#Anyways that bit at the end where Charlie says he feels closer to the Spanish streamers than anyone else was so sweet :')

[royalarchivist]

Quackity: There's also a button to toggle, so in case you're talking to people in English, you can toggle it.

Slimecicle: I'm never gonna speak to anyone in English again

[...]

Slimecicle: I feel like a baby that has learned how to speak! Bababa, bababah.

Fit & Maximus: Baba, baba, baba, baba, babah -

Slimecicle: I like that we've gotten a thing to translate all languages, and now we speak none.

[chorusfm]

In the Spotlight: 50 Bands You Need to Hear in 2018

Last year we brought back, and re-branded, one of my favorite features from the AbsolutePunk days: the “Absolute 100.” And as we enter May and the weather finally starts to turn around a little bit, it’s the perfect time to once again team up with our contributors to bring you a whole bunch of new music to check out. Just like years past we’ve compiled a list of 50 artists we think are worth your time. Some of the artists recently released their debut albums and some have been around for a while now but have flown under the radar. However, the one thing they all have in common is that we think they should be in the spotlight and are worthy of your ears. You’ll find the first group of 25, along with blurbs, recommended songs, and sounds like comparisons, below. Liis by Anna Acosta Up-and-coming dark-pop duo Liis may have started with busking and acoustic coffee shops, but the end creation between dual vocalist/guitarists Lisa Haagen and Dana Cargioli is anything but simplistic – or even acoustic. The independent release duo’s debut EP Put It On; Show It Off (to be released May 12, 2018) is a beautiful tapestry of haunting melodies and wistful, starkly honest lyrics that manage to never once lose their poetic feel. Sleep on this group at your own risk – they’ve got nowhere to go but up. Recommended Track: “Thief” RIYL: Daughter, Julien Baker, Lydia Florrie by Jason Tate I can’t think of a single artist I’m more excited to finally get a full-length album from than Florrie. She’s released a variety of EPs and single songs since around 2010, with the last coming a couple years ago. However, it looks like this is the year we’re getting more music and that rockets my anticipation up to a whole new level. Florrie’s music takes a few different forms but it’s almost always catchy and perfect for a summer day. I see sparks of Charlie XCX, Little Boots, and even a little Carly Rae Jepsen in there, but it’s the energy and creative diversity in her work that makes me think she has something really special in her. Recommended Track: “Real Love” RIYL: Little Boots, Dragonette, Foxes Ruston Kelly by Craig Manning Ruston Kelly is probably best known at this moment-in-time as Kacey Musgraves’ husband. 2018 feels destined to be Kelly’s year, though, so don’t be surprised if you’re reading a lot about him by December. Kelly has already racked up songwriting credits for country artists like Tim McGraw and Josh Abbott Band, and he recently scored some rock ‘n’ roll cred by opening for Brian Fallon on the Sleepwalkers tour. The time is ripe for Kelly to release his proper debut album, which should be out later this year on his new label, Rounder Records. Expect the album to build upon the foundations Kelly established on 2016’s Halloween, a stellar EP that sounded like a lost document from Ryan Adams’ ultra-prolific mid-2000s period. Just like Adams, Kelly is the kind of artist that could comfortably be classified as country, rock, or folk. In other words, he’s got the kind of universal appeal that not a lot of his Nashville contemporaries can’t match. That factor should set him up for big success whenever his new record does hit the streets. Recommended Track: “Black Magic” RIYL: Ryan Adams, Brian Fallon, Afraid of Ghosts-era Butch Walker Cecil Frena by Mary Varvaris A few months ago, I stumbled upon my favorite song of 2018 so far. That song is called “All Of My Heroes”, from the stunning, eclectic album The Gridlock by Edmonton artist Cecil Frena (previously known under the monikers Gobble Gobble and Born Gold). “All Of My Heroes” is the ultimate pop-rock song – it’s anthemic, and Frena utilizes cool distorted guitar, synths, and most importantly: his fantastic voice. Throughout The Gridlock’s 43 minutes, Cecil Frena never takes himself too seriously. There’s a distinct element of dark humor framing self-deprecating lyrics, but the melodies mostly remain upbeat. There’s a range of styles on display throughout this album, it’s almost too difficult to keep up. Take the raucous punk track “Unknow Yourself” where Frena is furious, and his words are scathing. Later, there’s the tongue-in-cheek “I Believe In Dancing”. “I Believe In Dancing” is the only acoustic-led track on The Gridlock, and it’s gorgeous and fantastic. Then, see him try balladry with the lovely piano-led “Hyphen”. But, The Gridlock doesn’t end on an optimistic note. Album closer “Human Math” is a dynamic, shattering song to end the record with. “Human Math” begins so gently, with quiet and mournful keys, and Frena’s hushed vocals before an urgent climax brought by intense, rollicking guitars; which complement crushing words that deal with an impending personal loss (“and it’s not your fault the coffin waits”). Cecil Frena doesn’t take the easy way out, and isn’t afraid to make music that asks questions without answers or happy endings. It’s real. It’s human. It’s also one of the coolest albums I’ve heard in a long time. The Gridlock might be the best, but also the most overlooked album by the end of the year. I desperately hope this isn’t the case, because Cecil Frena can and should be one of the biggest stars in indie rock. Recommended Track: “All Of My Heroes” RIYL: Born Gold, Quiet Friend, Long Neck The Penske File by Jason Tate Over the past few years my ears haven’t been as perked up by the gravely voiced singer over loud guitars thing. Yet, I find there to be something captivating by The Penske File’s recently released album, Salvation. It’s not really that they’re doing anything new, but their spin on this sound calls to me anyway. There’s some really good stuff in here. Recommended Track: “Spin My History” RIYL: Spanish Love Songs, Youth Decay, Red City Radio No Thank You by Drew Beringer Philly is the scene that just keeps on giving. The latest and greatest to emerge from the City of Brotherly Love is the incredible trio No Thank You. While the band’s debut Jump Ship was a solid albeit brief introduction to their brand of emo-tinged rock and roll, 2018’s All It Takes To Ruin It All is one of the genre’s better sophomore releases in recent memory. The record ultimately revolves around the passing of singer Kaytee Della Monica’s father and how she’s navigating through this loss. The band sounds more confident on record two – ping-ponging sonically from the likes of Rilo Kiley to The Get Up Kids – while Della Monica struggles to find the balance within the freshly introduced pain and grief into her world. All It Takes To Ruin It All is a brisk yet heavy record that’ll wring your emotions through the gauntlet, cementing No Thank You as one of the bands you absolutely cannot miss out on in 2018. Recommended Track: “New England Patriots” SeeYouSpaceCowboy by Zac Djamoos You could listen to SeeYouSpaceCowboy’s entire fifteen-song discography in just about as many minutes, and it’ll still be the fifteen most exhilarating minutes of your day. The band features members of screamo and grindcore heavyweights Flowers Taped to Pens and Letters to Catalonia, and it shows. Their grindy Fashion Statements of the Socially Aware EP is some of the most punishing metalcore I’ve heard in a long time – I fell out with metalcore years ago when Risecore became the dominant style. But if there’s any band I believe can revitalize the genre, it’s SeeYouSpaceCowboy. Recommended Track: “Jimmy Buffet Doesn’t Even Surf” RIYL: Daughters, Blood Brothers, Botch Caroline Rose by Aaron Mook Caroline Rose is the kind of eclectic songwriter that only comes along once or twice a year, and Loner is the unexpected debut that very well may end up on everyone’s EOTY lists. Her personality is on full display in her music, which hops from genre to genre over the span of a mere 11 tracks and 34 minutes. One moment, she’s mimicking the dream-like textures of Beach House and the next, she’s recreating Haim’s vintage vocal melodies – sometimes, all within the same song (“Getting To Me”). From the Phoenix-inspired synth-pop of “Jeannie Becomes a Mom” to the Modest Mouse guitar work of “To Die Today,” Loner is irresistible, that rare record that truly has something for everyone. In her own words, she’s got soul. Recommended Track: “To Die Today” Mammoth Grinder by Jake Jenkins When multi-instrumentalist Chris Ulsh isn’t busy behind the kit with modern day thrash metal titans Power Trip, he’s taking the helm in Mammoth Grinder, an old school death metal band that also features members of Iron Reagan. Like Power Trip, Mammoth Grinder’s particular brand of metal pulses with hints of hardcore punk, staying true to the raw and primal roots of the genre. On their latest full length, this year’s Cosmic Crypt, Ulsh has moved from guitars to bass, but the band’s guttural and intense bursts of death metal are still fully intact. Clocking in at just under half an hour, Cosmic Crypt is a quick, brutal assault that should please both new school and old school fans of death metal. Recommended Track: “Blazing Burst” RIYL: Power Trip, Genocide Pact Paperwhite by Jason Tate I’ve been a sucker for groovy-synthy pop-music over the past few years and Paperwhite have that in spades. So far this Brooklyn duo have released a couple EPs and a few singles and should have a new EP out later this year. Their pulsating tracks sparkle behind Katie Marshall’s vocals and they have an undeniable ability to shine in the uptempo and somber dream-pop. Recommended Track: “Unstoppable” RIYL: Great Good Fine OK, Say Lou Lou, Ryn Weaver Holy Fawn by Trevor Graham Holy Fawn may have emerged from the desert, but their brand of spacey post rock is nothing short of otherworldly. Crafting dreamy, oceanic atmospheres with each track, this Arizona-based quartet blends influences from the finest in experimental rock and shoegaze with an undeniably palpable energy that’ll leave you emotionally winded. 2015 saw the release of their debut EP, REALMS — a vehicle for introducing their broad dynamic range, deliberately set to satisfy head-trippers and head-bangers alike. Their visceral knack for layering sound shines brightly through a familiar formula that Holy Fawn have mastered the art of frequently concocting: start quiet, then get loud. Like, really, really, tremendously loud. I hate to use the word “epic” here, but… this band brings the capital E. Amidst their stormlike compositions, vocalist Ryan Osterman pours velvet falsetto whispers, hushed and reverberated just enough to somehow both stand out and blend in at once. Their latest single, “Arrows”, features a dizzying array of shimmering, cavernous guitar loops, eventually delivering the listener to the group’s fiercest display of cacophony yet. It comes from their forthcoming Whelmed Records debut, which the band aims to release in late 2018. Recommended Track: “Arrows” RIYL: Gates, O’Brother, Sigur Ros American Aquarium by Craig Manning In the Americana world, American Aquarium tends to be a pretty well-known and well-respected enterprise. If you don’t venture down that musical avenue much, though, then I’d wager you’ve never heard of these boys from North Carolina. Ever since 2006, this band has been quietly cultivating one of the most solid discographies in roots music. In 2012, they brought in Jason Isbell to produce their LP Burn. Flicker. Die., a record they intended to be their swansong. Six years later, they’re still trucking—though frontman BJ Barham recently had to reboot the band with new players. No matter: the band’s newest record—the forthcoming Things Change—is arguably their most fully realized to date. Starting with a song about the day Trump got elected president (the fittingly titled “The World Is on Fire”), Things Change is in turns political and deeply personal. The wistful “When We Were Younger