anyta Sunday, Dru Wellington Page A

enough riches to save his house. Hurrah. Hurrah. The good poor folk are saved.
    I paced before the choking fire, threadbare rug slipping under my feet at each turn.
    “Dreadfully depressing, Marc.” I swiped the book and flicked through the pages. “Give us more warmth to toss this in the fire.”
    The hum of the sewing pedal stopped.
    “Aaron,” Mother said, pulling at the hem of a red dress. She picked up the scissors and nipped at a dangling thread. “We’ll be . . . okay. Lauretta is a kind girl. She’ll pay generously for the dress.”
    I straightened, snapping Marc’s book shut. Lauretta—Laurie—the earl’s last living daughter. A decent lady, and wiser since the curse . . .
    Marc nipped his book back with fast, nimble fingers.
    I grinned and rubbed my knuckles over his thick auburn hair. “Drivel is what that is.”
    “To you maybe, but to me . . .” He shrugged and thumbed the edge of the leather binding. His deep blue eyes, though the same color as mine, seemed lighter on him. Seemed to glimmer with something close to optimism. “Negativity will only drive you to an ill mind.”
    And doing naught would drive me there twice as fast.
    The clock chimed the hour, and I slipped to the coat stand in the corner of the room. Now that mother had her scissors, it was time to head off to Dwharfs tavern. I tucked the loose flap of my shirt into my breeches, shoved on my lucky brown leather boots, and clipped on a belt fit with a short sword in its scabbard. Last, I slipped on Father’s navy coat—a woolen Great Coat with the stars stitched at the hems and around the brass buttons—perhaps the only thing of worth left to us.
    My brother watched as I buttoned and then touched the star at the top button for luck. Just like Father did. Marc pushed off the armchair and came over, keeping his voice low. “Where are you going?”
    Across the room, dress spread over her knees, Mother sucked on yet another pin-prick.
    “Busking,” I said.
    “I don’t believe you.” When I said nothing, Marc sighed, brow furrowing. “Dwharfs again?”
    I nodded. The landlord was due three rents and annual fees in less than three weeks. He would sooner turn us out than take pity on us. Last week he’d tossed old maid Miller into the gutters when she failed to pay, and he’d not been decent about it either; the bruise on her cheek and the blood on her skirts had been a horrid testament to that.
    I swallowed, glancing at Mother, her fragile frame and pale face.
    “Aye,” I said, fitting on a tight smile. “Again.”
    * * *
    Misty sea air drifted into the tavern as the door opened.
    The sharp-nosed, keen-eyed ruffian across the table from me breathed the salty scent, fingers drumming against the wooden length of a staff.
    With a shrewd narrowing of eyes, he tossed five gold coins atop the mound on the table; they slid off the scrawled promise of my invitation to Lauretta’s ball and clinked against the coins beneath it. “Dare to match?”
    Tucked into the soft folds of my belt, the winning cards cried out to do it. The empty pouch at my hip suggested otherwise. “I’ve nothing left to bet with.”
    The ruffian cocked his head and tapped the end of the staff to his chin. Then, with a calculated smile, he leveled the silver snakehead at my chest. A fine forked tongue clinked against the collar of my coat.
    “It’s rather frigid out,” he said.
    The stool bit hard into my thighs as I stiffened and I smoothed the front of the coat. “I’m not betting this.”
    His staff withdrew and snapped against the wooden floorboards, loud despite the hearty chatter of a full tavern. “Not too sure of your cards, then?”
    I sipped my beer, arm resting on the sticky table. Quick fingers secured my winning cards and I set down the tankard with a laugh and subtly slipped them on the table. Ego stroking went a long way in a con, and I let the man think he had the upper hand. “You sure know how to play.”
    The ruffian