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qqueenofhades · 7 years

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The Rose and Thorn: Chapter XXVIII

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 XXVII

Darkness fell with what Geneva could not help but consider as almost vindictive speed. They had barely come ashore, intending to run at least one reconnaissance trip before sunset, when the twilight had already turned hoary violet, the anchored silhouette of the Rose was a shadowed cutout, and the Irishmen were regarding the woods as if someone had warned them that they might accidentally turn into Englishmen if they went in there. There were no lightning bugs or will-o-the-wisps or other sparks of light in the thick black wall, and even she felt a brief, reflexive chill down her spine. Then she turned smartly on her shirking crew of borrowed secretly double-agent Jacobite ex-redcoats, now there was a sentence to make you think they were trustworthy. “We should make torches. I want to get some sort of look.”

“You’re sure about that?” MacSweeney, champion of brash talk, was wearing a decidedly leery expression. “This is a right feckin’ shite of a – ”

“Yes,” Geneva said shortly, “and you volunteered to come along, so get to it.” She was familiar with the general national unwillingness of the Irish to meddle with what they called the fae, as it was a character trait her father had displayed on more than one occasion, but she herself did not hold truck with such spooky folk tales. She glanced at Thomas. “Is there any chance Grandpa told you enough about the island’s topography to hazard a guess at where we are? It’s supposed to be fairly long north to south, but narrow east to west. Could we cross it on foot?”

“I think that would be unwise,” Thomas said, speaking for the first time; he had been staring into the dimness with a slightly troubled expression. “Especially now. I admire your commitment to getting young Mr. Hawkins back, but we’d be better suited by establishing a camp and posting watches. There could be some of our cohorts’ former colleagues here, or there could be… something else. In either event, the terrain is rough and dangerous. Rush in at night, rash and unprepared, and God knows if anyone would ever see us again.”

Geneva frowned. “Wait, you… you don’t believe in all this rubbish, do you? About skeletons and ‘haints’ and whatever else has attached to this place, it’s just – ”

“Indeed,” Thomas said patiently. “And certainly, fantastic legends do sometimes grow from barren soil. In my experience, however, this is not often the case. There is usually, however small, at least some grain of truth. And James has told us enough to make me wonder. Things he heard that had no entirely logical explanation, or things he saw. He was quite matter-of-fact about them, and indeed gave them no special attention. It was up to Miranda and myself to decide that if he had not fabricated them altogether, and we did not think he had, then there is something on this island, and it is better not disturbed. Even if it is only a sustained and unflinching look at one’s deepest self, and that all one’s flaws and secrets and darkest hurts become somehow magnified against you. Nobody leaves without paying that price.”

Geneva was surprised, as she had expected her uncle to agree with her that the Irishmen were being unnecessarily precious about this whole thing. “I’m not scared of myself,” she said. “All right, we’ll wait here and eat supper or something, but when the moon rises, there might be enough light to start in. I can’t agree to sitting on our arses until tomorrow morning, just because you lot are frightened of a few trees.”

“Never trust what ya see by moonlight,” another of the Irishmen – Geneva thought this one was named O’Shea – volunteered helpfully. “Or at midnight, for that matter, and it’d be close to that hour if we went in. Could nae pay me all the Spanish treasure to go in there at midnight.”

“Thank you for your contribution, Mr. O’Shea.” Geneva whirled on her heel and went to start collecting driftwood for a fire, as she hoped that might calm their delicate dispositions, as well as marking out to Jim and Silver, if they were in there, where to go. It might also attract Gideon and his non-traitorous redcoats, but Geneva was fine with that possibility. She had made Lord Murray a promise, after all, and was more than willing to carry it out.

They managed to get a small fire burning, as full dark fell and a strange silence with it. Most remote jungle islands would have had a nighttime cacophony just as raucous as the day, but even the lack of crickets seemed unusual. She did not point this out, as the Irishmen were liable to take it as another immediate proof of nefarious intent, but they passed around a canteen and some crumbling biscuits, which was not much of a supper. Ordinarily they might have told a few tales, sung a few songs, but nobody seemed quite up to the job, stealing anxious sidelong looks at the trees looming industriously away behind them. Thomas, for his part, had resumed that troubled stare off into the darkness, until Geneva put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Are you awake?”

“I’m…” Thomas turned back, blinking hard and rubbing his unshaven grey-blonde beard. “I��m sorry, my dear. I just… you haven’t… heard that screaming, have you?”

“Screaming?” Geneva raised an eyebrow. “No, it’s deathly silent. Why on earth would you hear screaming?”

She kept her voice light, not wanting to set off a repeated episode of lily-liveredness, but Thomas’ expression remained grim. After a pause he said, “There was quite a lot of screaming in Bethlem, you know. That was why they called it Bedlam. I was allowed to have my own room, as the son of a nobleman who had paid handsomely for my confinement, but the walls were thin. The noises at night were… difficult to adequately describe. I imagine it is not unlike the pits of hell. I spent three years there before I was transferred to the work plantation in Georgia. I learned to sleep through even some of the most appalling, hellish sounds one could dream of. One night a man hanged himself in the room next to mine. He… did not die immediately.”

Geneva winced. She knew, of course, that her uncle had been forced into the notorious Bethlem Royal Hospital in London by his father, upon discovery of Lord and Lady Hamilton’s affair with Lieutenant James McGraw and the resultant scandal and dishonor, the tragedy that had driven the latter two out to the West Indies and the birth of Captain Flint. It was always strange to think of them as the same people as her grandfather and grandmother, who had softened through the years and by their reunion with Thomas to live happily in Savannah together. Just as when he had told her that story about Alexander MacKenzie on the plantation, she had a sense he was sharing another small bit of his past that he had kept from James and Miranda, so as not to replay old, unmendable hurts. She suddenly felt bad for scoffing at his unwillingness to risk the island at night. “Uncle Thomas, I…”

“It’s all right, Jenny.” He rubbed his face again, with one more look into the darkness. “It’s just… as I said, even if the only power this place has is the ability to reflect yourself on you, that is a very dangerous thing indeed. Most of us, if not all of us, have something we’ve buried deep and hope never emerges again. You are young, and you are brave, but perhaps you can think of those of us who have a few more scars for our trouble.”

Geneva shut her mouth, shamefaced. “I’m – I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“Of course you weren’t,” Thomas said, with a wan smile. “You were thinking about Jim. You care for him very much, don’t you?”

“I…” Geneva suddenly thought she would in fact rather talk about ghosts than about this, which must be another hallmark of her mother. Focus on the problem she needed to solve, the person she needed to help, instead of her own feelings, and the vulnerability that implied. She had obviously had intimate gentleman (and one or two lady) friends before, even aside from the idiot Warrington, but when those attachments ran their course (or Grandpa and Daddy frightened them off), she had let them go without outstanding trouble. Never had the feeling that she might be missing something vital of herself if she didn’t see them again. However idealistically, she wanted a partnership like Mother and Daddy’s, or someone who looked at her the way Grandpa, Granny, and Uncle Thomas all looked at each other. She had grown up in a family where love, true love, was so richly prized and so deeply fought for, and she didn’t want to end up with some false or shallow or foolish version of it by accident. Finally she said, “Daddy killed his father.”

“So I have heard,” Thomas said. “That, however, was not the question.”

Geneva squirmed. “I… I do like him, he’s… brave, and he’s kind, and he… well, he’s seen a good deal of my worst side by now, I’ll give him that, and not flinched. Also, he’s tall.” She blushed, annoyingly. “He’s helped us out a lot. Of course I’m not letting him die.”

“Of course,” Thomas agreed. “No one thought you would. All I wanted to say to you, if you will take an old man’s advice, is not to be afraid. You aren’t of the jungle, I do believe that. But not to be afraid of whatever the possibility is with him, and what it could be. I just want you to be happy, I always have. James, Miranda, and I love you as our own daughter, as well as our granddaughter. Jim Hawkins is a good man. In case you wanted an outside opinion.”

Geneva felt her blush deepening, and she tried to look away, passing it off as the glow of the campfire. “I do want to find him,” she said at last. “I… I really want to find him.”

“And we will.” Thomas squeezed her knee lightly. “Trust me just a bit yet, eh?”

“All right.” Geneva paused. “You don’t… actually hear screaming, do you? Real screaming?”

“I have no idea what it is,” Thomas said. “I suspect if we went into the jungle and looked, we would find no discernible source. But I am certainly not being capriciously dishonest.”

“Of course not.” Geneva looked back at the woods, which were still silent to her ears, then up at the sky. “The moon will rise in a few hours. If you want to sleep, I’ll keep watch.”

Thomas looked as if he was about to say something else, then nodded. He rolled himself up in his coat and settled on a more or less comfortable stretch of sand, as Geneva had made sure to pitch their camp well out of reach of the tide. It was lapping at the beach a few dozen yards away, inky fingers grasping at the boat as if trying to pull it under – now look, the fanciful, heightened, slightly sinister air of the place was getting to her too. She sat down on a boulder facing the forest, guns in her lap; if in the unlikely event something did come charging out, she would shoot it, problem solved. That had always been a reliable method before. Mostly.

It grew very quiet, except for muffled snoring. Thomas and most of the Irishmen had managed, despite their qualms, to drop under, and Geneva fought a few yawns herself; her sleep on the Rose felt more like a prolonged knock over the head than actual rest, especially given how exhausted she was from this ongoing travail. The wind was blowing away from them, which meant that there could have been any number of noises or disturbances happening just down the coast, and they probably would not notice a thing. Once, however, Geneva was almost sure she heard a gunshot, or two. But that was just a trick. See, she was learning.

Naturally, a few minutes later, a hand touched her shoulder from behind, and despite her steadfastly confessed unbelief, she almost leapt out of her skin. Swallowing a scream that was sure to wake the others, she whirled around to see MacSweeney, who looked chagrined, but also slightly vindicated. “And here I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts, lass?”

“I don’t,” Geneva said crossly. “Idiot Irishmen sneaking up behind me without warning are another matter. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

“I might have enjoyed it if you tried.” MacSweeney handed her his flask. “Keep ya warm?”

Geneva was about to retort that if he thought she was going to drink his poison of choice so he could then snuggle up to her on a chilly night, he was sorely mistaken. Then she changed her mind, flipped it open, and took a healthy gulp, which did burn enjoyably all the way down. The moon was starting to creep over the horizon, gilding the dark edges of the island silver, and she nodded at it. “We should get going soon.”

“I still think we’d better not.”

“I thought you lot were here for the treasure? And a chance of getting back at Gideon?”