Men,” for instance, charts the pains of growing up and the fluctuations of friendships to the sound of Tom Petty hits. The record as a whole is a reminder of what makes these guys special: they can be introspective, incendiary, personal, or political. Recommended Track: “The World Is on Fire” RIYL: Drive-By Truckers, Whiskeytown, Jason Isbell Pale Houses by Deanna Chapman The latest music from Pale Houses landed in my inbox and in typical fashion, it took me a while to get to it. Once I did, though, I was thoroughly impressed with the band’s sound. If you’re looking for new indie pop to listen to, these are your guys. Song of the Isolation is their new EP and all six songs keep you engaged with the music. I’ll be keeping an eye on this band going forward because they’re one of the pleasant surprises of 2018 for me. Recommended Track: “Tenderfoot” RIYL: Death Cab For Cutie, Bon Iver, Bleachers Wild Pink by Drew Beringer It’s only been a little over a year since Wild Pink released their criminally underrated Tiny Engines self-titled debut but that didn’t stop the New York City trio from expanding their introspective yet sensitive indie-rock sound on their upcoming second album, Yolk In The Fur, this July. The first single, “Lake Eerie,” leans even further into the spacious soundscapes created by lead person John Ross. Clocking in just over five minutes, it’s just a taste of the leap the band has made from album one into their sophomore effort. Let’s just all promise each other that Wild Pink dominates our speakers all summer into the fall. Recommended Track: “Lake Eerie” Spielbergs by Jason Tate Spielbergs released their debut EP, Distant Star, last week (April 27, 2018) and it is full of sing-a-long choruses that just beg to be shouted in sweaty nightclubs. They are a band and sound that feels almost instantly recognizable and familiar, but when performed with such gusto are still undeniably addicting. Recommended Track: “We Are All Going to Die” RIYL: The Japandroids, Latterman Nora Rothman by Anna Acosta It’s said that the simplest things in life can be the sweetest, and that ethos has never been embodied the way it is in singer-songwriter Nora Rothman. Embodied by a certain ethereal quality that’s difficult to fabricate, there is very little outside from a sweet, lilting vocal and a lightly plucked ukulele to distract from Rothman’s straightforward, heartfelt storytelling. And there’s nothing like taking one’s craft and applying it to a cause: this spring Rothman’s self-titled EP (released summer 2017) was remixed by five separate female producers (Birch, Ah-Mer-Ah-Su, QRTR, Suzi Analogue, and Libra Rising, respectively) and re-released via Electric Bird Records as a fundraising initiative for Planned Parenthood. Recommended Track: “Strange” RIYL: Phoebe Bridgers, Sufjan Stevens, Sarah McLachlan Middle Kids by Adam Grundy Middle Kids are not your average indie rock band. Typically a band with this type of following would have been expected to have played multiple shows before being noticed for a record contract. Not the case here, as this Australian 3-piece band released their first single in 2016 without having played a single show. Singer/songwriter Hannah Joy found limited success by self-releasing songs via Bandcamp, but she finally got her big break when Elton John endorsed Middle Kids. Their music can be best described as upbeat, classic sounding, pop-rock built for audiences as close knit as the club scene yet polished enough for arenas. Check out their debut LP Lost Friends on May 4th via Domino Records. Recommended Track: “Mistake” RIYL: Fleetwood Mac, Smallpools, Gang of Youths Hop Along by Mary Varvaris Hop Along is an American indie rock band from Philadelphia, PA. Their latest album Bark Your Head Off, Dog can be effectively summed up in its album opener “How Simple”. When I watch the music video, I’m unsure if Frances Quinlan is poking fun at herself while reflecting on the unpleasant things about falling in love: “how simple my heart can be frightens me” or if she mourns for relationships that don’t end up working: “don’t worry, we will both find out / just not together”. Quinlan’s lyrics are straightforward in their honesty here, but elsewhere, her lyrics fall in the abstract with religious imagery and references to World War I (see: “One That Suits Me”). Frances Quinlan’s voice is indescribable. She howls, croons, screams, and yelps, her voice cracks – she gives everything when she sings. Bark Your Head Off, Dog is full of wacky, memorable instrumentation – “Somewhere A Judge” is groovy, and Quinlan briefly uses a vocoder towards the end of the song. “The Fox In Motion” is full of unforgettable indie rock riffs. “Prior Things” is lead by optimistic, beautiful strings. There’s a harp and strings in the outstanding “Not Abel”. “Not Abel” starts as a fascinating little folk ballad, combining gentle picking on the acoustic guitar with a harp. “Not Abel” feels like a revelation. Quinlan references the story of Cain and Abel, and for the last minute and 36 seconds, “Not Abel” becomes an anthem. Before then, though, she channels her anger at the men who affected her self worth and confidence, contemplating how it’s “strange to be shaped by such strange men”. Bark Your Head Off, Dog is a refined and cohesive effort, taking all the elements of Hop Along’s previous album Painted Shut, and expands on them. Hop Along give every song room to breathe, and develop a warm, spacious atmosphere. The instrumentation is creative and experimental. Bark Your Head Off, Dog will end up being one of the best, most ambitious indie rock albums of the year. Recommended Track “How Simple” RIYL: Modest Mouse, Joanna Newsom Soccer Mommy by Jason Tate You can choose to get caught up on the band name if you want, but if you do, you’ll be missing out on one of the more exciting voices in music right now. Soccer Mommy is the brainchild of Sophie Allison and her latest studio album, Clean, was released earlier this year. The music has a breezy angst to it that walks between this folksy-grunge sound and soft acoustic ballads. It seems perfectly tailored to be performed in a bedroom alone, sung to a few empty beer cans and tired eyes, or belted on stage to a room that will soon be learning every word. Recommended Track: “Your Dog” RIYL: Alvvays, Anna Burch, Liz Phair Travis Meadows by Craig Manning Invoking the spirit of the great Bruce Springsteen has become an increasingly trendy thing for songwriters to do in the past decade. In songs by The Gaslight Anthem, Titus Andronicus, Eric Church, and more, Bruce has been elevated to the status of rock ‘n’ roll’s patron saint. Still, there might not be a song that captures what it’s like to hear a Springsteen song in the car on a weekend summer night better than “Pray for Jungleland.” The song, a core cut from Travis Meadows’ 2017 album First Cigarette, is a wistful look back at the days before iPods or Spotify (or car CD players, for that matter) where your only option was to wait around to hear your favorite song on the radio. Meadows takes that idea and turns it into a song that feels as alive and full of possibility as any summer evening you’ve ever witnessed. Elsewhere on the record, he takes you to the deepest depths of human regret and hopelessness, purging his own struggles with alcoholism in songs that hurt like bruises. Suffice to say there’s a lot of darkness in Meadows’ music. Songs like “Sideways” and “First Cigarette” feel like they exist on a brink, one step away from giving up or giving in. But it’s songs like “Pray for Jungleland” or “Pontiac” that make First Cigarette a masterpiece, because they shine a light through the darkness and make it shine. Recommended Track: “Pray for Jungleland” RIYL: Bruce Springsteen, Tom Waits, Eric Church We Were Sharks by Adam Grundy Victory Records’ latest prized possession is We Were Sharks, whose crunchy guitar riffs and New Found Glory-esque pop hooks have certainly gained listeners’ attention. This 6-piece post hardcore band from Ottawa, Canada are poised for a big 2018 with the release of Lost Touch (February 23, 2018), which happens to be their second album, and was produced by Silverstein guitarist, Paul Marc Rousseau. Recommended Track: “Hotel Beds” RIYL: A Day To Remember, Silverstein, Four Year Strong Author by Trevor Graham These Minnesota natives released a debut full length in 2015 that straight up stole my heart. Channelling the wintery ambience of indie darlings like Copeland, Of Brighter Days was the sound of a band exerting themselves on all fronts. The sense of melody, rhythm, instrumentation, lyricism — it was all there. Three years later, the band has released their new album, IIFOIIC — an acronym for the enthralling title track, “Is It Far Or Is It Close?”. The song, like many others in their discography, features haunting falsettos and soaring harmonies, glitchy electronic flourishes, trippy delayed guitar leads, and a powerhouse rhythm section. Their ability to bounce energy off of one another is unmatched in this scene, as they work like tiny parts of a well-oiled machine to push each other to the next level. At other points in the record, Author kick up the tempo to show off some of their most kaleidoscopic arrangements to date (looking at you, “Want”), where you may have trouble deciding whether to air drum or air guitar. Pro-tip: you’ll have time for the one you didn’t pick when you hit replay — you’ll want to hear that vocal hook again anyway. This is most certainly music made to soundtrack the leaves changing color, but don’t let that allow you to sleep on this fantastic band. Recommended Track: “Is It Far or Is It Close” RIYL: Copeland, From Indian Lakes, Valise, Mutemath The Night Game by Jason Tate Martin Johnson is an annoying good songwriter. Look, you can have your qualms with Boys Like Girls, but there’s no denying the earworms this asshole can write. His latest project has only released a handful of songs, but already they’ve run the gamut from 80’s nostalgia (“The Outfield”) to destined for pop radio (“Bad Girls Don’t Cry”). It’s nice to see Martin flex his songwriting chops and as he aims for a summer release with this project, I wouldn’t be surprised to see him once again with songs on the tips of everyone’s tongue. Recommended Track: “The Outfield” RIYL: The 1975, LANY I Don’t Know How but They Found Me by Adam Grundy This dynamic duo is comprised of ex-Panic! at the Disco bassist, Dallon Weekes and ex-Falling in Reverse drummer Ryan Seaman. These recent “cast offs” shouldn’t be written off yet as they plan to release an album filled with synth pop reminiscent of the 80’s. Recommended Track: “Choke” RIYL: Tears For Fears, Elvis Costello, Orgy Caitlyn Smith by Craig Manning If there were any justice, Caitlyn Smith would be the biggest star in modern country music. I don’t care whether you listen to country music or not: Smith’s debut album, this year’s Starfire, will knock you on your ass. The first time I heard her sing, it reminded me of the first time I heard Chris Stapleton. They both have these big, epic voices—voices so good you can’t believe they stayed secret for so long. It’s the kind of voice that can send shivers down your spine with a climactic key change (“Tacoma”) or leave your jaw on the floor with a theatrical torch song (“East Side Restaurant”). But Caitlyn Smith isn’t just The Voice-style good. On the contrary, she’s also a dynamite writer, someone who can silence a room with the sharpness of her pen just as much as she can with the hugeness of her voice. On “Scenes from a Corner Booth at Closing Time on a Tuesday,” she turns vignettes about nameless characters into a tongue-in-cheek treatise on modern loneliness, and on “This Town Is Killing Me,” she poignantly illustrates just how much it costs to chase a dream. If you listen to my recommendation once ever, make it this one. Recommended Track: “Tacoma” RIYL: Chris Stapleton, Maren Morris, Taylor Swift Part Two will be released tomorrow and a playlist of all the recommended songs will be coming on Friday. If you missed it last year, you can check out 2017’s feature here. --- Please consider supporting us so we can keep bringing you stories like this one. ◎ https://chorus.fm/features/in-the-spotlight-50-bands-you-need-to-hear-in-2018-part-one/

