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There's rain coming through the roof.Just a heavy cloud, Stede thinks. Ed would have said if we were in for real weather. It'll pass quickly.It doesn't.Ed's weather sense must not work as well on land as at sea. The rain soaks into the blanket that covers them both. Droplets slide down Stede's forehead, dripping off onto Ed's bare shoulder."Fuck." That's Ed, startling awake."Fuck," Ed says again, looking up at the water streaming in. "Fuck," he adds, scrambling to his feet. "Tarp. We had a tarp.""It's here," Stede says. "We slept on it, remember?""Why the fuck did we do that?"Stede squints against the rain. Beyond the corner where they've been sleeping, the roof is open to the black-clouded sky.The rain is weighing Ed's hair down, straightening out the curl. It runs over the bird tattoo on his chest and the snake on his right arm and the seahorse on his thigh."Because," Stede says, gesturing at him."How is this my fault?""Because you look like that."They'd brought the tarp for the roof and some blankets to cover the windows until they could get glass for them. By the time they'd swept the place out and plugged up the mouse holes, night had already begun to fall. The air smelled like jasmine and the bright moon was making shadows, and it was so easy for Stede to drop to his knees on the rough canvas and, later, pull Ed down with him and tug a blanket up over them both in the cooling evening air."If you looked like anyone else," says Stede, "we'd have gotten the roof patched up and then gone back into town like sensible people." He reaches for another blanket to wrap around his shoulders before he gathers up his clothes. "We'd better get it done now."
Ed clambers up the side of the building like it's ship's rigging, finding handholds as he goes. Stede hands the tarp up and follows more slowly. Ed reaches down to help him with the last bit.Up here, the wind is blowing the rain at an angle. Stede gets his back to it, then starts unfolding the oilcloth. The wind catches an edge and threatens to pull it from his hands.“You gotta keep it folded,” Ed shouts over the wind, gesturing with his hands close to his body. "Treat it like a sail."Stede gathers the tarp back up again, fighting to capture the last corner. "Now what?"Up on the roof ridge, Ed's got one hand on the crumbling brick of the chimney, feet apart for balance. He surveys the gaping hole in the roof and sizes up the folded tarp. "Let's get the first edge nailed down. We'll roll it out from there."They kneel together on what's left of the shingles, dirt and moss soaking into trouser legs, shirts sticking to their backs. Stede unfolds the very edge of the canvas, holding the rest tight against the roof while Ed drives in a row of nails. Working from opposite sides, bit by bit, they stretch the thing out downwind, keeping it flat and even with the surface, adding nails as they go. Sides, corners, and finally the far edge.Ed raises his hammer to give the last nail a tap.The section of roof he's kneeling on collapses.Stede grabs his arm to stop him falling, loses his balance, and tumbles after.It's a bad fall, but it could have been worse: they land on the pile of blankets. They'll both have good bruises, but bones are intact."Fuck this place," Ed says, when he's caught his breath enough to speak. It's not a yell, not even a curse, more a statement of fact.His hair is plastered across his face, half-covering his eyes, a few strands caught in his mouth. He spits them out. "This was a whim."Stede goes to wipe dust and bits of shingle from his own hair. It all smears across his forehead, sticking like mud. "I know. I didn't want to say anything.""You're an idiot.""So are you."Ed groans his way to his feet and offers a hand to Stede, who takes it."Let's go someplace dry and think things through?" The dirt on Stede's forehead is dripping into his eyes. He finds a clean-ish spot on his shirt and starts to scrub away what he can. "They have rooms above the bar in town.""You think they'll let us in like this?""We've still got a few bags of doubloons." Stede drops his shirttail and straightens up, and Ed marvels at how there's still an aristocrat in there, even covered in shards of rotten wood and probably some bird poop."Well if they don't," he offers, shaking rain from his hair and then twisting it into a few wild curls, "Blackbeard might have something to say about it."Stede's laugh is lost to the sound of the wind outside, but Ed can feel it anyway, brightening the air between them. Hand in hand, they head out what's left of the door, into the rain under the open sky.