“We are,” MacSweeney said. “Not to be mixed up with Old Scratch. There’s a wood reminds me of this place, back home in Kerry. No matter if it’s full day, you can stand under the branches and hear nae a word or sound, or see a glimpse of light. There’s a well at the center, and no many how many statues of saints that folk leave to bless that water, they end up cracked and fallen or burned. It’s a brave man would drink from that well, or go into that wood past dark. You do, and something comes with you out of it. My old grannie swore that once, when her husband came home of a winter’s night, there were prints of cloven hooves in the snow with his. They barred the door and prayed to Saint Michael and heard the Devil trampin’ thrice around the house, trying to get in. Rose the next morning with scratches on the walls, and a cow dead in the barn.”

“That’s a very spooky story,” Geneva said. “And I don’t doubt that your old Irish grandmother had plenty of them. You’d get along with my father, he’s from Louth, and has rather the same ideas. He always used to call me and my brother to come in if we were playing outside too late after dark, or tell us not to look into the fields, or that sort of thing.”

“Ah? Thinkin’ of introducing me to the parents, were ya?” MacSweeney winked. “Not that I’d object, lass, but we’ve only just met.”

“Oh, hush. I’m not kissing you. Or anything else.”

“You sure? You and I could be a good match, you know that. Both adventuresome types, not overly fond of the feckin’ English, and interested in making a fine fortune and seeing the wide world. You drink well, too. Like a lad. Plenty in common, I’d say.”

“Thanks,” Geneva said. “I think. I’m fairly sure I did not envision running off with a twice-turncoat Irishman whose blood is at least fifty percent alcohol at any given time, but I’ll keep the offer in mind.” She paused, considered, and then added, slightly less sardonically, “You’ve been helpful, I’ll give you that. And you did a good job to get us here. So, now that we’re friends, you’d tell me if you were planning to betray me, hit me over the head if we found the treasure, and run off with it on my ship, weren’t you?”

MacSweeney looked insulted. “What would make you think that?”

“You don’t exactly have a record of dependable loyalty.” Since it was still in her hand, Geneva took another swig from his flask. “I don’t think you’d disagree?”

“Aye, well, no, not at that. But could be I just haven’t found the right person to stay loyal to.” MacSweeney shrugged. “Even King James, well, I’d prefer to give him the money, if we found it. But I’d also not mind keeping it for myself.”

“You realize that doesn’t actually do anything for your argument, right?”

“Ah. Well.” MacSweeney spread his hands. “I’ll be fecked, then. Wasn’t plannin’ to steal your ship again, lass, no. Trust me at least on this, don’t go into those woods at witching hour. You won’t do your young man any good by that.”

“My young man?”

“You weren’t talkin’ to your uncle about the Pope, now were you?”

“And you,” Geneva said, “are a horrible eavesdropper who could at least have the decency to pretend he wasn’t listening in on private conversations. Unless you’re somehow trying to get me to realize that I should be with you instead?”

“No. Not at that. I think you’re not interested in my many charms because you already have a mind for someone else’s. But if he dies, I’m available.”

“You’re a real winner.” Geneva rolled her eyes heavenward, but could not suppress a slight grin. “Fine, just because I don’t want you fretting like a clerk over the Prince of Wales’ account books, we’ll wait a few more hours. No more than that, though. At first light, we go.”

MacSweeney grinned at her, as if to say that he had taken note of the extra little barb in accusing him of being a stooge for the Hanoverian kings that they were presently thwarting, and to her horror, she found herself actually considering him as a backup option if they left here without Jim. That, however, was instantly dismissed. They were getting him back, or else.

Geneva considered sleeping a bit herself, but she felt wide awake after MacSweeney’s infusion of liquid courage, and Thomas could use the rest. She was also unable to shake the suspicion that if she was so irresponsible as to fall asleep, the rest of the party would not bother to wake her and thus delay their recovery mission still further. Their inexplicable aversion both vexed and confounded her, as if they were purposefully colluding to keep her from Jim, though she knew that Thomas at least was not. She didn’t hear anything. Just silence.

Despite herself, she must have nodded off, because she woke with a jerk in eerie, iron-grey stillness. A fog had fallen thick enough to cut off sight for more than a few yards; she couldn’t see past the beach, much less out to the Rose. Intellectually, she knew it was still there, but this was the first thing to happen since their landing to unsettle her, which was annoying. It was just fog, she’d dealt with plenty of that. There was altogether nothing supernatural about its origin, especially in late autumn on a remote island in the Atlantic Ocean, so she did a few calisthenics to get the blood flowing and then knelt to shake Thomas. “Hey. It’s morning, wake up.”

He stirred, blinked, and sat up, brushing the sand off. They roused the rest of their traveling party, and Geneva took out her compass to make a reckoning, but it spun and spun without settling, no matter how much she shook it. If there was any visibility, she could try to do it by the sun, but that was presently also out. Finally, as much as she could crib together from half-remembered charts and the last bearings entered in the captain’s log, she decided to go with the theory that they had landed at the southern tip of the island, and that the Hispaniola was most likely north and east of here, hidden somewhere along the dips and weaves and twists of the coastline. She did remember that it was supposed to be a bloody labyrinth of a place, so they might not see the other ship until they were on top of it, and possibly not even then. Still, they had wasted all the time to black cats and broken mirrors that she could remotely stomach. They had a quick breakfast, and then, with Geneva in the lead, they set out.

She had a simple and straightforward strategy of just following the beach north, but it did not take long until it bent inland and got tangled up in trees. She veered them to the right-hand side, where the ocean was, but the rocks were slippery and tilting, some carved by the waves into whorls and arches that stood higher than their heads. This pushed them back into the forest, where they hiked for a while, then descended once more to the coast to check their progress. There was a rock arch here that looked remarkably like the one they had passed earlier, and Geneva frowned. Just to be safe, she picked up a bit of black stone and made a mark on the inside of it, then beckoned them past, up the bank on the far side, and onward.

This time, she couldn’t shake the slight, pervasive sense that these trees were familiar. When the arch once more appeared out of the fog, she didn’t even need to look for the black mark chalked on the inside in order to realize the truth. This was the same one they’d passed twice before. They had somehow gone in a circle, and made no progress at all. What the hell?

Geneva stood staring at her own mark on the arch, hearing the Irishmen muttering behind her. She could guess well enough what they were thinking, but it was perfectly possible to go in circles in heavy fog, in jagged, unfamiliar terrain, especially when your compass wasn’t working for whatever delightful reason of its own. Aye, she was a bit perplexed as to how they had, but if they all lost their heads with ghost stories, they were certain only to exacerbate the problem. Instead, she collected a few large white stones from the beach, determinedly led them inland again, and began setting them down like breadcrumbs. Maybe if she could pinpoint the place they kept taking the wrong turn and doubling back, she could be sure to avoid it.

This time, however, they did not encounter any of the marker stones, and Geneva was just getting her hopes up that they had corrected their mistake, when – impossibly – she saw the arch ahead of them yet again. She stopped in her tracks and let out a shout of frustration. “Are you bloody kidding me?! We can’t have come in a circle, we would have seen the rocks I left!”

“We’re nae gettin’ anywhere this way, lassie.” O’Shea looked at her dourly. “We told you, it’s the haints.”

“So what, am I supposed to throw some salt over my shoulder? Turn in a circle three times and spit?” Geneva might have done so, if just to appease protocol, but she still had seen nothing to convince her that anything out of the ordinary was at work here. She was much more exasperated by the idea that she could not do something so simple as lead a party in a straight line. Unless you’re not as good a leader as you think you are. You know you aren’t, in fact. What sort of halfway decent captain would sail into a hurricane, get Mr. Arrow killed, nearly take on Israel Hands to replace him, just about get the ship blown up, then lose control of it first to such riffraff as Job Anderson and once more to the bloody redcoats? Be stuck with this lot because you got the rest of your crew killed, maddened to mutiny, or thrown in the brig? Lost Jim? Lost Silver? Lost so much as a damned clue where in the world you are, or how to get anywhere else?

Geneva firmly ordered that pernicious little voice to shut up, though she was less and less certain that she could deny its conclusions. Striving for an air of cool, dispassionate command of the situation, she turned to Thomas. “So… press on again, or…?”

“Regardless of the logic of how we keep going in circles,” Thomas said, “it would appear that we are. There is a certain maxim about the definition of insanity that would be applicable here, so to overcome it, we should try something else. Which by process of elimination, would be going into the jungle, rather than trying to follow the coast. It is, however, your decision.”

“I…” Geneva twisted her fingers together. “Maybe I… maybe you should decide.”

“I’m not the captain, Jenny.”

“Aye, but we… you told Gideon that you were, and I’m not getting us anywhere, so…” Geneva hated to admit that her confidence had been shaken so easily, but that had been a fragile façade from the moment they arrived on the island, trying to hold together the battering that her ego had taken on this trip. “Besides, I thought you didn’t think we should go into the jungle?”

“I suppose we could make one more circuit, just to be sure,” Thomas said. “But at this point, we must all feel fairly confident in predicting what the outcome will be.”

“Aye,” Geneva said again, reminding herself that she was the only one here who didn’t think that the jungle concealed some lurking evil something-or-other. With that, she raised her voice. “Come on. We’re going this way.”

Glances were exchanged, as it was reasonably clear that “this way” meant toward the one thing they had all been having conniptions over, and she saw a few surreptitious signs of the cross. Nobody openly disagreed, however, which she decided to take as a victory. She tightened the straps of her sword belt, felt obliged to check again that her pistols were loaded, and turned toward the full and formidable prospect of the trees. Fighting a brief urge to cross herself as well, she squared her shoulders and marched them in.

The jungle closed in quickly. The canopy was thick enough that the indeterminate grey light did not make much of an impression on the deep layer of bracken underfoot, and Geneva could have wished not to recall MacSweeney’s tales of cursed woods and devils on winter nights quite as keenly, even if she still did not believe them. They walked single file, Geneva at the head and Thomas serving as rearguard, sometimes having to stop altogether to clear a recognizable path. She kept trying to see if they were managing to outwit the fecking place (as her companions would say) and getting northeast, also known as the direction they were trying to bloody go, by deliberately not going northeast, as that seemed the sort of twisted logic that might just work in this hellhole. But it was impossible to be certain. The forest went on and on, unbroken.

They had been walking for at least an hour when Geneva – faint at first, but then increasingly strong – began to be convinced that she smelled smoke. The trees were far too thick, and they were nowhere near high enough ground for a good vantage point, so it was impossible to tell what direction it was coming from. But either the bloody place had summarily set itself on fire, or someone else had. Even the island, much as it could trick and feign and conjure with the assistance of the fog, couldn’t start playing havoc with smells, or at least so she very much hoped. At least she didn’t think they were going in circles this time, though it was impossible to be sure. As well, she first needed to ascertain if anyone else had noticed. “Just me, or does anyone else think it smells a bit… crispy?”

“No, I smell it too.” MacSweeney took a deep whiff like a hunting beagle, looking around as if check the undersides of the branches for a fiery glow. “Bloody big to be a campfire.”

