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"What about the gunpowder store, sir?" said Vos. "It's locked and guarded, but nobody would expect something as valuable as the Folly to be housed in there."
"Superb. Make the arrangements."
As Vos walked toward the procession, the governor general finally turned to face his wife.
He was twenty years older than Sara, with a teardrop head, which was bald except for a tonsure of dark hair connecting his large ears. Most people wore hats to shield them from Batavia's harsh sunlight, but her husband believed they made him appear foolish. As a result, his scalp glowed an angry crimson, the skin peeling and collecting in the folds of his ruff.
Under flat eyebrows, two dark eyes weighed her as his fingers scratched a long nose. By any measure, he was an ugly man, but unlike Chamberlain Vos, he radiated power. Every word out of his mouth felt like it was being etched into history; every glance contained a subtle rebuke, an invitation for others to measure themselves against him and discover the ways in which they were wanting. By merely living, he thought himself an instruction manual in good breeding, discipline, and values.
"My wife," he said in a tone that could easily be mistaken for pleasant.
His hand jerked to her face, causing her to flinch. Pressing a thumb to her cheek, he roughly wiped away a clot of powder. "How unkind the heat is to you."
She swallowed the insult, lowering her gaze.
Fifteen years they'd been married, and she could count on one hand the number of times she'd been able to hold his stare.
It was those inkblot eyes. They were identical to Lia's, except her daughter's glittered with life. Her husband's were empty, like two dark holes his soul had long run out of.
She'd felt it the first time they'd met, when she and her four sisters had been delivered overnight to his drawing room in Rotterdam, like meat ordered special from the market. He'd interviewed them one by one and chosen Sara on the spot. His proposal had been thorough, listing the benefits of their union to her father. In short, she'd have a beautiful cage and all the time in the world to admire herself in the bars.
Sara had wept all the way home, begging her father not to send her away. It hadn't made any difference. The dowry was too large. Unbeknownst to her, she'd been bred for sale and fattened like a calf with manners and education.
She'd felt betrayed, but she'd been young. She understood the world better now. Meat didn't get a say on whose hook it hung from.
"Your display was unbecoming," he rebuked her under his breath, still smiling for his courtiers. They were edging close, wary of missing anything.
"It wasn't a display," she muttered defiantly. "The leper was suffering."
"He was dying. Did you think you had a lotion for that?" His voice was low enough to crush the ants crawling around their feet. "You're impulsive, reckless, thickheaded, and softhearted." He flung insults the way rocks had been thrown at Samuel Pipps. "Such qualities I forgave when you were a girl, but your youth is far behind you."
She didn't listen to the rest; she didn't need to. It was a familiar rebuke, the first drops of rain before the fury of the storm. Nothing she said now would make any difference. Her punishment would come later, when they were alone.
"Samuel Pipps believes our ship is under threat," she blurted out.
Her husband frowned, unused to being interrupted.
"Pipps is in chains," he argued.
"Only his hands," she protested. "His eyes and faculties remain at liberty. He believes the leper was a carpenter once, possibly working in the fleet returning us to Amsterdam."
"Lepers can't serve aboard Indiamen."
"Perhaps the blight showed itself when he reached Batavia?"
"Lepers are executed and burned by my decree. They are not tolerated in the city." He shook his head in irritation. "You've allowed yourself to be swayed by the ramblings of a madman and a criminal. There's no danger here. The Saardam is a fine vessel, with a fine captain. There isn't stouter in the fleet. That's why I chose her."
Excerpted from The Devil and the Dark Water by Stuart Turton . Copyright © 2020 by Stuart Turton . Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks Landmark. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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