[qqueenofhades]

The Rose and Thorn: Chapter XVIII

summary:  Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter XVII

Emma woke with a start sometime in the small hours, gripped by a sudden need to make sure that Killian was still next to her. After the family moot had finally broken up quite late, they had gone upstairs, shut the door, and celebrated their reunion in a far more intimate way, repeatedly, and she was languorous and sated with sleep and sex, somewhat enjoyably sore – God, she was getting old. She fumbled across the covers in panic, until her fingers encountered the warm flesh of his left arm, the roughened end of it in place of a hand, and she surfaced enough to be aware of his comforting weight in the bed, dark-silver head sprawled in the pillow, breathing deep and slow. It was real, then. She hadn’t imagined it or dreamed it. He had come back to her.

Tears of relief stung her eyes, and she knuckled them away. She settled back down, not wanting to disturb him, but, sensitive to her as ever, he stirred. “Swan?”

“I’m. . .” Emma hesitated, then snuggled closer. “I’m sorry. I just needed to make sure you were still here.”

Killian made a soft sound half between a laugh and a sigh, pulling her against him and mouthing light kisses over her forehead and nose and cheek. “That I am, love. So far as I can tell.”

“I know,” Emma whispered, nuzzling her head against his shoulder and unable to resist one final, confirming poke that made him chuckle. He was thinner and more ragged and older-looking than when they had last seen each other, and he plainly had not had an overall good time of it, but at least he didn’t appear to have been outstandingly maltreated. Not that she had any warm sentiment toward the fiends responsible – the Lost Boys would have a great deal to reckon with if she ever caught up to them, no matter if Killian had already killed Rufio. Yet now, after the euphoria of reunion, the long talk with the family followed by the wild abandon of lovemaking, all had fled away to leave just them in the darkness, and the question she did not want to ask, but had to. “Are you still mad at me?”

“What?” Killian sounded startled. “For Charlestown?”

“I. . .. yes. Before you were abducted, we were fighting, and everything we said then. . ..” Emma paused. “And now we do know where Gold himself is, according to you, and we’re going to have to face that again. . . I was just wondering if you still felt that I’d done wrong.”

“Emma.” Killian shifted her on his chest, so he could look into her eyes. “I have thought of nothing but getting back to you ever since those juvenile snotrags grabbed me and dragged me aboard that dismal boat of theirs. Nothing else has mattered. And I. . . I didn’t appreciate it at the time, to be sure, but I’m not sure I would have gotten to face my brother otherwise. What happened between us, we. . . we needed it. And it’s making me realize how much I put aside, how much I took for granted I would do later, if I wanted, and never actually intended to. I was a selfish git, and perhaps this was the kick in the arse that I bloody needed.”

Emma didn’t answer at first, tidying a loose strand of hair out of his face. Then she said, “You’re right, though. I shouldn’t have gone off alone and tried to push everyone away, but with Charlestown. . . you know how that place is for everyone, it just made me. . . I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” Killian said gently. “I do, Emma. And I’m saying that between the two of us, I was the one who acted far more like an idiot, for a far longer time, and you can ask Regina if you don’t believe me. So I do accept your apology, love. But I hope as well that you – and Liam – can see your way to accepting mine.”

“I can’t speak for Liam, but I do.” Emma shifted, turned over, and settled against him, her back to his chest, as he rested his chin on her head. She pulled his arm over her, circling the stump with a finger, feeling his warm breath and the slow, comfortable thump of his heart, the slant of his legs tucked against hers – admiring how well they fit, even after close to a quarter-century of marriage. “I’m just glad you’re back. I – always thought you would, that we would see each other again, but I. . . I’m relieved anyway.”

“So am I.” Killian planted a light kiss on her ear. “But we’re not out of the woods. There’s everything you were telling me about Sam and whatever that rat bastard Da Souza did to him, there’s Geneva and Thomas off with Silver, there’s Gideon Murray and his Jacobite friends, there’s Billy and Lady Fiona hunting Skeleton Island, and there is, of course, Gold. Bloody hell, you think we throw dice to decide which one we handle first?”

“I don’t want to split up again if we can help it.” Emma was very devout on that point indeed. “We’ll have to talk with the others tomorrow, see if we can possibly work out something for tackling all this. Finding our children, or fighting our enemies. That seems to be our choice.”

Killian tugged her closer. “Hey, if we found each other again, I’m quite certain we can find them. They’re both clever and resourceful and too much like the rest of us for our peace of mind, unfortunately. For example, I’m quite sure that John Silver swiftly discovered he was biting off far more than he could chew, when he decided to tangle with Geneva.”

Emma laughed, somewhat painfully. “As am I. But I hope it wasn’t more than she could.”

There was a brief silence, both of them clearly trying not to worry themselves to distraction about Geneva and Sam, the creeping fears and the whispering phantoms harder to push away in the darkness. Then Emma said, “We should sleep. We need to think about this in the morning.”

“Aye.” Killian kissed the back of her neck. “It’s all right, love. I won’t go anywhere.”

Emma tightened her grip on his arm, closed her eyes, and while it took a few moments, managed to relax. Then, slowly, she swam once more into the dark depths of slumber, and for the rest of the night, did not dream at all.

The  next morning, they stirred soon after dawn, and despite the obvious urgency of getting up and attending to their manifold problems, could not resist one more round beneath the blankets, quick and intense, with a delightful furtiveness like secret lovers trying not to be caught in the barn. Emma’s breath hitched as Killian gripped her left hand fiercely, pushing it over her head into the pillows, bending her back like a bow as he thrust into her with a rasping, rough possessiveness. She ran her right hand down his side, caressing and clawing, meeting his need with her own, and bit hard on her lip rather than have anyone notice what they were up to (the walls were rather thin, but then, doubtless they had guessed anyway). When they were both spent, sweaty and flushed and panting, they lay there as if their spinal columns had been removed for several moments. Then Killian groaned, rolled out of her with decided reluctance, and pushed to his feet. “Well then. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Having gotten dressed, they made their way downstairs, still holding hands, to Charlie’s kitchen. David was the only one up, and greeted them with a warm smile. “Killian. It’s good to have you back with us again.”

“It is, yes.” Killian sat down at the table. “I think I’ve had enough sailing for a while, even for me, but I don’t doubt we’ll have more. You own a good bit of property and ships here, if we have to borrow one – ”

“You’ll have whatever you need,” David assured him. “And I don’t intend to charge you for it, either. Will your brother and his wife be returning to France? It’s late in the year for another sailing, and I imagine they’ve likewise had all they want, but – ”

“I don’t know.” Killian looked hesitant. “I don’t think so, but Liam did say he would go after Gold with me, and I can’t see him being content to just turn around, go home, and sit on his arse while the rest of us are in danger. We have quite a few reparations still to make, and I. . . I don’t think I want him to go either. So I shouldn’t think so.”

“Good,” David said. “I think that’s a good decision for both of you. But either way, we’re completely overstuffed here in one house, so I’ll track down one of my other properties to move a few of us into. Unless – ”

“I’m not sure any of us will be staying here much longer,” Emma interjected. “So the accommodations are most likely the least of our concerns. But thank you.”

“Of course.” David looked at her steadily. “You have a wonderful family, Emma.”

“I. . .” Something caught in her throat, but she nodded. “I know.”

They sat there for a short while longer until Charlie’s housekeeper appeared to prepare breakfast, followed by Flint and Miranda (also with the look of quiet contentment that made Emma think they had been doing some private making up of their own) and then Charlie, Liam, Regina, Henry, Violet, and the children. That made everyone, except for Charlotte, and Emma looked up in concern. “Did she not come back from Max’s last night? What if something happened to her in the streets? One of Da Souza’s men lying in wait to – ”

“Charlotte is a tremendously capable young woman,” Miranda said. “I am quite sure that nothing happened to her that she did not intend to happen.”

Emma glanced at her mother in surprise, but Miranda did not appear inclined to elaborate. Indeed, they were halfway through breakfast when there was a knock on the front door, footsteps in the hall, and Charlotte appeared in the kitchen, looking somewhat windswept and fresh-faced. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I hope I didn’t make you worry. It got quite late, and Max didn’t think it was wise for me to walk alone across the city at midnight. But I’m back, and – who are these?”

“This is Killian,” Emma said. “My husband. He made it here last night, with his brother Liam, and Liam’s wife, Regina. Killian, this is Charlotte Bell, Cecilia’s aunt. Her husband is Jack, the one who seems to be with Sam, so we’ve all ended up on the same adventure.”

“Mrs. Bell.” Killian got courteously to his feet and bowed over her hand. “I’ve heard you’re quite a good shot with a pistol, is that so?”

“Yes.” Charlotte looked pleased. “Are you the one that was kidnapped in Charlestown, then?”