“I think we can safely assume it’s not a campfire.” Geneva paused. This was rainforest, it wasn’t exactly dry tinder, and therefore shouldn’t go up like phosphor, but trying to outrun a wildfire sounded like exactly the sort of fucking idiot adventure they would much rather and more profitably avoid. She looked at Thomas. “Lightning strike? We haven’t heard any thunder.”

“Possible, of course,” Thomas said. “But less than likely. As we know we are not alone on the island, it seems more reasonable to assume that one of our compatriots is responsible. Why, or how much of it they intend on burning… well, who knows.”

“Wonderful.” Geneva took a slug of water from the canteen slung on her shoulder, tempted to guzzle it all down and then pour it over her head; how was it possible to be this hot in so much dank fog? The ground held in warmth like a wet blanket, so any sweat they broke never evaporated and just stayed there, smothering. “Well, shout if it gets hot. Hotter, apparently.”

They nodded and started to walk again, looking sharp. The smell of smoke did not get any stronger, however, drifting in and out, and the opaque wall of fog remained just as impenetrable. Geneva was just wondering if they should risk a shout when one came most unexpectedly from behind her. The cause of it was, as she discovered when she whirled around, MacSweeney apparently vanishing off the face of the earth. There was a large hole where he had just been standing, his compatriots were crowded in to look, and the earth was caved and crumbling in over what looked like a fragile rind of limestone karst. So they had apparently rather literally been walking on eggshells, and Geneva waved at the others. “Hey! Be careful!”

She made her way over as fast as she could go without breaking through and falling in herself, and shooed the Irishmen, who were all larger and heavier to her, to a somewhat more stable-looking perch. Then she peered in. “MacSweeney? MacSweeney, are you all right?”

“Fine.” A voice filtered up to her from the dimness. “Fell on me arse right hard, that’ll leave a mark for weeks. No but about ten or twelve feet down, though. Looks to be some sort of cave.”

“James did say something about a cave system on the island,” Thomas put in. “Quite extensive, and he found it easier for navigation than trying to cross the jungle every time. One supposes there is truly nothing to be lost in giving it a look, as he said there are enough outlets and passages and side entrances that he never ran into a dead end. Still, though, going underground poses its own risks. Even more difficult to say what direction we would end up in.”

“If we got lost in the dark in some convoluted passage, that would be no bloody good at all.” Geneva sat back on her heels, trying to decide. It was all very well and good for her grandfather to go wandering down there, when he was stuck on Skeleton Island for the foreseeable future and had nothing better to do than found its local spelunking club, but they were in something of a hurry, and this diversion seemed unwise. Then again, it was possibly unwise to be anywhere near here in the first place, but then, there you had it. “MacSweeney, what do you see? Does it stay near the surface, or does it go under?”

“Hold on.” There was a rustle and a few echoing footsteps, and the hole went quiet for a few moments. Then his voice returned, still disembodied. “Wanders along under the jungle, at least for a way. Didn’t get full dark. Suppose we could at least see where it leads.”

“Oh, why not,” Geneva muttered grimly. Trudging through the jungle had got them no further than their circles on the coast, and if Flint had used these passages during his time here, there might be some mark or navigational aid or other system he had set up to keep track of which one went where. “Anyone have something we can use for a rope?”

A suitable vine was located, cut, knotted around a sturdy root, and Geneva, Thomas, and the remaining Irishmen made a somewhat more dignified entrance than MacSweeney, abseiling down and landing with a thump among the broken bits of stone and soil. Dim shafts of grey light slanted down around them, rock pillars rising impressively in the shadows, giving Geneva the sense of standing in a silent, subterranean cathedral, candles burned out and congregation long fled, leaving it to the mercies of the reclaiming wild. She shivered, thinking that she might actually be persuaded to attend church more often if she survived this, and brushed the dirt off her borrowed breeches. She had flintstones and a small amount of lamp oil in her rucksack, so she’d contrive something if it ever got too dark. “All right, let’s go. Watch where you step.”

With that, they set off on their third new course, wending carefully through the clusters of small stalagmites that made it nearly impossible to find footing without breaking one of them. Geneva winced at the damage this was doing, but then, if Skeleton Island wanted to fuck with their heads and lead them this way and that, it could not be surprised to get a few dents for its trouble. She kept looking for anything that resembled a wayfarer’s mark, especially when they reached the first branch in the passage; one led up, but was narrower and steeper, while the other led down, broader and flatter. She came to a halt, surveying the walls, until Thomas said, “Jenny, here.”

Geneva glanced over to see that he had discovered a small etching at about eye-level, carved with a knife and rubbed with torch soot to be sure that it remained visible. Two initials. JM.

“James McGraw,” Geneva said, as she and Thomas had reached the same conclusion. “It’s by the passage that goes up. You do think that is where he was sending us? The other looks easier.”

“I trust James,” Thomas said simply. “I think we should go up.”

Geneva was about to respond that her grandfather’s state of mind during his exile here, at least from what she had put together, had been far from sane or stable, and that he could just have easily carved his initials on a whim than to make a note of a safe passage. Still, she had come down here on the assumption that there might be one, and she hesitated a moment more, then nodded. “All right. Up it is.”

They squirmed into the new passage, having to climb some of the longer pitches on all fours. The ceiling was very low, giving Geneva – who was used to wide open seas and sky and space – more than a touch of clammy hands and racing heart. The walls kept scraping at them like clutching fingers, until she had to remind herself it was fine, she could do this, it was fine, it was fine. At least she had Thomas and her boisterous band of semi-reliable backups, so it wasn’t as if she was alone down here. That, and –

Once again, Geneva found herself stopping short. “Did you hear that?”

The Irishmen cocked their heads in unison, as ever on high alert for something jumping out at them, but after a moment, the noise that had caught her attention came again. It definitely sounded like footsteps. Someone, or indeed several someones, not far ahead in the passage, and voices. Voices that sounded almost… familiar.

After a pause, throwing all caution to the wind, Geneva started to clamber as fast as she could, Thomas not far behind her. They beetled up a narrow bottleneck of rock, climbed out the top, and found themselves in a higher-ceilinged, broader avenue, smoother and straighter. And coming toward them at considerable speed, hopping and limping and hauling each other, were –

“Oh my God.” Geneva broke into a run. “Oh my God!”

She couldn’t decide where to look or who to grab at first. There were five members of the party: her grandfather in the flesh, a tall, black-haired young man she didn’t know, John Silver hopping on his bloodstained bad leg, and Jim Hawkins, who was holding him up. As well, Flint was carrying someone in his arms, who was so battered and feverish-looking that it took Geneva a full moment to recognize her little brother. Sam? What the devil, what the devil, was he doing here – what were all of them doing here, how had they run into each other, how, how, how – her head felt about to physically explode with questions. All she could do was croak, “Wh…”

“Jenny!” Flint looked as if he had never been so happy to see anyone in his entire life. He got a better grip on Sam and practically sprinted to them, hugging her with his free arm and kissing Thomas, which for Flint was the equivalent of falling at their feet and weeping profusely. “Thom – Thomas, what – you made it, what – how did you find us?”

“You found us,” Thomas said, holding Flint fiercely by the back of the neck and touching their foreheads together. “I just paid attention.”

“What happened to – ” Geneva did not have enough eyes or hands or mouths to attend to this situation in a remotely satisfactory way. “Sam? Sam! Is he – what happened?”

Her little brother shifted slightly, eyes moving back and forth between sunken, sweat-dewed lids, but he didn’t wake up. His lower torso was wrapped in bloody, torn strips of what looked to be Flint’s jacket, and his right arm was a mess, slashed with an ugly, infected-looking gash. Geneva glanced at Jim, felt something too deep to be relief shudder through her from head to toe, and started toward him as if about to emotionally reunite as well, then stopped, coughed, and held out her hand, feeling absurdly timid. “Mr. Hawkins.”

“Captain Jones.” He shook it. Gentleman to the last, that was him. “We’re bloody glad to see you.”

“Bloody, clearly.” Geneva looked anxiously at him, then over. “Mr. – Mr. Silver.”

“Captain Jones,” he echoed, in a distant, formal tone. “Good timing.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Silver coughed, even as his eyes flickered across her, taking in her odd appearance. “Are those my clothes?”

“Nothing else on the ship really practical for running around the jungle.” Geneva did not want to be wasting time in pleasantries, needed to know what to do, what was going on. Sam didn’t look in a good way at all, and there was still God knew how far back to the Rose, assuming no more mishaps. She turned to the last member of the party. “And you are?”

The tall, dark young man looked uncomfortable, glancing sidelong at Flint in a way that seemed to suggest he still expected to be imminently expelled from the party. After a long pause he said, “My name’s Jack. I… know your brother.”

“His name’s Jack Bellamy and he’s a bloody pain in the arse,” Flint corrected curtly. “But he seems sincere enough in his concern, and frankly, I’ve already shot enough miscreants on this fucking trip, so I’m making an exception for now. Where have you come from?”

“Jack – Bellamy?” Geneva couldn’t help goggling. “Wait – are you – do you know – ?”

“Yes,” Jack said, apparently anticipating the question and sounding as if it was not at all his favorite subject, but he would answer for now. “Sam Bellamy was my uncle.”

Geneva filed that away with considerable misgivings; she, after all, had reached certain conclusions on Sam Bellamy’s control over her family that did not jibe well with welcoming another long-lost member of his bloodline. I will have to watch him. Likewise, she was dying of curiosity as to what the blue hell had gone on and how they had arrived here, but explanations would have to wait for later, or someone else might actually die. By the looks of things, her brother. She turned back to her grandfather. “We’re – I think – anchored at the south end of the island. It’s been a battle trying to get anywhere. If you want to take the lead, I’ll carry Sam.”

Flint paused, then passed Sam over, and Geneva hefted him; he was tall, but skinny as a rail, and the fever had wracked him to such a degree that he felt no heavier than your average armful of firewood. A pang of fear passed through her. “Who shot him?”

“Billy Bones,” Flint said, very grimly. “Don’t worry, he’s dead, we killed him. But there’s a complication. Even if we make it to the Rose, the rest of our family is still here. Your parents, Miranda, your uncle Liam and aunt Regina, Jack’s wife Charlotte, and even Woodes Rogers’ bloody spawn, who has proven to be not quite as terrible as his father, if twice as insufferable. As well, Lady Fiona Murray and Robert Gold are skulking out there somewhere to boot. It’s a right carnival. We can’t leave without them. Our family, at least. The rest can go hang.”

“Wait.” Geneva blinked. “Woodes Rogers’ son, did you say? Matthew?”

Flint momentarily got an expression as if she might have slept with him in the past and neglected to inform them. “How the hell did you – ”

“I’ll tell you later,” The subject of Eleanor Guthrie’s presence, and most likely mortal wound, was definitely a conversation for not right now. “We need to get Sam out of here.”

