Chapter 6 - An Unlikely Ally
The shock of falling forward onto the splintered wooden deck of the tugboat knocked the wind out of Lily, but strong, calloused hands caught her before she could hit her head.
“Easy there, little starling. I’ve got you,” a gruff, gravelly voice murmured.
Lily looked up, coughing water and shivering violently. Standing over her was an enormous man with a thick gray beard, wearing a heavy fisherman’s raincoat and smelling strongly of salt, diesel, and pipe tobacco. It was Captain Thomas Miller, a legend along the harbor docks—a former merchant sailor who knew every secret waterway, corrupt politician, and dirty deal in the city.
On the pier above, the two guards shouted in frustration, shining their flashlights down at the departing boat, but the thick harbor fog and the sudden surge of the tugboat’s diesel engine quickly swallowed them into invisibility.
“You’re... you’re Captain Miller,” Lily whispered, recognizing his face from old newspaper clippings her mother had kept tucked inside her journal.
“The very same,” Miller grunted, pulling a dry woolen blanket from a hook near the cabin door and wrapping it tightly around Lily’s shivering shoulders. He turned the wheel, steering the boat deeper into the maze of industrial barges. “Your uncle sent word to me through a burner phone an hour before the raid. He knew Victor’s dogs were tracking you. Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” Lily said, clutching the leather satchel safely against her chest. “Did... did they hurt Uncle Julian?”
Miller’s weather-beaten face darkened, and he stared straight ahead through the rain-streaked windshield. He didn't answer right away, which answered Lily’s question more effectively than words ever could. A hot tear slipped down her cheek, but she bit her lip, refusing to cry out.
“Your uncle is a brave man, Lily,” Miller said softly, his voice carrying a rare note of deep sorrow. “He bought you time. Now, we need to make sure that time wasn’t wasted.”
Inside the warm, cramped cabin of the tugboat, illuminated by a single swinging brass lamp, Lily opened the heavy leather satchel. She pulled out the charred, silver-bound diary of Celeste Laurent, alongside dozens of meticulously handwritten pages of choreography notes, musical scores, and legal documents bearing the original copyright stamps of the Royal Metropolitan Theater from fifteen years ago.
Miller glanced down at the papers as he steered the boat through the dark channels. “Is that what I think it is?”
“It’s The Swan’s Requiem,” Lily whispered, tracing the ink of her mother’s handwriting with a small, trembling finger. “And it’s proof that Victor Vance didn't just steal the choreography—he stole the entire theater from my mother. He framed her for the fire to cover up his forgery.”
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“Proving it in a court of law against a billionaire like Victor Vance is going to take more than old notebooks, kid,” Miller warned grimly. “He owns the judges, the police commissioner, and half the city council.”
“Then we won’t use a court of law,” Lily said, her amber eyes burning with a sudden, terrifying determination that made even the old captain pause. “We’re going to use the stage.”