“I was, yes,” Killian said wryly, “but through a complicated chain of events, very long story, I managed to escape and make it home. Now that we’re all around the table again, however, it seems like the time to discuss what in blazes we’re doing next.”

“Max had heard some sort of rumor,” Charlotte said. “About Gold. They thought he was in – Barbuda?”

“No,” Killian said. “Barbados. Regina and I found it in the Navy’s offices in London. He sailed to Bridgetown last year, aboard a ship captained by an M. Rogers of Bristol. No sure chance he’s still there, but he always liked to have a lair. We’re guessing he is.”

Liam looked at him askance. “You and Regina just. . . walked into Whitehall?”

“Yes,” Regina said, somewhat defiantly. “We were looking for you, and since a few officers still remembered me from Antigua, it worked rather well.”

Liam looked as if he was trying to picture this, and being somewhat sad he’d missed it, even as he nonetheless had his own opinions on the advisability of strolling straight into the Admiralty, especially given the circumstances in which the Jones brothers had resigned (rather spectacularly, in Killian’s case) from the Royal Navy. “Well then. Moving on. As I said, Billy and Lady Fiona are also sailing for Barbados. That seems to be the place in which we have the best chance of catching the most of our enemies together.”

“Indeed,” Flint said. “And this time, I’ll be sure to fucking kill Billy Bones properly.”

“As long as you realize,” Miranda pointed out, “that he will be set on doing the same to you?”

Flint shrugged that off. “I’ve known that since we first got word that the big blonde bastard had resurfaced, from whatever shithole he’s been squirreled down for the last twenty years.”

Emma was quiet. She and Billy had, of course, been friends once, and she still wanted to think that if they came face to face, he would not be able to kill her out of hand. He had tried to make her safety a condition of his bargain with Woodes Rogers, to betray the pirates and lead the Navy to Skeleton Island after the Walrus, but she had rejected it then, and spent years living as family with Billy’s mortal enemy. She knew very well that it might be necessary to kill him to save that family, but she didn’t want to think about it.

“Jenny and Thomas are still off on whatever plan of John Silver’s to follow Billy,” Miranda said, picking up on Emma’s own thoughts. “They’re likely to return here at some point. Even if some of us go to Barbados, the others should stay behind to run interference.”

Flint looked as if this was a job which, even with Thomas’ welfare at stake, he would not be caught dead doing, not if it entailed a reunion with Silver. “I nominate Nolan,” he said. “He’s the one who owns Nassau now, as I have not ceased to be reminded, and has the most connections. Not suspicious at all for him to stay here, and he can also keep an eye on Henry, Violet, and the children. Charlie can help him, make up for his bungling in letting Jenny and Thomas go in the first place. The rest of us go to Barbados.”

Everyone was forced to admit that this was, even and especially for Flint, a sensible plan. Sending Killian, Emma, Flint, Miranda, Liam, Regina, and Charlotte after Gold, while leaving David, Henry, Violet, Charlie, and the children on Nassau, bisected their forces fairly evenly, and applied their strengths in the correct directions. Flint had clearly given up on trying to convince Miranda to stay behind in a less dangerous spot, and did not want to be parted from her anyway. Besides, all “less dangerous” spots were relative, with one’s safety not particularly assured over another, yet nonetheless, matching six senior citizens, plus Charlotte, against Gold was not a terribly wise idea. “We need help,” Flint said. “We need to let me recruit a crew.”

“We could ask Nemo,” Liam suggested. “He did say he was willing to – ”

Flint tensed. “Nemo?”

“Yes.” Liam looked at him, confused. “The one who brought me, Killian, and Regina back here. I suppose you didn’t see him last night, but – ?”

“He’s the one who pulled you off Skeleton Island, all those years ago,” Killian said. “He told me.”

“That was him?” Miranda looked startled. “James did mention a man named Nemo, to Thomas and I, but – I didn’t realize it was that same one in Nassau now.”

“There can’t be many men named Nemo who sail ships called the Nautilus, and he remembered you.” Killian looked at his father-in-law with a quizzical expression. “Mate, I don’t think he’s interested in wringing you for the whereabouts of the island – he’d have done that long ago, if so. And since he’s now saved your arse and ours, it might be a bit presumptuous to ask him for another favor. But it’s still safer than trying to raise a crew.”

Flint looked as if it was not Nemo’s potential interest in the whereabouts of Skeleton Island that concerned him, but did not, as usual, want to talk about his feelings. Instead he said, “What about Sam? Are we planning to pick him up on the way? Da Souza said he threw him into the sea near St. Kitts – that’s between here and Barbados, but it’s not likely he’s still drifting somewhere.”

“Of course we want to find him,” Emma said. “And it’s not out of the question, if he’s already in some sort of trouble in that direction, that Gold sniffed him out and scooped him up. You know what a prize he would regard that as.”

“If Gold – ” Flint rose half to his feet, making the plates and teacups rattle. “If that bastard did anything to Sam, I swear – ”

“We will both skin him slowly,” Killian said grimly. “You have my word on that. If by some miracle, Gold’s been able to resist adding to his crimes – well then, we can think of something else. But if he’s taken it out on Sam, all bets are off.”

Nobody had anything to say to this, even as Emma prayed more than ever that it would not be needed. She thought of something that Sam senior had said to her many years ago, that he would rather be hurt himself than watch her and Killian be tortured, and as a mother, she had always intuitively known the truth of it. She could stand Gold hurting her, if she had to – him, or any other malfeasants who might cross their path and mean them ill. But she could not bear to see him replay his campaign of destruction over Killian, or even worse, over the younger Jones, recreating every element that had led to his father’s fall. No, not Sam, not my sweet, brave, gentle boy, you can’t touch him, you can’t do that to him. Fruitlessly, she thought of Gideon Murray, back in Charlestown, and his avowed hatred of his sire. Was even Gold such a monster as to remain unmoved when confronted with his flesh and blood, his lost child? They had thought of the possibility before, but there was small chance now of popping back to the Carolinas and bringing Gideon along as a nasty surprise for his father. What with that bloodline, it would be far more trouble than it was worth.

“Sam?” Liam said, startling her from her reverie. “This would be my other nephew?”

“Aye.” Emma recalled that he and Regina had never met the youngest Swan-Jones child. “He’s an absolutely lovely lad, but he does have. . . a bit of a knack for trouble.”

“No idea where he could have gotten that,” Liam said wryly. “Well then, if nobody has any alternatives to Captain Flint’s plan, I say we put it to a vote. All in favor?”

There was a pause, and then the adults more or less raised their hands in unison, some looking more keen on it than others. After all, some of them did need to stay in Nassau, and some of them did need to go to Barbados, and the delegations that Flint had proposed for each were sensible, but it was still another separation, another hazardous undertaking, with no certain victory. It was well along in fall by now, and there would be squalid winter weather to reckon with, on top of everything else. A voyage south to Bridgetown was not the longest or most unfamiliar in the world, but it was still over a thousand miles, and a confrontation with their oldest enemy awaited even if they did get there in a timely fashion. For all that they spoke of “handling” Gold as if he was a distant and mildly embarrassing relative, all of them knew better than to underestimate him. His minions had made damn near successful attempts at killing them twice already, and the danger would only increase the closer they came to the man himself. This might be the choice they had to make, to account for Thomas, Geneva, and Sam the best they could, but it was still a hard one to swallow.

Silence, until a voice said from the door, “Aunt Charlotte? Are you going to find Uncle Jack?”

Charlotte turned in her chair to smile reassuringly at her young niece, who was peering into the room anxiously. “Yes, sweetheart, I think so. You’ll be staying here with Mr. and Mrs. Swan and Richard and Lucy, isn’t that nice? You’ll have plenty of time to play.”

Cecilia considered this, then nodded bravely, scampering off as if aware she was not supposed to be listening in on the adults. Flint watched her go with sharp curiosity. “From what I can gather of your husband, he’s not much the fatherly sort. He doesn’t mind her, then?”

“He likes her,” Charlotte said defensively. “Why all this interest in Jack, anyway?”

“Well, for one, he appears to be with my grandson – and according to that fucking wretch Da Souza, may be the only thing that saved him from a watery fate. And he’s a Spanish spy, there’s that small detail. But what you called him – Black Jack. Given as we are on Nassau, I feel it only fair to ask. That, to say the least, is a rather pirate-sounding moniker. Is there some other association of his that we should know about?”

Charlotte hesitated. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

“I don’t think it was.”

“James.” Miranda put a hand on his arm. “If you recall, Charlotte has explained herself to my satisfaction. What with everything else, I don’t think we need to resume the interrogation.”

Flint, as if deciding that they had just made up and he did not want to be at odds with her so soon again, paused, then nodded. But the look in his eyes as they remained on Charlotte was not angry or suspicious, it was sad. Until Emma thought suddenly that he was not trying to sniff out a potential rival in order to destroy them, but rather that he had grasped onto some faint, wild, impossible idea, and could not, however much he wanted, dismiss it out of hand. After all. . . the use of “Black” before one’s first name, and a surname that started with Bell. . . it called to mind the man that all of them had had ever more to reckon with, their vanished love, even as they were finally coming to terms with the fact that he was gone, and they must let go. But that was just a strange coincidence, unsettling but immaterial. Sam’s son with his Cape Cod lover, Mariah Hallett, had died at birth, the reason he had gone back to try to plead her forgiveness, and sailed into the storm where he met his fate. They could not return to grasping at straws now.

The next order of business was to find a ship. Despite Flint’s unenthusiastic response to the proposal, there was no harm in seeing if Nemo was willing to take them the rest of the way to Barbados, even if he might then justly decide that he and his crew wanted nothing to do with Gold. So Emma, Killian, and Liam went to the docks to see if they could track down some of his men, as the Nautilus was still anchored outside the harbor. It took a while, but they managed, and the sailors took them to the lodging house where Nemo was staying. “I would be happy to take you to Bridgetown,” he said, upon hearing their updates. “And if it comes to it, any man of mine who agrees is welcome to back you in a confrontation with Gold, but I will not force it upon anyone who is unwilling.”