Flint was clearly not about to disagree, and with a final quick grip of Thomas’ hands, turned around. He was just about to set them off when there was a loud clatter from the rock chimney, and the Irishmen popped out, looking as alarming as one would expect a lot of sizeable Gaelic berserkers to look in a small underground passage. Flint went immediately for the rifle on his back, and Geneva grabbed his arm. “Whoa! No, no, it’s all right. They’re with us, sort of. Sorry. I almost forgot about them. What with – well. Everything.”

“Almost forgot about us?” MacSweeney, sporting a slight black eye from his now apparently quite lucky tumble into the cave, looked insulted. “How could you do that, lass?”

“Just – never mind. This is my family, actually. Some of them. My grandpa.” Geneva waved at Flint, rather awkwardly given that she was still holding Sam. “And my little brother. We need to head back to the Rose.”

“What about the treasure?” Trust MacSweeney to get hung up on that point. “We’ve come this far, and now to be turned away like paupers at the – ”

“Fuck the treasure, my grandson’s life is in danger,” Flint snapped. “Why would I hand it over to you hairy lot anyway?”

MacSweeney looked further miffed, and Geneva could sense that a clash as to who was dominant ginger might be in the offing. She started to say something, trying to remind them that they had no time, but Jack Bellamy interrupted. “Treasure’s up that way,” he said, pointing. “Left-hand passage, climb for a bit and you’ll find it, wedged into an alcove just below the entrance. Large old chest with a broken lock and a Spanish seal. Take whatever you want.”

Flint opened his mouth, and then shut it. Finally he said, “I bloody hate you.”

“Noted. I’m not your biggest fan either.” Jack turned back sharply. “Are we saving Sam now, or do we have to fight about that to boot?”

“No,” Flint said, after a final loathing pause. “We’re going. As for Jenny’s… friends, I apparently can’t stop you from finding the treasure, but don’t think we’re waiting around for you to scamper back to the ship. You can stuff your breeches full of doubloons all you like, but if you don’t come back in time, you get left behind. You can decide if it’s worth it, but take it from me, this place is not enjoyable as an extended stay. Run along.”

The Irishmen exchanged looks, weighing up their options, then started in unison across the chamber, apparently deciding that the risk of permanent residency was an acceptable one in the possibility of becoming really fecking rich. MacSweeney paused briefly to throw a half-wry, half-serious salute to Geneva, as if wishing her good luck, and she returned it. In the next moment, they were out of sight, and she couldn’t help wondering if she would ever see them again, oddly poignant despite everything. Then she said to her grandfather. “Get us out of here.”

Flint threw one more baleful look after the Irishmen, but nodded, strode to the front of the party, and veered them off down a tunnel running parallel to the one from which they had come. As the rather sorry lot of them trotted at his heels, Geneva could not help but note the fact that it, of course, contained Silver. After all the misdirection and reticence and mystery concerning what had passed between him and Flint on their last star-crossed sojourn here, Geneva was taken aback that it now appeared as if they were bringing him along, no questions asked. Not that she objected – she had sworn to Madi that she would bring him back, after all, and she was truly relieved to see him safe, in a way she had not quite expected. But as her grandfather’s burning, several-decade-long grudge against him was not likely to have evaporated overnight, surely there must be more to the story. And yet here they were, escaping together, and Flint barely seemed to care. It could be his concern for Sam, and relief at running into them, but still.

Flint navigated them through several unmarked twists and turns that Geneva would certainly never have picked up on her own, and which led them steadily back through the stone maze. Her arms were starting to burn from lugging Sam; even light, he was a dead weight, and it was awkward to clamber through some of the more cramped sections without knocking him into anything, which clearly was the last thing he needed. On the far side of one such portage, Jack Bellamy stepped up next to her. “Here,” he said quietly. “I’ll take him the rest of the way.”

“Oh?” Geneva eyed him warily. “How do you two know each other, exactly?”

“It’s… complicated,” Jack said, which seemed to hint that he would fit in quite well with the rest of them in not talking about their feelings. “We’ve been on an adventure together, that’s the shortest answer. It’s – it’s my fault that he’s ended up like this. I’m sorry.”

“Just keeping up family tradition, were you?” Geneva hefted Sam protectively. “No thanks. I think I can manage.”

Jack’s sun-brown cheeks went a slightly darker color. “All right,” he said after a pause, as if he had thought better of an initial, sharp answer. “You are his sister. If you’re sure.”

“Aye, I’m sure.” Geneva shifted Sam into a fireman’s carry over her shoulder, since they had more room here, and set off again. She might have been glad of a reprieve, but she wasn’t about to hand her annoying little twerp of a baby brother off to another Bellamy who had freely admitted to landing him in his present difficulties. God, she hoped he would be all right. She had treated him like every other older sister with a snot-nosed junior sibling, and they had certainly had plenty of fights in childhood that resulted in them being forcibly put in opposite corners and ordered to make it up, but if anyone else laid a finger on him, she would scratch their eyes out. He was innocent and naïve and gallant and adventurous and honest to a fault, one of the kindest and bravest and sweetest people Geneva knew, and if he died here, someone was paying for it and then some. Their life and their family would never be the same again. No. No, he can’t.

At last, they reached the lower end of whatever tunnel Flint had been guiding them through, and a broad, pebbled opening out onto a deserted stretch of cape. It was quite late in the afternoon by now, and while some of the fog had cleared, enough of it remained that Geneva couldn’t be sure which direction the Rose lay in. Flint took a deep, prophetic whiff, scowled at the still-evident haze of smoke hanging in the air, and then said, “Anchored at the southern tip, you said?”

“I think so.” Geneva’s arms were screaming and there was a terrible crick in her back, but she did not look at Jack. “Compasses don’t work here.”

“No,” Flint agreed, “they don’t. Along with other things. I think I know where we are, though, and which inlet you’ll have used. This way.”

Geneva shifted Sam one more time, as Jim was looking fairly tired himself. By the looks of things, he had been laboring on a bad ankle, as well as supporting Silver, whose thigh bandage was a fairly alarming shade of red. After a pause, Thomas stepped forward. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll help Mr. Silver the rest of the way?”

There was a slightly delicate look exchanged between Flint and Silver at that, which both of them immediately tried to pretend they hadn’t. Thomas, however, appeared determined, and thus they were forced to yield. Jim carefully stepped out from under Silver’s arm, which he then draped over Thomas’s neck instead. He must be exhausted, but he still came up to Geneva and said, “Do you want me to carry him the rest of the way? Your brother?”

“I…” Geneva hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Aye,” Jim said steadily. “It can’t be much further. I can take him.”

Geneva bit her lip, then nodded, handing Sam over as Jim got him firmly over his shoulder. Rearrangements completed, they headed off, following Flint for the final leg down the shore, around a bend, and finally into the small, sheltered harbor where they had left the Rose. Geneva had never been so happy to see her old girl in her entire life, still faithfully there despite everything, and she felt a shared sigh rattle through the group. They trucked to the longboat, loaded in, and Jack and Flint, not without a last threatening look at each other, rowed them out across the lagoon to the waiting ship. Hauled up, at last, and all but collapsed.

“John?” Madi had been standing by the railing, watching them tensely, and she reached out as Silver struggled over the edge. “John?”

Geneva had so rarely heard anyone call the man by his given name that she almost couldn’t think who she was referring to, but Silver, after a long pause, accepted her hands and let her pull him onto the deck. They almost collapsed into each other, holding tightly, and did not say a word as the others straggled on board. Geneva was just about to order that Sam be taken to her cabin, when she remembered it was occupied. She supposed they might have to double up, not that there was much left in the way of medicine after she had used it on Eleanor. Besides, there was still the question of the rest of their family, and she turned to Flint, who was leaning against the mast with the expression of deepest weariness she had ever seen on his face. “Grandpa, ah – there might be an old… an old friend of yours here with us. We met her in Bristol, and…”

“Mmm?” Flint didn’t open his eyes. “We need to sail west, Jenny. I think the Griffin would have followed the main passage into the south eye, the one where the Walrus wrecked. We don’t want to go down there as well, it’s a long and tricky bit of navigation and we’d be pinned in if anyone else followed us, but there’s a narrow neck of land that we can cross on foot, that will take us most of the way there. Your parents, Miranda, and the others should be – well, nearby.”

“The Griffin?” a voice said from behind them, sounding choked. “The Griffin is here?”

There was a brief and slightly horrible pause, and then Flint’s eyes bolted open. Geneva cringed, wondering if she should have been more emphatic about her warning, if perhaps she indeed should not have put it off this long, but with the exigent circumstances, there just had not been the proper moment. She was thus obliged to hover uselessly in place, a deeply unwanted onlooker, as James Flint and Eleanor Guthrie locked eyes across the deck of the Rose, in what must have been their first face-to-face meeting since Eleanor had betrayed the pirate cause back on Nassau, taken up with and married Woodes Rogers, and thus sold out all her friends and acquaintances in that world – including not least Flint, who along with Emma had been one of Eleanor’s usual partners in crime, as well as her mentor. She was pale and sweaty and not at all looking well, using the lintel of the cabin door to hold herself up, but her expression was almost desperate. When nobody spoke, she said again, “Did you – the Griffin?”

“I… yes.” Flint spoke at last, in a carefully, flatly offhand voice, as if between Silver and now her, he had had about all he could stomach of running into old friends turned personal traitors. “We sailed here with Matthew. He’s – just like his father.”

“Aye.” Eleanor could surely tell that in Flint’s mouth, that was the furthest thing from a compliment, but she did not have time to quibble. She looked imploringly back at Geneva. “Please. If we’re sailing in that direction anyway, and you’re going to look – please take me ashore, if you’re trying to find it, find them. Please, I’ll – if I can get there, I swear I’ll tell him everything about what you did for me, I’ll make sure he doesn’t report – well, anything back to the Admiralty. Please.”

Geneva started to say something, then stopped, feeling decidedly monkey-in-the-middle. She was well aware that Flint must have any number of opinions on all of this, but it was her ship, and she had made Eleanor a promise. “Fine,” she said, after a moment. “You can come. But it’ll be a trek overland, and you don’t look very…”

“I don’t care.” Eleanor was struggling to catch her breath even from standing this long, but her eyes burned with an old, unquenchable stubbornness. “I’m so close. I can do it.”

Geneva paused, supposed that she could not deny her that, and crumpled her own soreness and tiredness and worry away, out of sight, until this was over; she needed to be Captain Jones, and keep it together. She went to order the anchor raised, ensure that Sam had been put to bed in the cabin now that Eleanor had vacated it, and Thomas went to scour their remaining physics for anything that could possibly help. Jim and Madi had taken Silver off, presumably also to tend to him, and Geneva made her way to the helm, following Flint’s terse instructions to aim them westward along the coast. As the Rose got underway in the gathering dusk, running rather shorthanded after everything but still scraping by, Flint said to Eleanor, “Found someone you could truly love and stay loyal to at last? After Max, after Charles Vane, somehow Woodes bloody Rogers was the one to win your undying ardor and sacrifice?”

