"Wake up, Father, wake up!" Haytham's voice was insistent in his father's ear, and Edward rolled over drowsily.
He'd been dreaming he was sailing to meet all his old friends: Mary, Thatch, Ben, even Jack and Vane and hapless Stede. They were going to have a grand party, Mary was telling him, with barrels of rum for everyone, and then they were going to sit around and braid Thatch's beard with pretty ribbons. Edward didn't want to miss out on the fun. "Go tell your mother."
"I can't, Father, wake up." Edward realized that Haytham's voice was not high-pitched and childlike, but adult. So: Haytham visiting from the future, visible and tangible only to him.
"Haytham, son, I'm tired. What hour of the morning is it?" Edward rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
"The most important one. You must hurry, get your sword." Haytham cocked his head. "Listen, they just killed Thatch."
"Thatch?" Edward asked, confused.
"The dog," was Haytham's exasperated reply.
"I have-"
"There's five of them," his son interrupted, his words brisk and clipped. "They've killed the guards and they're trying to get your book. I'm afraid that's my fault; I let slip to Birch where it might be. You had better wake Mother, they'll try to kill her too." He paused a moment, his face contorted oddly.
"Birch? What? Tessa?" Edward was already pulling on his trousers. "I wish you could help me."
"I will," promised Haytham, then vanished before his father could ask about his stricken expression.