“Neither would we,” Killian said. “The man’s a bloody demon, we won’t blame anyone who’d rather not come to grips with him. I don’t think it’s a wise idea to take a whole army, as that’s a good way to be spotted in a hurry, and I am sure he’s well fortified the place against any potential invasion. The smaller the group, the better, but as it will be me, Emma, Liam, Regina, and my father-in-law, with my mother-in-law traveling with us but not along for the actual fight, and with all of us considerably over fifty, we could use some fresh blood. Charlotte Bell will be with us, but she likely doesn’t want to be the sole caretaker of the feeble elderly folk.”

“Indeed,” Nemo agreed, with a wry smile. “As I said, any man of mine who agrees to help is yours, so that should not be a problem. We could use a few days to resupply and recollect ourselves, but we should be able to depart by the end of the week. And your father-in-law – that would be Captain Flint, would it not?”

“Aye. He. . . doesn’t seem terribly chuffed about sailing with you, to be honest.”

“I imagine,” Nemo said, “that he fears what I might tell you of Skeleton Island, of what he said to me then, of the man he was when I took him to Philadelphia. He need not. As I said to you back in London, I remember nothing particularly enlightening, and even if I did, I would not share it without his consent – which, I sense, I would wait a long time for him to grant. At any rate, he will not have to endure me long. I had other business in the Caribbean that I meant to see done, you will recall, and while of course I do not wish to strand you on Barbados at Gold’s mercy, would you take it terribly amiss if I set you down there, and then returned in due time, assuming you could not arrange other passage, to pick you up again?”

“No, of course not. You’re doing us another bloody favor as it is, as I said – we won’t look down our noses at you for seeing to your own interests. If you don’t mind me asking, what is it? We used to know the Caribbean quite well in our day, if we could offer anything in return for what you’ve given us – ”

Nemo considered briefly. Then he said, “My business is with a certain vodou priest, a man named Merlin, and a pair of Maroon chieftains, Ursula and Lancelot. They periodically assist me with information about where I might find men for my crew, men who need to be freed from their chains. I expect this is something you can underst – ah. You know them?”

“We – we do, yes,” Emma said, blinking. “From a long time ago.” She remembered Merlin, the oddly ageless-looking houngan of the Maroons’ island where she and Miranda had taken refuge, and surely Liam did as well, since Ursula, then just a young girl and the daughter of the chief, had helped nurse him back to health after he was stabbed by his half-brother. Merlin had given her foreboding prophecies of the fall of Nassau and the arrival of Woodes Rogers, warned her that everyone she loved would die, and Emma felt a faint, unaccountable chill at the memory. As for Lancelot, he and Killian knew each other quite well, as Killian had saved his life back on Jamaica, Lancelot had later returned the favor with Liam, and sailed with his men on the Jolie Rouge, as well as fighting with them throughout the pirates’ war. Ursula, however, might be a less pleasant reunion. She had ordered Killian off the island for his dishonorable treatment of her, and as far as Emma recalled, had not seemed inclined to forgive him.

Still, though. They had Gold to reckon with, and it was Nemo who would be venturing off to find the Maroons, not them. It was oddly comforting to hear that their old allies were still alive and kicking, and Emma nodded firmly. “Very well. Let us know when you’re ready to go. Not to rush you, but we. . .” She trailed off, thinking of Sam. “We can’t afford to wait much longer.”

“I understand,” Nemo said. “It will be as soon as we can possibly manage it, you may be assured. We will do this, Mrs. Jones. No matter what.”

“I hope so,” Emma said softly. “I do certainly hope so.”

As the gun went off, with a kick and a boom and short, sharp explosion of fire from the muzzle, time seemed to slow, strange and stretched and distorted, until it seemed impossible that it should still be happening, that Geneva would never do anything in her life but watch it happen. She could almost see the trajectory of the ball as it left Israel Hands’ pistol, see it tearing toward the capstan and the barrel of powder that must be waiting there to blow the entire Rose sky-high. Knew then that she had to jump in front of it, that indeed she should already have started to do so if she wanted any hope of stopping it, and yet her feet were not cooperating. She took half a stumbling step, pushed off, and started to leap – and then was knocked violently sideways by something, ended up face-down on the deck with reality snapped back to full speed, and nothing, anywhere, but shouting.

Geneva began to panic, twisting and kicking to get free, as whoever had tackled her out of the bullet’s path struggled to hold her. The Rose had not yet blown up, so it must not have hit, but – it could be a misfire, it could not have penetrated deep enough, Hands could be reloading even now, someone else could have been hit, something could have –

She rolled over, jammed her knee up hard, heard a grunt of pain, and realized that the person who had tackled her was Silver. There was a look of desperate fear on his face that she had never imagined, and he only half seemed to see her. Yet there was also a terrible commotion going on behind them, and after their eyes locked for a jolting instant more, Geneva recovered herself and pushed him off, springing to her feet. She glanced wildly from side to side: in one direction, someone was slumped in front of the capstan, and in the other, Jim had charged Hands personally, and was now battling to contain him with the help of Thomas and one of the brawnier crewmen. Hands was fighting like the madman he was, but Thomas, likewise with a look Geneva had scarcely imagined from him, something hard and hot and violent, swung back a fist and hit him in the face with the sound of crunching cartilage. “Stay down.”

Hands spat blood as Jim wrestled the empty pistol out of his grip and kicked it away across the deck, then divested him of the several more loaded ones that had been strapped at various locations on his person. Geneva stared between them, then remembered that someone had been shot, and experienced a terrible fear that it was Madi. She whirled away from the hand Silver was trying to put to her elbow, ran back to the capstan, and –

It was not Madi. It was Eleanor. She half-sat, half-sprawled against the wood, hand pressed to the scarlet hole ripped low in her left side, staring with an expression of disbelief at the blood leaking through her fingers. By the looks of things, she had made a last-second leap between Hands and the gunpowder, perhaps realizing for bloody once what a misjudgment she had made in trusting a dangerous man and arrantly taking for granted her own ability to control him. Eleanor was not a martyr, Geneva had known that from the first. She must have just meant to stop the Rose from being blown up, to preserve her chances of reaching her son, but. . .

Geneva paused, staring at the older woman, as Eleanor’s eyes met hers in a look of silent, desperate appeal. Then she bent down, awkwardly slid her arms behind Eleanor’s back and knees, and hauled her upright. Awkwardly balancing her, grateful for all the ropes and barrels she had hauled, Geneva carried her across the deck, Eleanor’s torn skirts trailing, and kicked the cabin door open. Aside from serving as first mate, Mr. Arrow had also been the Rose’s surgeon, and they had nobody left of remotely comparable skill. It would have to be her, Geneva realized. She knew the basic idea of it, but this – and for a woman who had sold them out to Hands, had sold her family out to Gold, betrayed everyone who ever cared for her –

For a brief moment, Geneva supposed that she would be completely justified in standing here and watching Eleanor die slowly. Wounds to the abdomen were often a death sentence even with attempted care; they festered and lingered and worsened inexorably, brutish and protracted. She didn’t think the shot had hit the bowels, but she would have to look, and even if she managed to get the bullet out and stop a preliminary infection from setting in, they still had at least another fortnight at sea before they reached any sort of land. Bermuda was the closest, as they had stopped over on the way out from Nassau, but even if they dropped Eleanor off for care – even if Geneva did her best now, it still could be all for –

Eleanor looked up at her, eyes blank with terror, and Geneva realized that Eleanor knew exactly what she was thinking –  that she was debating whether to let her live, or perhaps whether to fetch one more pistol and make a clean end of it. She reached out, clawing at Geneva’s skirt, staining it with blood. “Please,” she choked. “Please help me.”

Geneva remained immobile an instant longer, then whirled away. Tied up her loose hair in a knot, splashed her hands in the wash-basin, and fetched Mr. Arrow’s old surgical chest from the trunk. Most at-sea medicine was of the quick and gory sort anyway, the amputation of a shattered limb or the stitching of some wound from a gun or broken spar, and she had certainly assisted at these, shoved the leather strap between a man’s teeth, told him to bite, and held him down through the awful grates of the bone saw. Mercifully few, but at least she wasn’t going to swoon at the sight. She uncorked a brandy bottle, wiped the wicked-looking shears with them, and cut away Eleanor’s dress and corset, revealing the mangled mess of her lower ribs where the round had struck. She had to get it out, or it would putrefy and burrow deeper and tear apart more of Eleanor’s innards. Jesus. There was a lot of blood.

Taking a deep breath, Geneva removed the fine-nosed forceps, and likewise washed them in brandy. She was just thinking sorely of the need for a pair of extra hands when the cabin door opened again. “Jenny? Jenny!”

“I’m a little busy, Uncle Thomas.” Her voice sounded strange, thin, detached. “Can it wait?”

Thomas evidently saw what she was doing, as she heard another sharply indrawn breath, but he did not miss a beat. “Silver and Jim are dragging Hands to the brig,” he said crisply. “And I sent men down to the hold to sweep it thoroughly, as well as check the capstan. We should be safe enough, for now.”

“Thank you.” Geneva gestured to him with her chin. “Hold her down, please.”

Thomas strode over without delay, taking up a position at the head of the bed and gripping Eleanor’s forearms with both hands, pinning her firmly in place. Geneva dipped up another bowl of water, pulled some punctured whalebone from Eleanor’s corset out of the way, and began to excavate for the bullet, prodding gingerly with the forceps to further gushes of blood. Eleanor was clearly doing her best to suffer stoically, but she finally screamed, a horrible, choked, gulping sound, as cold sweat dewed on her forehead. “Light,” Geneva ordered tersely. “I need more light.”

Thomas managed to strike a one-handed spark against the corner of the desk, dropping it in the wick of the oil lamp and moving it for Geneva to see what she was doing. Finally, she glimpsed the dark, blood-wet curve of the ball, embedded fairly deeply in tissue, and had to use the knife to help cut it free. She gripped it and eased it loose, Eleanor uttering a repetitive, stabbing whimper every time she tugged, until it finally came free. She dropped it in the bowl, a fine tremor running through her hands, and tried to think how to possibly stanch the bleeding. It was impossible to stitch, and all but inviting corruption. It was plain that Eleanor could not be moved, or exiled to one of the crew’s berths below, and that Geneva would have to devote a good chunk of further time to her care. For better or worse, for whatever motives, whether intentionally or by accident, Eleanor had saved them all from being blown up by Hands, even if she had been the one to partner with him and help bring him aboard in the first place. She might well still die, but at least not if Geneva could do a damn thing about it.