“I…” Eleanor started to answer, then stopped. After a moment she said, “I knew what I was doing, marrying him. I thought – if the English were always going to win eventually, as we said – they could always command more ships, more men, more money than we could – I could persuade him to treat you gently. I wouldn’t have let him hang you. If you cooperated – ”

“I don’t doubt you thought you could,” Flint said. “Persuade him, that was. You always thought you were much cleverer than you were. But how could that have been an equal partnership, if you – as I suspect – married him since the alternative was rotting in prison and a possible capital sentence of your own? I can almost understand it, so far as it goes. Cozen your captor, entice him to rely on you, feed him choice tidbits of intelligence, until you thought you had him eating out of your hand, and that one way or another, Nassau was still yours. But Gold learned, and we learned, and I suspect as well that you learned, to your cost, that Woodes Rogers could not be controlled. So you wound up shackled to him, living the life of a gentlewoman in England that you had never wanted, bedeviled by his debts and his enemies, looked down on as a traitor by polite society, and forced to still play out the pantomime of love and devotion to your husband, for what at all would you have left if he discarded you? Or did you convince yourself, in time, that the sentiment was real, if only to have some ice-cold scrap of solace?”

Eleanor opened her mouth, and yet again found herself at a loss for a response. At last she said, “I… I did what I had to. Men had always tried to use me, to control me, and at least if I walked into it with my eyes wide open… but Woodes and I, we…”

“Were you?” Flint said again. “So how was Rogers different from all the others you had prided yourself on outwitting and outliving? Or in Vane’s case, making directly certain that you did? I heard about that, aye. Later, when I came off the island, and learned what had transpired.”

Eleanor flushed. “I never thought I’d see the day when you would rebuke me for making an end of Charles Vane.”

“Vane was at my side in the last battle,” Flint said. “And rescued me from Charlestown, for that matter. Unexpected as both of us found it. You, on the other hand, were not. For all his faults, and they were legion, confusion about his loyalty was not one of them. Despite everything, Charles chose to die on his terms, and hope his example served to overthrow the slave masters he had always hated. So yes. In this instance, I find myself sympathizing more with him.”

Eleanor’s pale cheeks went briefly, patchily red, and she looked down. There was a long pause until she glanced up at him again. “So you’ve gotten old after all.”

“So have you.” Flint returned her gaze levelly. “It happens to the best and worst of us alike.”

Geneva both wished she was further away from this conversation, and kept leaning in to hear more of it. She guided the Rose carefully around the tip of the headland, and into the darkening water beyond, another wall of jungle rising up to starboard. “Grandpa, are we close?”

Flint jumped, as if he had momentarily forgotten she was there, and then gathered himself coolly, surveying the rugged, desolate coast. “We should be, yes,” he said. “There’s a sheltered spot just ahead where we can anchor. Who is going on this little excursion, by the way? You and me, and I suppose her as well, but… I want Thomas to stay here safely, and besides, he needs to look after Sam. Bellamy can make himself useful and help out, but anyone else – ”

“I… well, I suppose I’ll ask if Jim wants to come.” Geneva rubbed her eyes. “That would seem to be about the extent of our options.”

Flint looked as if he was about to say something, then didn’t. They skimmed up to the promised spot, from whence he said it was a more or less straightforward hike over a rocky spur and down into the eye on the far side, but which still could be an hour or two. Night was falling fast, but it was clear that with Sam in the state he was, there could be absolutely no more delay, not if they intended both to leave here with the rest of their family and get him – well, anywhere in time. As Flint and Geneva were arming and readying themselves, the hatch creaked, and Jim, followed by Silver, emerged on deck. “We’ll go with you.”

Flint looked extremely leery. “You? Go? With us?”

It was clear that this was directed far more to the latter half of the duo, whose color was somewhat better and whose leg had been more or less stitched up, but still didn’t look in particular shape for any more extended fuckery in the jungle. That was not even to get into all the other reasons recommending against his presence, which hung thickly in the air between them. After a very awkward moment, Silver said, “Just in case.”

“So what, we’re supposed to be slowed down by an invalid and a cripple?” Flint’s nostrils flared. “Fine. Who am I to stop you? Doesn’t even matter now.”

Silver’s lips pressed together, as if that cripple barb had cut deep, but he wasn’t going to let on. The end result of a brief period of intense activity was that Flint, Geneva, Jim, Silver, and Eleanor got back into the bloody rowboat, but before they lowered it, Geneva turned to Thomas. “If we don’t get back by dawn or so,” she said, “leave without us. We’ll figure another way off, on the Griffin or the Hispaniola or something else. Like Grandpa said to the Irishmen, we can’t tolerate dawdling. Get Sam to safety. You have to promise me.”

“Jenny – ” Thomas looked pained. “Are you sure? Leave you? And James? Behind here, again, of all places?”

“She’s right,” Flint said. “I fully intend to be back. But if not, go.”

The two of them looked at each other for a long moment, as Geneva thought for the first time in her life, she might be on the verge of seeing Thomas Hamilton break down. But somehow, one more time, he didn’t. Drew a deep breath, and nodded. “As you command, Captain Jones, Captain Flint. We’ll wait here until dawn. Then one way or another, we go.”

Geneva wasn’t sure she could speak, so she nodded instead. Then she signaled for the hoist, and they bumped and clattered down the side, hitting the water again. She and Flint pulled the oars, clipping them across the lagoon at high speed, and they practically jumped out when they hit the sand. Jim offered Silver a hand, but Silver shook his head. “If I have my crutch, I’ll manage.”

They quickly cut branches and lit torches, and since Flint was going to have to take the lead, Geneva put Eleanor’s arm around her shoulders. With Flint first, followed by Geneva and Eleanor, then Silver, and Jim bringing up the rear, they took a final breath and started in.

The climb was steep and dark and slippery. Geneva kept banging her knees and legs painfully, following the bright spot of Flint’s torch and trying not to go over and over the amount of hours remaining between now and dawn. Silver was managing to keep fairly close behind her, even though he must be in excruciating pain, only letting on with a grunt now and then. Jim had the other torch, and the trees swallowed them up on all sides until Geneva fancied that those two spots were the only light or goodness or fire or spark of anything in the entire world. The darkness felt as if it was pressing on her chest, crawling down her throat, foul as tar. All the warnings about ghosts, about not going in here at night, and here we are. She wanted to spit it out, but she couldn’t. It kept infiltrating into her, deeper and deeper as a rising tide.

About forty minutes or so into their trek, although as ever Geneva had quickly lost all sense of time, Eleanor uttered a small, confused sound, went limp, and slid free from Geneva’s shoulder, collapsing into a heap on the ground. Her face was dead white, eyes rolled back in her head and blood seeping through her shirt, and as they halted and crouched down next to her, Geneva shook her hard. “Eleanor? Eleanor. Eleanor. Wake up.”

Eleanor struggled to open her eyes, uttering a whimper of sheer agony. She reached out, trying to push herself upright, but her fingers splayed uselessly on the ground. “I’m…” She gasped, coughed, and retched, bringing up blood. “I… keep going… have to keep going…”

Geneva and Flint glanced at each other. It was Geneva who finally said, “Are you sure?”

“I want to see Matthew.” Eleanor gulped, then retched again, as Jim put a cautious hand on her shoulder. Her voice cracked, a tear running down her cheek. “I… could have done things better… as a mother… but for all the damages and deceptions… you were right, James. About… Rogers and me. We… weren’t happy, after. But we both loved Matthew. I swear we did. We just. We just couldn’t.” She was struggling and choking audibly for breath. “We couldn’t show it, how we should have… please. I want to see Matthew. I want to see Matthew.”

Flint’s face was very still as he stared down at her, almost unreadable. Then after the world’s longest pause, he passed his torch to Geneva, knelt down, and lifted Eleanor into his arms. With a look at Geneva, Jim, and Silver asking them to play along, he said, “I think he’s coming right now. Matthew? Matthew, is that you? Hey, over here. Hurry.”

“Aye.” Jim, who of course had never laid eyes on Matthew Rogers in his life and would not have known him from Adam, peered into the woods. “I definitely think he’s coming.”

“Is he?” Eleanor’s face lit up with brief, desperate joy. Her breath was shorter and shorter, shallower and shallower, and her body kicked and jerked in Flint’s arms. It was plain that she could no longer see, and the torchlight was starting to reflect opaquely in her eyes. “Matthew?”

Jim hesitated, then gave his own torch over to Silver. Kneeling down and doing his best to alter his Bristol drawl to a more correct, clipped London accent, he said, “Mother, it’s me.”

“Matthew.” Eleanor fumbled to grasp Jim’s hands, tears pouring down her wasted cheeks. “Matthew, I’m sorry. I love you. I – I thought I could. Fix it for you. I couldn’t. I’ve always been. So proud of you. Be good. Be good.”

Nobody said a word, so that her rasping, straining breathing was the only sound in the entire world. Jim kissed her hand, and Eleanor clutched hold with the very last of her strength. Smiled up at him, struggled to touch his cheek, but her fingers fell back limply against Flint’s arm. She was there for another moment, like a candle still guttering in a light breeze, and then almost as softly, she wasn’t. Geneva had a brief sensation of something white and silken flying upward toward the stars, to join the rest of the spirits in this place, and then only silence.

Flint looked down at her, not moving for a long moment. It seemed to take him a visible effort to let go of her, which he did quite gently. After a pause he said, “I suppose we have to go and – leave her. Perhaps cover her with some branches. We… don’t have time for anything else.”

“I’ll bury her,” Jim said, his own voice sounding slightly croaky. “I can find my way back to the Rose from here. You three need to keep going.”

Flint, Silver, and Geneva all stared at him. Finally Geneva said, “Are you sure?”

“Aye.” Jim took a deep breath. “She was my mother, I wouldn’t want someone to leave her lying in a godforsaken jungle. So I doubt Matthew does. And as I said, I’ll go back to the ship after.”

“You still.” Geneva struggled with the words. “You still have to leave at dawn if we’re not back. You remember that, don’t you? You have to go and leave m – leave us.”

Jim looked back at her for a seemingly endless instant, as if this was the one thing in the world he could not possibly bring himself to do, and yet would have to force himself to, if it was really what she wanted. His throat moved as he swallowed. Then he said yet more hoarsely, “All right. I promise. Now – now go find your family, all right? They’re the important ones.”

Geneva looked at him, aware that this included the man who had killed his father, who he still could be justly raging against, and yet he wasn’t, he wasn’t even thinking of it. She should likely nod and shake his hand again and thank him, but she didn’t. Instead she handed the torch back to Flint, reached up with shaking fingers, and gripped hold of his face. He bent down as she lifted herself on her toes, his arms wrapping around her back, and without a word, they brought their faces together, kissing sweetly and deeply and desperately and silently, and far, far too shortly. She felt shaky, torn apart, only part of herself, as she forced herself to let go and step back. They had to. She had to. And then for the first time in her life, Geneva Elizabeth Jones had that feeling she had always wanted: the knowledge that she could not never see him again and go on without caring, that if she left him, if she lost him, she would forever have that vital bit of her missing. It felt like a punch in the gut, twisting and tearing, and just now, she would give anything not to have it, because nothing could match the pain of feeling it, and pulling back.

And yet. Time was wasting.

Time to go.

She turned away, and started to walk, and Flint and Silver fell in behind her, silent sentinels with their torches. She wondered if, like Lot’s wife, she would turn to salt if she looked back, if like Eurydice she would be snatched again to the depths of hell, and so, no matter what, she did not.

It was perhaps an hour into their search when Gideon began to get suspicious. They had tramped a good deal of the surrounding jungle, searching for any hint or clue or marker where Sam might have passed, where Billy might have selected as an alternate hideout, when the Lord Governor of Charlestown – who thus far had participated fairly eagerly on the chance to come to grips with his hated father – stopped short and stared hard at them. “I begin to wonder,” he said, “if you believe you are pulling a clever trick on me. If my father is not in fact anywhere near this island, and you are keeping us going in circles while you look for someone else. Some missing family member of your own, perhaps? I am not in the mood for more pirate tricks.”

“Oh, are you not?” Killian said testily. They had heard an ongoing volley of gunshots from not far away, fairly recently, and yet no matter how many times they tried to find a path through, they kept running into dead ends and impassable thickets. It could not be clearer, in his view, that the place was outright taunting them, sensing their desperation and feeding on it, reveling in the fact that it was still more powerful than them, as if to pay them back for daring the waterfall and surviving. This was perhaps an irrationally sinister motive to ascribe to supposedly insentient geography, but Killian couldn’t help it. If this place is hell, then the sinners have to be punished. He had already noticed it working on him, in his barely controllable urge to let Captain Hook free, and on Emma, striking at the heart of her fears of abandonment and unworthiness, forcing her to let her mother go over the very edge of an abyss. Miranda and Charlotte were hiding it better, but they must feel that they were being allowed to get to the very point of finding their husbands, the reason they were risking this, and then having it snatched away. Everyone on this island might be fighting their own battle, their essential struggle, that one dark secret or deepest fear that could never be taken away or entirely overcome. What is it doing to Sam and Geneva? Or Liam and Regina? Or Flint, or Jack, or Matthew, or any of them?

In any event, the last thing Killian was in the mood for was more of Gideon’s whining, and he spun sharply on the younger man. “Your father actually is here, for your information. We might even stumble upon him one of these days, if you shut your damn mouth and help. We think he and your aunt-slash-adopted-mother-slash-whatever-she-bloody-is landed in the second eye of the skull, so we’ll bear back that way. No wonder you’re as charming as you are, if she was the one who raised you.”

Gideon started into a heated reply, then stopped. After a long pause he said, “I have no affection at all for Lady Fiona. She made my childhood a misery, introduced young boys to our house and told me that they would be my friends, and then used them for her own evil purposes. Used to play sick little games with me, asking which one I wanted to survive more. Told me that my mother had not wanted me, and so left to see the world, rather than be saddled with me. I became a Jacobite because it was the only way I could see to fight back on her, the privilege and power she has built at the Hanovers’ court, the lurking voice of malice she has become to the king and the government’s ministers – they’re all terrified of her, she can buy them off or make them dance like puppets with the right twitch of a string. I’m not sure James Stuart would be much better, but at least the Catholics know how to deal with demons. He could hardly be worse.”

Despite himself, Killian had not expected that answer. He and Gideon stared at each other for a tenuous moment, as if Gideon had not intended to be that honest and particularly not to him, but it had bubbled to the fore anyway. After a pause Killian said, less harshly, “If that’s the case, then why all this energy on killing your father? Surely she’s the one who deserves it.”

“That doesn’t mean my father is blameless,” Gideon said bitterly. “As I am sure you yourself are well aware, Captain Hook. He always loved power, always craved power like other men need drink, and my mother, much as he said he loved her too, always came second to that. That is why I never knew him, and why she went away, wherever that was, long ago. I wish I had known her. Perhaps things would have been different. I was told that she named me after her favorite hero in some book or other. You do not need to tell me that I have, in the main, not lived up to it.”

Once more, Killian weighed his words. He nodded at Emma, Miranda, and Charlotte, leading them up a path that bent more or less north, in the probable direction of the Titania and the explosion from earlier. Fine, then, if this was where they were going, time to get it over with. He had to save his breath for climbing, but at the top of a steep bit, looked over at Gideon again. “Do you remember anything about her? Your mother?”

“Only the very barest bits,” Gideon said, after a brief pause. “She was brown-haired, and she was kind, and my main memory is of her crying, though not why. Her name, so I am told, was Belle. Why, have you met her?”

“I don’t believe so.” Killian felt a brief, genuine remorse, though only fifteen minutes ago he had been ready to throttle Gideon on the spot. “I think I would have remembered if I had. So everything you’ve done – which has been quite bloody wrong-headed, don’t get me wrong – has been… what, for that? To defeat Lady Fiona, and pay your whole godforsaken family what they deserve? That’s a hard thing to take on yourself, lad.”

“Who else is going to do it?” Gideon kept climbing. “Who else knows who they are, knows the most about what they are, than me? I’m the one who’s lived it.”

“Aye, you are, at that.” Killian glanced back for the women, but they seemed to be doing all right. “And despite my very justified grievances with your father, I can say I’m sorry for it. You didn’t deserve that. No child did.”

Gideon glanced sidelong at him, momentarily uncertain, as they waited at the top for the others and Killian gave Emma and Miranda a hand over the steep verge. Charlotte scrambled up on her own, then onto a high rock to get a better view of where they were, and they heard her suck in her breath. Then she slid back down and said, “I think I can see the second eye from here. There’s some sort of burning wreckage in it, that was definitely the source of the explosion from earlier. Possibly a ship, but it’s hard to be certain.”

“The Titania?” Killian frowned. “Who would be able to pull that off? We damaged it fairly well during the shootout at sea, aye, but – ”

“She would,” Gideon said grimly. “If it’s damaged, and therefore useless to her, she wouldn’t turn a hair in lighting the powder magazine ablaze and blowing it to kingdom come. Which means she has some sort of other escape plan, and we’d better hope she doesn’t pull it off. Come on. I think I know where she’s going.”

Killian, Emma, Charlotte, and Miranda exchanged a glance. They had not intended to follow Gideon, they were aware that they had been steadily moving away from the place where they had heard gunshots, and this could still be a long con of some kind, but they had, after all, come out here to find Gold as well as Sam, and to face and settle that threat to their family and their safety once and for all. After only a slight pause, they started after Gideon, climbing through thigh-high weeds, up to the crest of the hill, and down a long slope beyond. Then Killian spotted someone ahead of them, practically running, sliding down the mud, and frowned. Raising his voice, he shouted, “Regina?!”

His sister-in-law turned with a start, saw them, and stopped. Why she was out here alone, or what had happened to Liam, Matthew, and the Griffin men… Killian fought back a very nasty sinking sensation and reminded himself to stay on topic. As they caught up with her – she looked pale and filthy and shaken and otherwise very unlike herself – he couldn’t help reaching out to catch her shoulder. “Bloody hell, are you all right?”

“I….” Regina took a shuddering breath. “I… don’t know.”

“What happened to Liam and Matthew?”

“They… went down,” Regina said. “There was a sinkhole, the Titania blew, the ground opened up, I nearly… anyway. Gold did what he does to Matthew – betrayed him to his face, that is – and Matthew fell in. Liam… I think he decided that he couldn’t stand by and watch it happen again, not after you. He went in after him. I haven’t seen them since. The Griffin men went in as well. I was trying to get back to the ship.”

“Liam – ” Killian could not help a mingled admiration and annoyance for his big brother’s bound and bullheaded determination to self-sacrificially hero the living shit out of every situation that came his way (though perhaps it was a bit of a family trait). “Liam jumped in the hole after Matthew? Don’t answer that, of course he did. Bloody hell. Where did Gold go? Is Lady Fiona with him?”

“Aye, they’re together. Planning to tear each other apart, no doubt.” Regina’s lips went thin as she stared at Gideon, clearly unimpressed. “Who’s this?”

“He’s…” Killian coughed. “He’s, wouldn’t you know it, Gold’s son. Lord Governor of Charlestown, we told you about our small difficulties there. We ran into him on the far side of the island. Long story.”

“Gold’s son?” Regina looked as if she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “Well, I don’t like him already. Just what we need, another… person to slow us down. What do you want to do, try to kiss and make up with your wretched – ”

“The opposite, madam,” Gideon said shortly. “Shall we continue?”

Regina eyed him malevolently, but apparently decided to keep further remarks to herself. They started to descend again, bashing their way through a half-cleared trail, until Charlotte, once more in the lead, caught up short, put a finger to her lips, and pointed. “Look sharp,” she whispered. “Just there.”

Killian crept up next to her, careful not to step on any twigs, and peered through the thick verdure. Sure enough, not a dozen yards away, Gold and a woman who had to be Lady Fiona were standing in the middle of a small clearing, sleeves rolled up and staring each other down, plainly about to embark on some involved death match or other ultimate settlement of their rivalry. While he thought he might enjoy that, and despite the sick jolt in the stomach it had given him to actually lay eyes on Lord Robert in the flesh again, Killian could not quite allow it to proceed uninterrupted. With a look at Emma, Miranda, and Charlotte warning them to stay concealed, he glanced as well at Gideon, and then strolled into the open. “Afternoon, crocodile.”

Gold, taken thoroughly off guard, whirled around to stare at him, and their eyes locked for the first time since their last confrontation on the beach on Nassau at night, while Killian had distracted him long enough for the mingled Navy and pirate forces to make their landing. To judge from the way Gold’s lip was curling, he had not forgotten that either, and it took him several moments to recollect himself enough to answer. “Well, well. Captain Hook. Such a long time, dearie. Such a… pleasant surprise.”

“Save your breath. We both know it isn’t.” Killian looked at Lady Fiona. “Where the fuck is my son, you evil bitch?”

“I wouldn’t know.” If she had been likewise caught off guard by his unexpected, almost faerie-like materialization from the jungle, it was hard to tell. “Billy kidnapped him and snuck ashore a while ago. Smart man like you, surely you put that together?”