After a pause, she went back to Mr. Arrow’s surgical chest, pulled out the wads of cotton wool, and remembered that ideally you were supposed to boil them, but she did not have time, or a cookfire, near at hand. Instead, Geneva carefully pulled together the wound as best she could, then began to pack it with the wool, pressing down hard, even as each layer kept soaking up red. Eleanor’s eyes were showing their whites, and the bedclothes where she lay were sodden as well; her pulse was fast and shallow. Thomas snagged the brandy bottle and administered her a few swallows as makeshift pain medicine, with a sort of casual dexterity that made Geneva realize he had done this before, and often. Thought again of the years he had spent apart from Grandpa and Granny, and how he had said that they did not need to know it all, just as he felt no entitlement to demand every part of their lives. That, however, would have to wait.

At last, with their combined efforts, they got the bleeding slowed to an oozing, angry trickle beneath the pads and pads of soaked gauze, and carefully replaced them with some fresh ones, wrapping Eleanor’s torso about and about with bands of torn linen. Thomas held them in place while Geneva pulled the knots tight, and then, finally, she laid Eleanor back against the thin pillows, feeling absurdly guilty that this was such a poor hospital. Thomas gave her another swallow of brandy, and Eleanor’s eyelashes fluttered as she shivered uncontrollably, teeth chattering, blue veins showing beneath her skin. “I’m c-c-c-cold.”

Geneva went and fetched the other quilt from the trunk, draping it over her. “You can’t move. That will open again at any exertion. I’ll clean it and do my best for it, but I. . .” She hesitated. Eleanor wasn’t a fool, she knew it was bad. “I can’t promise anything.”

Eleanor paused, then nodded once. She was barely at the threshold of consciousness anyway, and with the hellish procedure done, clearly saw no reason to cling on in pain and blood. Her head dropped back, and she passed out as if struck with a rock.

Geneva and Thomas stood side by side, breathing hard, regarding their patient. It was the most time they had spent together since their fight – if fight was even the word for it, just Thomas’ disappointment and anger – in Bristol, and neither of them said anything for a long moment. Geneva braced herself for her uncle to ask why she had not told them about Hands and Eleanor, why she had nearly risked getting the Rose blown up, all the other mistakes she had made. She supposed it was his right, but she felt as if she might crack if he did, and did not want to cry. Not yet. There was still that monstrous lie that Silver had told Jim about Daddy, and – and – so much. So much. It pulled at her like an endless dark sea, threatening to close over her head no matter how much she struggled, the way a drowning man drowned faster when he knew that he was and his body tried to force him to breathe, and took in only water. Jesus Christ, she was so exhausted.

Thomas, however, did not rebuke her. Instead, he bent to rinse his bloody hands in the bowl, still with an intent, inward expression that made Geneva think that he was recalling some less-than-pleasant memories of his own. Finally, she said in a small voice, “You were good at that. And – and with stopping Hands. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Thomas did not look up, scrubbing methodically between each of his fingers as if determined to get more than Eleanor’s blood off him. “I – used to assist with such things. At the plantation. The men were all highborn, embarrassments to their families in one sense or another. Many like mine, incidentally, though not all. At any rate, none of them were accustomed to manual labor. Many of them had never lifted a finger for themselves in their lives, always had servants to do it for them. When they were stripped of all such comforts and expected to work the land, that resulted, at times, in rather gruesome accidents, and there was a need for a man to help the surgeon. I – well, I found myself in the role.”

Geneva nodded wordlessly. She could well imagine that her uncle, who cared so deeply for people, who would have felt with every breath the injustice that had led their families to reject them and pack them off to the middle of nowhere, would have been drawn, indeed bound and determined, to alleviate his fellows’ suffering how he could. It made her heart hurt that this was how Thomas Hamilton had had to cling to his goodness through those years in the wilderness, that he had only been in Georgia and James and Miranda in Nassau, so close and never knowing. She did not want to ask if he had ever heard of the exploits of the dread pirate Captain Flint, for that seemed too cruel to be borne. Besides, she sensed that Thomas’ preoccupation just now did not have to do with Grandpa. Finally, she ventured, “Did something. . .?”

Thomas smiled, very faintly. “There was a man a few years younger than me,” he said after a pause, “and disgraced for similar offenses. We arrived around the same time, and as people in desperate circumstances do, we grew close. His name was Alexander Gordon MacKenzie, of Edinburgh. I at least had the experience of Bethlem Royal Hospital to prepare me for what I was going to face – indeed, by comparison, the plantation was a great relief. He had less, and suffered more. I protected him, as best I could. We – I suppose we loved each other, for a little while. He had the most delightful wit, turn of phrase, gentle humor, when it could be coaxed out of him, from the wrack and wear and madness that the world had dealt him.”

Geneva could hear the pain in Thomas’ voice, his struggle to speak of this even now, and knew better than to ask if he had ever mentioned Alexander to James and Miranda, if this had been another of the ghosts that he, like they, had quietly put aside in the terrible joy and terrible agony of their reunion, all these years later. Left behind with the pieces of the old self, in the past, and yet still mourned. Softly she said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Aye, well.” Thomas drew an unsteady breath. “One day, in the fields, he cut himself badly with a threshing knife – an accident, or so they said. Given as he was a soldier in his previous life, I doubt very much that he should suddenly be unfamiliar with a large blade. They brought him to the surgeon’s, and I, of course, was there to assist. I held Alexander’s hand, and watched him bleed, and when the surgeon tried to give him brandy for the pain, he spat it out. We patched him up much as you and I did for Mrs. Rogers, just now. I told the surgeon that I would stay with him, and so he left. When the man was gone, Alexander told me to take off his bandages, kiss him, and sit with him until I should prod him with a knife, and make sure he was dead. If he screamed, he told me, I would know that he was bound for hell, as the Scriptures said, for loving another man. If he did not, if he should die with a smile, then I should know he saw the gates of heaven before him, and I should feel no shame.”

Thomas’ voice caught, ever so slightly, and he had to turn away. Finally he said, “So I did. I took off the bandages, and kissed him, and held his hand. I was terrified, I confess, that he would scream in torment, and that I would know I had done a terrible wrong – to him, to myself, to James, to everyone else I had loved. Not to Miranda, true, but then, nothing could ever dishonor her. But he did not. He never did. I have never seen a man die in such profound relief, and with his eyes reflecting some light far beyond that rude little hut. He looked over my shoulder in such humble awe and delight, and I wonder still if he saw Christ Himself coming to take him up into his arms. Then I saw him go, so quietly, the very moment. I did not need to prod him with a knife or anything else of the sort. I knew.”

Geneva reached for his hand, and Thomas held it tightly. Again it was several moments until he could complete his story. “They came in later, and found me with his body, his bandages off, and it plain that I had done it. They asked why I had not called for a priest if I knew him to be dying, that I had placed his soul in peril of hellfire if I had not allowed him to confess and be cleansed, that I had even helped him along the road. It was, they said, as if I had murdered him myself. After that, I was no longer allowed to assist the surgeon. I went back to the fields.”

“Uncle Thomas. . .” Anything Geneva could say felt hollow, just as when she had heard Madi’s story of losing her son. Part of her did not want to know these soul-deep scars of her elders, since learning them illicitly was what had made Thomas angry with her in the first place, but that was only since she could not imagine bearing such pain herself, and remaining sane. Retaining any scrap of herself, of continuing somehow onward, and not wanting ever to know, in such fashion, if she had enough strength to do it. She now knew why Thomas did not, could not, grudge Sam Bellamy to James and Miranda, or any of the other ghosts. Any of the others they had known, and loved, and lost, in the long years thinking the others dead. “Uncle Thomas, I’m so sorry.”

He smiled at her, eyes still a thousand miles away, and patted her hand. “I’m sorry too, Jenny,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry too. But it’s all right. Alexander is in heaven, I have never known anything so strongly as I know that, and I knew then that I had not been wrong. To believe as I had, to act as I did, to love as I had, and always would. And so, I found the strength to carry on.”

“I shouldn’t,” Geneva said. “I shouldn’t have sailed into the storm, I shouldn’t have spied on you and Silver, I shouldn’t have made such a mess with Hands, I shouldn’t have – ”

Thomas leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Te absolvo,” he said, very quietly. “If you will forgive me the bit of Popery. Alexander was a Catholic, you see, and it rather comes to mind.”

Geneva nodded, silent tears slipping down her cheeks, and Thomas offered her his handkerchief. He put his arm lightly around her shoulders, the Rose creaking reassuringly beneath them as they kept on sailing into the night, whole and intact. She allowed herself to shake for a few moments more, then pulled herself together and got to her feet. “I need to talk to Silver.”

Thomas paused, then nodded. “Very well. I’ll stay here with Mrs. Rogers.”

Geneva kissed his cheek, then got to her feet, hair coming down in tangles from its slapdash knot and blood drying brown on her skirts as she crossed the cabin and pushed out into the night. The crewmen had managed to mostly clean up the scene on deck, and Madi was still standing by the capstan, shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. Geneva could not help but wonder if Madi thought that of course, one more time, Eleanor had elbowed her aside for her own needs. She paused. “Madi? We can find you a bed, we – ”

“Thank you,” Madi said, not looking around. “I will find my own. You have other matters to attend to, Captain. Do not trouble about me.”

Geneva winced, sensing her dismissal, and decided to take it. She climbed onto the ladder and down toward the brig, which was not much more than a barred privy shaft crammed against the fore hold. Silver and Jim were standing in front of it, not looking at each other or speaking, both of them keeping baleful eyes on the rattling and clanking from within. Israel Hands, by the sounds of things, was not disposed to take his imprisonment quietly.

Geneva could not help glancing nervously at it, even though she knew he couldn’t get out. She and Jim stared at each other for an excruciatingly uncomfortable moment. Then she cleared her throat. “Could I – could I borrow Mr. Silver, please?”

Jim grunted, as if to say he couldn’t stop either of them from whatever it should damn well please them to do. He remained where he was, plainly intending to continue standing guard, and this was not a conversation that Geneva wanted to have with an audience. She beckoned Silver off down the gantry, for as much privacy as anyone could ever have on a sixth-rater. The ensuing silence was even more hideous. Then Geneva said, “I must ask this only once, and you must answer truthfully. Did you have anything to do with smuggling Eleanor and Hands onto the ship behind my back?”

“No.” Silver threw his shoulders back and regarded her coolly. “Did you think I did?”