Killian stared at her, on the very hair-edge of losing the last of his ragged self-control and trying to snap her like a broken spar, but – paradoxically – the only thing that held him back was the fact that Gold was watching, and giving into Hook now, when Gold had deliberately crafted and poked and provoked that man into existence every step of the way, would be the ultimate humiliation. He swallowed instead, trying to force down that ember of searing rage, which didn’t do much. Instead, he contorted his face into some crude semblance of a smile. “I actually have a visitor with me, speaking of sons. Someone you might want to see. Lord Murray?”

With what must have been the familial knack for the dramatic, Gideon accordingly made his entrance from the greenery. If Killian had wanted to hurt Gold, it was clear that in this, at least, he had succeeded. Gold had never met his son, but he too must have recognized the resemblance, and known of his existence, if nothing else than because Lady Fiona would have taunted him with it. He stared, at a total loss for words, until he finally said faintly, “Gid – Gideon?”

“It’s me. Father.” Gideon’s lips turned up in a mirthless smile. “Look at the rotten pair of you. I’m somehow not surprised in the least to find you like this. So you can be confident that you have met my very, very low expectations.”

Gold still seemed to be completely thrown. “Gideon,” he said again. “Son.”

“You don’t get to call me that, just so you know,” Gideon informed him. “Oh, and nor do you, Lady Fiona, not any more. Never again, in fact. I thought I might have a lot to say to you, when we finally met, but it turns out that I don’t. Actually, I just want to get this over with.” He reached into his jacket and produced one of his guns, cocked it, and aimed. “Goodbye, Robert.”

Gold looked stunned enough that he might not have budged at all, just stood there to take it, but that was when, to his utter horror and consternation, Killian found himself stepping in front of him. In front of the crocodile, the man who had ruined his life once and then many times thereafter, his family’s oldest enemy. The man who had tried only weeks ago to have them all killed, and who, if he was allowed to get back to civilization, might well do it again. Had just turned on and destroyed Matthew Rogers this very morning, the way he had Killian and Liam so many years ago on Antigua – that man. That man who so utterly undeserved Killian’s mercy or his protection, and yet, this wasn’t for him. Killian remained there, staring at Gideon and his gun, holding up his hands – the real and the false. “Gideon,” he said. “I can’t let you do this.”

“What?” Gideon stared at him. To say the least, he had clearly not expected Captain Hook to throw a last-moment wrench into the much-deserved assassination of his father. “Are you mad? Of course you can. Move.”

“I’m…” Killian wrestled with himself, almost did as told, thought he heard a small, sharp sound from the underbrush that must have been Emma. “I’m sorry. I thought I could. I brought you here and I had every intention of letting you go through with it. But – it’s not for Gold’s sake, believe me. It’s for yours. You said your mother named you after a hero she wanted you to be, and you failed at it. We can debate whether this would be a heroic act or not, but – and take it from someone who has done it, who killed his own father and then his surrogate father, a man named James Hawkins, and many men besides – I don’t want this for you. You’ve lived with the damage of both of them so long. You shouldn’t be the one who takes on still more. Not for them. I don’t know your mother. But if I did, I’d want to do this for her. For what it’s worth.”

Gideon stared at him, jaw set, gun still poised. Again, but with somewhat less emphasis, he said, “Move.”

“I’m sorry.” Killian sucked an unsteady breath. “You’ll have to shoot me first.”

Another slight noise and rustle that must be Emma, prepared to rush out and stop it if Killian persisted in this madness, putting his own life on the line to protect Robert bloody Gold. He still didn’t know what had come over him – but only that if Liam could not stand by and watch the cycle repeat with Matthew, then Killian couldn’t do the same with Gideon. The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the sons. And what use was it, what fucking use was any of it, of life, of existence, if anything, if the fathers, who should know better, remained silent?

There was an exceedingly delicate pause. Gideon gripped the gun, as if trying to convince himself that it didn’t matter if he had to shoot Killian too, but he couldn’t quite get there. The eerie silence was only broken by Lady Fiona, letting out a derisive laugh. “Oh dear. Mr. Jones, are you really taking this principled stand on behalf of my awful brother and his little damp dishrag of a wife? Belle? She should have cut and run long ago, if she knew what was good for her, but she remained convinced that he could change. Oh, Gideon, sweetheart, you really think she left you? She didn’t. Of course she didn’t. It was very tiresome. She kept thinking up plots to try to rescue you from my clutches. I had to put an end to it, and to her.”

The pause this time was sizzling, fraught as a lightning strike. Then Gold said, “You… you killed… you killed Belle?”

“Of course I did.” Lady Fiona seemed almost bored. “I daresay she would have eventually made it around to reuniting with you, which would just be pathetic. I forestalled that possibility, as well as her constant irritating interference with my son. Mr. Jones, please do move. I very much want to see this all come full circle. Time for Ickle Goldikins to finally get what he deserves.”

Gold uttered a small noise that, despite everything, almost made Killian feel sorry for him. His fists had clenched, his face dead white, as his gaze flickered between Lady Fiona and Gideon, and even, momentarily, to Killian. Then he said, “Belle would have – she did – she loved you very much. More than I ever had the chance to, or ever understood. I’m a weak, cowardly, feeble bastard who loves power and control more than anything, and you’re right. You’re both right. I deserve this. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you. I’m so sorry. But I can do this.”

Gideon frowned at him, the gun wavering slightly, as nobody seemed certain what was about to happen or what they should do. Gold took a final breath, rocking back on his heels. And then all at once, he shoved Killian aside and charged past him, head down, tackling Lady Fiona head-on and carrying her with his momentum through the shrubbery, past the far side of the clearing, and out to the edge of the cliff, into thin air. They remained suspended, entangled together, for a long, impossibly long moment. Then in the next, they were gone.

Killian and Gideon whirled around, staring at the spot where they had been, and both of them hurried to the cliff edge to look down. There was no sign of Gold or Fiona; the drop was at least a hundred feet, and the spreading splash in the water could have been them, but even though Killian and Gideon watched for several tense moments, nobody surfaced. The only sound was the wind, scraping through the jungle, and the far-off sigh of waves.

“Jesus,” Killian said, after a long moment. “Frankly, even if they somehow survived that, I think it’s no more than they deserve, getting stuck in this bloody place and fighting each other for eternity. As if anyone ever needed another reason not to come back here.” He hesitated again, then looked at Gideon. “Are you all right?”

“I…” Gideon looked (understandably) stunned. “I don’t know. I… I don’t know. Why did you… you stopped me. From doing it myself.”

“Aye,” Killian said quietly. “And you may hate me for it, but I don’t regret that I did. And I still have business left. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m looking for my family.”

Gideon blinked, as if to say that his family, terrible and abusive and dysfunctional as it had been, had just gone over the cliff before his eyes, but didn’t try to stop him. Indeed, he even followed Killian back toward the grove and the women, who were also looking pole-axed. Emma ran out and threw herself into Killian’s arms as he came nearer, and he held her tightly for a long moment, chin on her hair. Then she said, “You scared me to death.”

“I’m sorry for that. But not for why.” Killian kissed her quickly. “Jesus Christ, let’s find the others and get out of here. I want to go home, Swan. I want our children back. I want to sleep the first night of my whole life knowing that Robert Gold is gone for good. Come on.”

Emma nodded, then took his hand, and they started down the verge, Miranda, Regina, and Charlotte behind them, and Gideon trailing along rather like a lost duckling. Kept listening for any sudden sounds of the Gold siblings’ re-emergence, but still nothing. They were gone.

It occupied most of the afternoon to retrace their steps through the jungle and in more or less the direction of the Griffin. As before, they kept hitting multiple dead ends, even when they tried different paths, and Killian had again the sense that the island was taunting them, aware that this was the final chess match and determined not to let them go without a fight. But at last, as the light had long vanished behind the headlands and there was an icy chill in the air, they climbed down into the bone-strewn beach that spread across the shore of the first eye of the skull. The Griffin was still anchored where they had left her, alongside the ghostly ruin of the Walrus, and Killian blew out a breath of deep relief. But they couldn’t exactly scuttle aboard and bugger off, much as he dearly wanted to, and he turned to Emma. “Think we can run search parties? You there, if you’ve decided to be useful, you have redcoats, don’t you? Minions? If we could get you back to the Hispaniola, would you help us?”

“I…” Gideon looked as if he had never been asked that question before. “Well, we’re now on the exact opposite side of the island from where I left it, so I don’t know that’s possible at the moment, but – ” He stopped, staring up at the jungle. “Wait, did you see that?”

“See what?” Killian turned edgily, not at all sure that he wanted to know what could come out of the trees at twilight around here. He had heard crunching, however, and reached for his pistol as Charlotte did the same; one certainly hoped that their powder had dried by now. But in the next moment, he felt a jarring breath of desperate relief shudder through him from head to heel. The newcomers, absolutely drenched in mud from head to heel, battered, bruised, bloodied, exhausted, and wan, were marching a group of about half a dozen highly disreputable-looking men in front of them, but they were still recognizable. Liam and Matthew.

Gideon made a small noise of confusion as they emerged. “MacSweeney?” he blurted out, staring at the apparent ringleader of the motley band: a tall, hard-muscled ginger brawler who, just by the look and the name, clearly had to be a fellow countryman of Killian’s. “The hell are you – ”

“That’s him, Captains,” the man named MacSweeney announced, pointing at Gideon. “Just as I promised ya. The Jacobite ringleader himself, Lord Gideon Murray.”

“What?” Gideon paused, then stared, and then got a furious expression. “What are you – ?”

Matthew Rogers, completely filthy and moving his arm as if it had been badly wounded, drew his pistol and pointed it at Gideon. “I have been informed,” he said, with icy savoir-faire unshaken even by what must have been the worst day of his entire life to date, “that you have engaged in high treason by the active procurement of support, money, and other material goods for the pretender James Stuart, and furthermore, that you have coerced presently law-abiding citizens of His Majesty King George II into committing treason by furtherly unlawful methods. That your presence on Skeleton Island is in pursuit of its treasure thus to deliver to said pretender, and you have committed various other misdemeanors, nuisances, and general malfeasance along the way. Gideon Murray – it was Gideon Murray, wasn’t it? – you are under arrest. Resist, and I will shoot you.”

Gideon looked around wildly at Killian and Emma, as if they had conspired to lead him into a trap, but neither of them said anything. Matthew raised his uninjured arm to wave at the Griffin, and within short order, several of the men had made their way ashore on the ship’s smallest boat to rejoin their captain, goggling at his poor state of repairs. “What the devil happened – I mean, saving your pardons, Captain?”

“A most unfortunate accident,” Matthew said, more tightly than ever. “I owe my life to the brave offices of Captain Jones, however, and I am assuredly grateful for it. My crew, however…” He trailed off, before turning to Killian and Emma. “What happened to the two I sent with you?”

“They – ” At that moment, Killian realized he genuinely had no bloody idea, couldn’t recall the time he had last seen them, or where the four of them – himself, Emma, Miranda, and Charlotte – had lost track of them. It must have been a while ago, well before they reached the waterfall, and yet he had no notion. “I… I don’t know.”

Matthew looked somewhat skeptical of this answer, but clearly did not think the moment was right to press for more. Instead, he turned to the men he did have. “Arrest the Jacobites,” he said, “and transport them to the ship and into secure custody. I still have to help the Joneses look for their missing offspring before we can depart.”

“The Jacobites?” MacSweeney frowned. “Wait, as in the plural?”

“Yes, as in the plural,” Matthew said mildly. “I thank you for your assistance in promising to lead us to Lord Gideon, but that did not mean I suddenly overlooked your own freely confessed treasonous activities. It may be up to a court and jury to offer you a plea bargain, but such is not my place. Now if you don’t mind – ”

“Wait,” MacSweeney said, turning to Killian. “Wait. Geneva Jones – that’d be your daughter, eh? You’d be the father from Louth, the one who shared a mind with mine on ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. Your daughter and your son. They and some cranky-arse old man and other assorted friends – they’re here. Or were, at least.”

“What?” Killian was jolted. “How the hell do you know my daughter?”

“Well,” MacSweeney said. “In all honesty, I was set on her ship by Lord feckin’ Gideon here when we took it into custody at sea, but then I decided she was a better wager than he was, so I helped her ambush that oblivious twat Woodlawn and try to get the others back. Any rate, as I said, they’re here on the island. Your son didn’t look well. He’s badly hurt.”

“Sam?” Emma went white. “What’s the matter with Sam?”

“Dunno,” MacSweeney said, “but he was a few good shakes away from meetin’ his maker, last we saw of him. See, now, tell your mate with the poker up his arse that he doesn’t want to arrest me. Don’t ya, eh?”

Killian was briefly tempted to deck the bastard instead, countryman or no countryman, but he turned to Matthew. “I think we need him for the moment. Unfortunately.”

He thought Matthew might object, but after a pause, the young captain nodded, very shortly. As the Griffin men removed Gideon and the other Jacobites, marching them onto the boat and rowing them back out to the waiting ship, Killian spun sharply back to MacSweeney. “You’d better tell us everything you know right now, or I’m the one that will gut you slowly.”

He’d thought that MacSweeney might be baldly bluffing to save his skin, but it was true that those were details he could not easily know otherwise, and the Irish charlatan was more or less forthcoming with the story after that. Killian and Emma looked at each other in horror, while Miranda and Charlotte went almost faint with relief for their respective husbands (two, in Miranda’s case) but even more worried as a result. On the one hand, the knowledge that the other half of their family had stumbled their way together was immeasurably heartening, but on the other, it was clear that Sam was critically ill, and there was no way to reach him quickly. Emma looked almost sick with fear. “We could – ” she started. “We could risk it.”

“We just lost two men without a trace earlier, and we have no idea where or how,” Killian said. “And we’ve seen everything else this island has been doing. Believe me, love, I want to find him right now, but it would be faster on the Griffin. If we sail out and around, we have to run into the Rose somewhere on the coast, don’t we? Trying to go back into the jungle at night, after the ridiculous day we’ve already had…” He looked back at Matthew. “If we let you arrest this idiot now that he’s told us what he knows, could we shove off? I don’t think there’s anything left except our vagrant offspring, and if we know more or less where they are – ”

“That’s assuming that they made it back to the Rose,” Emma argued. “We don’t know that for sure. They could have stumbled onto something, they could be out in the jungle somewhere – some of us could go overland, and the others on the ship – ”

“I don’t think so.” Killian glanced up at the harbor suddenly and sharply; he had had the unpleasant feeling that there was someone or something else there, apart from the Griffin. He stared at the Walrus, in case it should now be wakening to unholy animate life as well, but it remained as black and desolate as ever. “Wait. Is there another ship lurking down the passage? Gideon have some sort of hidden signal to alert the Hispaniola that he was about to be arrested for treason, you think? Come rushing in here and fetch him, that sort of thing?

“Not that I know of.” Matthew tried to wipe the mud off his face with his wounded arm, grimaced, and had to use the other one. “It seems improbable. Dare I ask, by the way, if you happened across Lord Robert in your peregrinations?”

“We…” Killian hesitated. “We did, yes. As far as we are aware, we don’t expect for him to be joining us. Or anyone, except for the ghosts.”

Matthew’s mouth went grim. He was too self-possessed to let on exactly what he thought of that, but he certainly did not look to be too broken up. “We will – ” he started, then stopped. “We will have to discuss matters in regard to that later. Your brother – your brother was very valiant. I myself might well be accounted one of the spirits without him.”

“Aye. Well.” Killian glanced over at his likewise muddy sibling, and for the first time in years, after what Liam had done for Matthew and what he himself had done for Gideon, felt as if they understood each other, once more, at last. Almost that same easy and instinctive way as they had on the Imperator, so long ago, when they could read each other’s minds and believe in each other without hesitation. And better, because that trust was based on a lie, on him forever overshadowing me, while this is… equal. Too well aware of our own flaws, but our strengths as well. Atonement for everything we could not make right for ourselves, and perhaps, peace.

He started toward Liam, intending to clap him on the shoulder, to take him by the hand, to tell him that he wanted nothing more than to sit down and talk with him for days, for weeks, for months. To make up for all the time he had spent holding him away, to make their two halves again to a whole. It was just then, however, that Matthew, glancing into the dark woods to the left of them, made a startled sound. “I don’t – Good Lord, more company?”

Everyone looked around, and then stared outright, just as three battered figures emerged and – finding themselves awaited by a well-armed party – held up their hands reflexively. But as they came closer, they recognized each other, and Emma, Killian, and Miranda all broke into a run, bones crunching underfoot, to clutch at their daughter and husband, respectively. “Sweetheart – ” Killian hugged Geneva hard enough to hear her ribs creak, as Emma was kissing her over and over in an apparent frantic rush to make sure she was real. “Jesus, how did you – are you – ”

Geneva, for her part, had lost all pretense of adult composure or control, and her shoulders were racking with sobs as she hung onto them. Flint was likewise holding Miranda as if he didn’t intend to let go for several minutes, but after a long pause, he said, “The Rose is just on the other side of the headland. It’ll be a long hike back, but we should get started without delay. I told them to leave if we weren’t back by dawn, and I expect they will comply.”

“We – ” Killian blinked, then turned to the third member of their party, who had no one to run and welcome him, and was standing by in silence. “Bloody hell, it’s you.”

“Aye,” John Silver said. For a man who made his living with words, he appeared to have nothing else to offer. “Hello, Killian.” He glanced over. “Emma.”

Confused but grateful, they nodded awkwardly back at him. Killian wanted to know how in damnation Silver of all people should turn up in company with Flint on Skeleton bloody Island, but then, perhaps it was the least surprising of all the things in the world that he had. He was about to say something else, when the mouth of the dark passage lit up with fire.

Killian dived instinctively at his wife and daughter, knocking them down, even as he heard the whistle and boom of heavy shot. Jesus, that was – that was – what? He thought back madly to that brief sensation they had had en route to Skeleton Island, that there was someone else out there on the sea, someone following them, but clever enough never to come too close or let themselves be discovered. That wrecked ship in the channel meant that someone else had the coordinates, that they could be dug up again at need, and Matthew had said they had to swing dangerously close to Cuba during their traverse of the Windward Passage. After what the family had done to João da Souza in Nassau – when this was, of course, Da Souza’s masters’ lost treasure and their most enduring defeat, the one thing they would go to all lengths to get back –

“Jesus,” Killian breathed, quiet at first and then louder. “Jesus, it’s the fucking Spanish.”

He did not need to repeat himself, as it was immediately obvious that he was correct. The Spanish man-of-war emerged from its concealment in the channel with another full broadside, lighting up the night almost beautifully. The Griffin, vulnerable and stationary at anchor, was a sitting duck, and Matthew Rogers stared at his ship, then at the family, and then at the onrushing foe. Then he said, “Get out of here. Get over the headland. I’ll get back to the Griffin and take them on. Give you a chance, at least.”

“What?” Killian had to shout over the sound of the next volley. “Lad – ”

“I owe your brother my life,” Matthew said. He seemed to be having difficulty with the words. “And what happened with Lord – Lord Robert earlier – you warned me. You all warned me. It is my own fault that I did not listen. And after what I did to your son, and – ” He paused, looking at Killian and Emma, then shook his head. “You have been… kind. And it is war time, after all. It is the right and duty of the Royal Navy to fight the Spanish. Go. Go.”

John Silver glanced at Flint for a long moment, then started to limp quickly toward Matthew. He did not appear inclined to ask permission to accompany him, or forgiveness; it was merely plain that he intended to do it. Liam likewise hesitated a fractional moment, then said, “You can’t command the attack by yourself with no lieutenants. You’ll need help.”

“Aye.” Charlotte moved in from the other side. “Let’s go.”

Matthew stared back and forth between them for a long moment, then apparently decided that if they were set on such a completely illogical course of action, he could not dissuade them. With no further ado, they set off toward the longboat, but then – almost as loud as a shout in the momentary lull between bombardments – Flint said, “John.”

Silver paused briefly, but did not stop. An unspeakably sad smile turned up the corner of his mouth. “You always knew,” he said. “You always knew that one of us was leaving the other behind here. I had my turn to do that. Now it’s yours. God’s pity. Go.”

“Liam – ” Killian and Regina seemed to speak it almost at once, even as they knew there was no chance of changing his mind, never had been. “Good luck, all right?”

“If we survive,” Matthew said, “we will return to Nassau and find you there. Good luck to you as well, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Mr. and Mrs. Flint, Miss Jones. Thank you. And goodbye.”

With that, he, Liam, Silver, Charlotte, and MacSweeney ran down the beach to the longboat, as Killian, Emma, Flint, Miranda, Regina, and Geneva remained transfixed for a moment longer. The Griffin men, even without their captain on board, had started to return fire on the Spanish vessel, but awkwardly, given as they were still a motionless target and did not have the benefit of their full complement of guns. Once more, flashes and strafes lit up the dark sky like shooting stars, and Killian Jones wondered at the strange and perfect beauty of moments like these, of such unimaginable bravery and truth and love, even in the midst of heartbreak. The words of a psalm came briefly to mind. From the wings of heaven, to the reaches of hell.

He crossed himself, once and then again. Then he reached for his family, and they ran.

#captain swan #cs ff #cs au #cs next gen #the rose and thorn #treasure island #black sails #sweet jesus this chapter was a monster also help

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