“No,” Geneva allowed. “But I had to be sure. Besides, that is not what you have to answer for. Thank you for saving my life, by the way. But if that bullet had struck the capstan and Hands’ firetrap there, we all would have – ”

“And was it better that it should strike you?” Silver’s blue eyes were both angry and pleading. “Allow yourself to be shot by the madman, in some damaged atonement for your own mistakes? Believe me, I know something about those. But you are, if nothing else, the captain of this vessel, and therefore, you are slightly less replaceable than the others. Besides, I dealt with your parents long enough to anticipate that some unwise self-sacrificial streak might appear at a moment like this. And so – ”

“Yes,” Geneva said, not quite as coolly as she wanted. “My parents. Do you care to tell me, perhaps, why you told Jim that my father killed his, and for what purpose?”

Silver grimaced. For a moment she thought he would try to run, and resolved to kick his false leg out from under him and beat him over the head with it if he did. Then he said, “I told Jim to stop him from going down to the hold, after I met Eleanor and she warned me that there was something dangerous down there – which, as we have all learned most spectacularly, was our friend Israel Hands. As for what I told him, it is because. . .” He hesitated. “Geneva, your father did kill James Hawkins senior. I was not lying. I know you don’t want to hear that, but – ”

Geneva reared back as if he had slapped her. “How would you know that?”

“I was there in Nassau at the time. So were you, in fact, but still some months from being born.”

“So you told Jim that my uncle Liam didn’t kill his father, because – ”

“Because it wasn’t what happened!” At last, Silver sounded frustrated, balling his fist and hitting the bulkhead wall with a thunk. “Your uncle didn’t, but – ”

“So what, hold back the real information until you could most profitably use it?” Geneva’s own tone was becoming more heated. “When were you planning to turn Jim on me, exactly? And I still don’t believe that Daddy even did it, he and Mr. Hawkins were friends, they were friends, Hawkins was the purser on the Imperator, why would he – ”

“Your father was Captain Hook, Geneva.” Silver modulated his tone with an effort, and looked at her straight. “You know the stories, but the reality is. . . different. You know that he sacked Antigua and Jamaica, you know he killed men – many of them, in fact. Yet all of those were faceless, abstract, and doubtless you half-felt, as he did, that they deserved it anyway for daring to side with Robert Gold and the British crown. But to know that your father looked into the eyes of a man he held a dear friend, wished with all his heart it had not come to this, and destroyed him nonetheless – that is no easy thing to reckon with.”

“And what? You’re judging him for that?”

“Me?” Silver laughed, unfathomably bitterly. “When I did the exact same thing? Jesus Christ, no.”

“Oh?” Geneva lifted her chin. “Whatever you did to Grandpa on Skeleton Island, you mean?”

“Yes.” Silver’s hand opened and closed on the wall. “Yes, I do mean what I did to your grandfather on Skeleton Island. Now that that is clear, may we proceed?”

“But – ” Geneva faltered. “You didn’t kill him – so it can’t – ”

“Believe me,” Silver said, “I killed Captain Flint. And to know that James McGraw made it off eventually, that he reunited with his great loves, that he has had a long and happy life with his family – yes, I tell myself that it was all to the good in the end, and that he must have seen it my way, and even have ventured at forgiving me. Then I remember that man forgave no one, and never did, and that he must still hold the bitterest loathing in his heart deep down, that he feels it stab again when he thinks of me. Over and over, for twenty-five years. And then you and Thomas appeared, like something out of a dream, like something from a nightmare. Do not expect me to stand aside and watch you be shot. Do not.”

Despite herself, Geneva flinched at the rawness in his voice, the burn of tears in his weathered eyes, as he realized he was saying too much, baring too many wounds, and shut his mouth with a click, turning away. The horrendous silence returned. Then she said, “If Daddy – if he did kill Hawkins – why didn’t he just – why didn’t you just – ”

“I was not trying to hurt Jim,” Silver said, half to himself. “Or turn him against you. I swear.”

Geneva considered grimly that if Jim did end up turned against her, she did not have the luxury of only blaming Silver, easy and convenient as it was. Would have to face her own choices, if she likewise wanted to stand aside and watch it happen, or try to avert it now before it went past the point of no return. “Even if so – what would be enough, what would make Daddy turn on a friend like that – if he – ”

“As I understand it,” Silver said, “Hawkins wished to hand Sam Bellamy over to the Royal Navy, in exchange for the possibility of a pardon and restoration to service of the Imperator’s men who had followed your father into piracy. In hopes of preserving this chance, he had also led those men into mutiny. Your father himself was. . . not amenable to the idea.”

“Daddy had known Hawkins for years. He had only known Bellamy for – what, a few months?”

“Your parents loved him.” Silver’s voice was very quiet. “So did your grandparents. It was something he inspired easily. The time of it mattered little, but – ”

Geneva did not answer. She felt as if her heart was falling out of her foot. She had always been so adoring of her father, never given much real thought to the darkness of his past, had felt – exactly as Silver had said – that anyone who crossed him and ended up dead must have deserved it somehow. She had always felt attached to her godfather as well, been determined to honor his memory, when everyone in the family seemed to miss him so much – but to hear that your father had killed a friend of many years’ standing for the sake of some pirate that had been dead all this time, and none of them could just let go of –

“To hell with Sam Bellamy,” Geneva said furiously. “I’m tired of the control his ghost somehow still has over all of them. He can fuck off and drown again, for all I care. Maybe this time we’ll finally be rid of him. I don’t care what Daddy thought he was doing. I know they were bad people in their day, but – you know what, I can see exactly why Jim is so angry at the lot of us. I used to be proud to be part of this family. I don’t know that I am anymore.”

Silver opened and shut his mouth, looking stricken. He reached for her, but she pulled back as if he had tried to stab her. She spun on her heel, and strode away.

The next several days were a repetition of the same dreary routine. While it was debatable if that had been her exact intention, Eleanor had ended up with the best bed on the ship, and could not be dislodged from it. Geneva fetched her chicken broth twice a day, rich with meat and marrow, and changed and washed her bloody bandages, carefully tending the wound with what few supplies she had to hand. But Eleanor was clearly suffering, hanging on but not mending, and kept urging Geneva to try something else, as if she was supposed to become a full-fledged surgeon on the spot. Thomas helped with what field knowledge he had, but a gunshot wound of this location and severity was sometimes fatal even in the best-equipped circumstances. Geneva still did not intend to just let her die, but Eleanor’s care was occupying all of her time, attention, and the extra supplies on the Rose, and it could not even be certain of a favorable result.

As well, the situation with Jim and Silver continued to walk on eggshells. Jim barely exchanged more than a dozen words with Geneva a day, and those only when he could not otherwise avoid acknowledging her presence. Thomas had given up his berth to Madi, as she refused to bunk with Eleanor, which meant that she and Silver were now sharing quarters; Thomas and Geneva themselves slept on cramped pallets on the floor of the cabin, Eleanor occupying the bed. They continued to make good time on the westerlies, but if they were drawing closer to Skeleton Island like this, preparing to find Billy and Lady Fiona and whoever else they might have recruited – Geneva could not for the life of her imagine it going well.

A few more evenings hence, she got a distant sight of land on the horizon, pulled out the chart, and reckoned that they must be almost in reach of Bermuda. As it was of course where they had stopped over on the way out, and learned of Billy’s intent to go to Bristol, there was something to be said for a return visit – if nothing else, they could offload Eleanor and transfer Hands to the custody of a proper bailiff. They could also top up on their beleaguered supplies – nothing critical, but still running lower than Geneva would like. God, she wanted to be off this wretched tub and not set foot on it again for at least another six months. Or a year.

She went off to find her crew and give the order for them to make for St. George’s Town. They were bearing up reasonably well under all the unexpected exigencies, detours, and delays, but Geneva knew they were running thin at the edges as well, and one night ashore did not sound like the worst thing in the world. Thus, of course, no matter how much they changed the sheets and lines, they could not wrestle the Rose out of the grasp of the wind. Geneva ordered the sails reefed, trying to slow their headlong charge, but even with the canvas down, the current kept the ship firm in its grasp. The waves were rough and choppy, and remembering that this was almost precisely where they had encountered the hurricane on the outward journey, everyone was terse and on edge, watching the sky for any hint of an ominous darkening. It wasn’t quite that bad, but at this rate, all they were going to do was wave at Bermuda as they were swept by.

Geneva had been fighting the wind and current with the rest of them all day, every muscle aching as if she had been clubbed, hair coming down in long, sweaty clumps until she was sorely tempted to take the shears and hack the lot of it off. At least the effort had kept Jim from remembering, too much, that he was mad at her, and they had been working in close proximity to more or less success. But as it became clear that they were not going to be able to force a landing at St. George’s, and Bermuda began to fall astern again into the twilight, Geneva pushed back from the wheel and began to beat her hands on the helm-housing, swearing. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck this whole fucking stupid fucking fuck of a voyage! Fuck!”

She felt someone grab at her wrists, trying to stop her, but ignored them, hitting her hands again and again, ignoring the pain. Then Jim managed to catch her palms, covering them with his own, and their eyes locked for a long moment as one of the crewmen dove to take over the abandoned helm. The entire mood on deck felt fragile and furious and close to snapping, men grumbling and staring evilly at Silver, the most clearly apparent scapegoat for their present misfortunes. “What d’ye think, lads?” one of them asked. “Chuck him overboard, see if the goin’ gets easier?”

A low, agreeing rumble went up, chilling and ugly; Geneva had heard the sound of men intent on violence often enough not to mistake it. She took a step. “Jesus Christ, you cretins. Throwing him off the ship isn’t going to help a – ”

“How do you know?” one of the men asked – one of the newcomers she had taken on in Bristol, who had no particular reason to trust a young female captain. Job Anderson, Geneva thought his name was – a tall, athletic, powerful man, who would have been rather nice-looking if he wasn’t scowling so heavily at her. “You’ve barely been seen all voyage, nursemaiding that bitch who nearly got the lot of us blown up.”

“Eleanor didn’t – look, bloody hell, there are plenty of other sins to lay to her account, but – ”

“You shut up, woman.” Anderson’s scowl turned into something closer to a leer. “Keep all those pretty teeth inside your head, eh?”

“You don’t speak to my niece that way,” Thomas warned him. “Or else you’ll be the one we offer as a sacrifice for calmer seas, Mr. Anderson.”

“Oh? And what are you going to do about it, old man?”

“Don’t do this. We barely avoided this situation once, and to replay it again can be of no use whatsoever. Stand down, all of you.”

“And look at you givin’ the orders for her. Isn’t it clear she can’t command men by herself?” Anderson took another step, causing Geneva to retreat an involuntary pace. She hated it when taller, stronger men purposefully used it to loom over and intimidate you, knowing it was something almost primal in a woman to back down before an angry male, if the alternative was being hit. “Think it’s time you go back to your dollies and your embroidery, little lady. The Rose needs a real man’s hand to master her.”

“Fuck off, you arrogant son of a bitch.” Geneva’s knees were trembling, but she locked them hard. “This is my ship. Anyone who disagrees is welcome to explain himself to the magistrate, when we reach the Colonies and I have the lot of you arrested.”

“Oh, arrest and the gallows, is it?” Anderson eyed her appraisingly. “Well, if what’s standing between us and that fate is you, an old man, a one-legged arsehole, and the Hawkins lad, could be we’ll take our chances.”

“Don’t you lay a finger on the captain, or any of the – ” One of Geneva’s longtime crewmen, Alan MacGregor, drew his pistol. “You rabble-rousing bastard, you get the fuck off our ship before you do something you can’t – ”

Anderson whirled, pulled his own gun, and shot MacGregor through the head. The sound was like a thunderclap, nailing everyone’s feet to the ground, as Geneva felt as if she had been about to scream but it had been driven out of her. Jim grabbed her arm one one side, Thomas to the other, as MacGregor, lips still moving, keeled over and went down face-first on the boards, blood spreading in a slow leak beneath him. Even Anderson seemed momentarily taken aback by his temerity. Then he lifted his head, and grinned.

“Get her, boys,” he ordered, and the mutiny of the Rose began.

“Sam,” Jack said, after a long pause. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Of course it’s a good idea.” Sam got to his feet, brushing off the leaves and twigs, as if he was prepared to charge back down into Bridgetown and murder his quarry on the instant. “You were the one who jumped onto the roof of his carriage wearing a dishcloth like a nincompoop. I’m going to actually think about it. Besides, since when was anything you said a good idea?”

“I’m – ” Jack appeared briefly at a loss for how to answer that, which was satisfying. “Well, since when were you any good at killing people?”

“Last night,” Sam said challengingly. “I killed three men, in fact. It wasn’t even that hard.”

Jack stared at him. Sam expected some stupid crack about how perhaps he wasn’t entirely useless after all, but Jack looked rattled, and less than pleased. “You – ” he said convulsively. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“Oh? Nathaniel shouldn’t have had to die either. Fuck them, I hope they’re roasting in hell.” Sam did his best to sound fierce, but his voice still wobbled. He would kill three more men for something to eat, but his stomach twisted in knots at the thought of actual food. He felt possessed of a black, restless, manic energy that would not let him stand or sit, stalking back and forth between two palm trees like a caged tiger. “Either help me, or go on with whatever the hell you were doing that was so important. I really don’t care.”

With that, he spun on his much-worn boot and did his best at an icy, imperious exit, bushwhacking through the trees with far less grace than he wanted. After he had just enough time to think that of course Jack was abandoning him, he heard more crashing through the underbrush, and a hand grabbed his arm. “Jesus, if you’re – at least think about this! What are you going to do, walk straight into his mansion? Even if you did kill him, you’d be surrounded, his men would kill you in retaliation right away. Never meet an enemy on his ground!”

“Fine then! And I suppose you’re Hannibal the master military strategist, are you?”

“If we have any hope at killing him, it’s when he is outside his house and off his guard.” Jack clearly wondered whether he should explain this as if to a two-year-old. “If we could lure him somewhere by himself, without his guards – then yes, we might have a chance at him, he’s an old man and I don’t think he’s trained as a soldier. I still think we would be shot on the spot, and he’s far too canny, he’d sniff out a trap a mile away. So we’d have to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse, even knowing it was some sort of trick, and I’m afraid the only thing we have with that sort of leverage is you. And why bother to come to get you by himself, when he can just bring his guards and capture you by force?”

“I just – ” Sam tried to pull away, but Jack held on tenaciously. “I just want to kill him!”

“So did your entire family, they spent months trying to do it, and look where it got them, with all their skill and all their plots and all their rage! And call me completely mistaken if you must, but I’m not sure they want a dead son to add to the pain Gold has already caused them. I’m sorry about your friend, you know I am. More than I can ever say. But this isn’t going to – ”

“Shut up.” Sam shoved harder, managed to break Jack’s grip, and turned his back, marching angrily through the plantains. “Just shut up. Instead of trotting across the Caribbean after me, how about you go home to your wife? Or back to Cuba and Güemes for a new assignment, wherever a spy goes? Oh, and don’t act like you care about my family. It doesn’t suit you.”

There was a marked silence at his back, and Sam lowered his head and told himself it didn’t matter. Remembered that plantains could be eaten for food, grabbed one, tore at the tough skin, and took a bite. It was starchy and unripe, but he was hungry enough that he forced it down. He kept on trudging, driven on by the bonfire of rage in his stomach, until he reached the road that led back in the direction of Bridgetown and the governor’s villa. It was just a muddy track, heavily shaded by the palm leaves overhead, sunlight coming and going behind the clouds. Gold’s men were surely still out hunting for the escapees, and if he wasn’t careful, he would walk directly into them. Fine. If nothing else, they likely did not expect him to take the main road, so he’d stick with it as long as he could, and dodge into the brush if he saw anyone coming.

He walked for a while, until the sun went in, did not re-emerge, and it shortly began to rain. Rain, however, was a far too delicate and civilized word for this full-throated torrent, drops as thick and heavy as mercury slashing through the jungle and hitting Sam hard enough to make him stagger. Seething runnels of brown water ran around his legs, first at ankle height and then up his calf, until it occurred to him that it he had better get to higher ground if he did not want his grand revenge quest to come to an anticlimactic end by being drowned in a flash flood. He clawed up the steep, muddy bank, hair coming loose and pasted in his eyes, grabbed onto a root, and it broke off in his hand, sending him skidding. A stab of real fear went through him as the water began to suck eagerly at his boots, knocking him off balance. He gathered his legs under him, felt the ground start to crumble, slipped, and –

A hand caught his from above, a hand large and sun-browned and attached to an arm corded with lean muscle, clasped hard, and gave him a very firm jerk clear of the rush. Sam did a stupid little somersault, got a faceful of rich, soaking mud, and then an upside-down view of Jack, who looked utterly exasperated. “What, exactly, were you intending to accomplish?” He had to shout over the thunder and the downpour still drumming the canopy. “Amazing start, really!”

“What are you – ” Sam spat out a large beetle and sat up. “Were you following me?”

“Of course I was following you, you idiot!” Jack looked incredulous that this even had to be asked. “And good thing I was, wouldn’t you say? Now, should we go together, or do you still want to storm off in a huff?”

“You have no right to point fingers for storming off in huffs, Mr. I’m-Bad-At-Caring-For-People!” Sam struggled to his feet, almost slipped again, and had to grab the trunk of the nearest palm tree. Trust Jack Bellamy to bugger off when you wanted him to hang around, and to hang around when you wanted him to bugger off. “So don’t start now!”

Jack opened his mouth, once again discovered no good answer, and shut it. They were thus obliged to discontinue the conversation until the tropical cloudburst passed, leaving the road a good two feet of muddy swamp and the trees dripping like bullets, as well as both of them thoroughly soaked to the skin. Then they started to walk, boots squelching, the humidity briefly dispelled by the rain but already closing in again, as unpleasantly as a hot wet blanket. Sam felt as if he was breathing more water than air, drenched in sweat, by the time they reached an overlook into Bridgetown. Gazing down over the harbor, the first thing they noticed was that the Griffin was still in port. Evidently, whether because of the need to search for the fugitives or some other reason, Matthew Rogers had not yet departed.

Sam was half tempted to suggest that they make it a clean sweep and kill Matthew too, but for some reason, the young Navy captain frightened him more than Gold did, and he didn’t want to get Matthew’s entire crew, as well as the Admiralty, on their cases as a result. One Jones poking that bear in the eye was more than sufficient. Besides, Matthew would thank him, once they killed Gold and he had his eyes opened to the wee bastard he’d been serving so devotedly. Might even give them a free ride home in gratitude. No sense shutting that door just yet.

Sam blew out a wet, weary breath, wondered if it was worth it to empty out his boots or if they’d just fill up again, and beckoned Jack around to the path that led down the backside of the headland. It was a slow, skidding descent, nearly flying off the hillside several times, but when they finally made it down, they spotted another ship just entering the harbor, perhaps held off from approach by the earlier storm, but now closing with intent purpose. It was a sleek, black, two-masted brigantine under English colors, outwardly no different from anyone else landing at the busy trading port of Bridgetown, but something about it made Sam look again. He stood still, watching intently, as it drew nearer and nearer. It had a figurehead that looked like a queen or a fairy or something of the sort, a crowned woman with wings. The hell?

The ship glided up to the quays, enough for Sam to squint and see that the name on the bow was Titania. A rope was thrown out to tie up, and then after a few moments, two passengers appeared to disembark. A tall, muscled, rough-hewn man with a blonde-grey beard, and a smaller, dark-haired woman in an elaborate black traveling gown and parasol. For no good reason, the sight of them made Sam uneasy, and he squinted harder, possessed by the conviction that he should know them from somewhere. Until suddenly, he recalled something that Gold had said during their audience at first arrival: Make no mistake, the prospect of Skeleton Island intrigues me as much as anyone, but I have already set other pieces in play toward that end. You recall a man named Billy Bones? I don’t suppose you would.

But wait – was that Bones? The one who hated Grandpa? They had already discovered that he had bought up the maps from Mr. Kerr in Nevis, but – was he back now, and who was that woman? Sam did not like her just to look at her, and he didn’t know why. She had a prim, sickeningly sweet, self-satisfied expression on her face, as she and Bones climbed into a hire cart and she leaned forward to have a word with the driver. After a brief discussion, and an aristocratic wave of her gloved hand, they set off up the hill toward the governor’s mansion.

Sam remained irresolute an instant longer, then jerked his head at Jack. “Come on,” he said. “We’re following them.”