Captain Turner slapped the flat side of the shovel against the ground, tamping the sand back into place. Kneeling, she pressed her fingers to her mouth, then the damp sand. She stood and practiced taking a few deep and less than soothing breaths. Then, slinging the shovel over her shoulder, she trekked back to the beach.
The dinghy was where she had left it; quickly, she stowed the last of her gear and pushed out into the cove. She pulled at the oars until the island was reduced to a small dot on the horizon, and then she threw her gear—shovel, charts, water jugs, all but the lantern— overboard.
It took another seven hours of drifting before the sight of the sun kissing the edge of the water prodded her into action. Stifling the last of her doubts under a rough knot of loss, she grasped the lantern in shaking hands and upended it, spilling the oil over the boards and tossing the lantern on top. The flame flickered on the damp planks but caught, spreading across the belly of her vessel, wrapping around her body like a shawl.
The acrid smoke burned her lungs after only a few minutes, but it was the first brush of flames that shocked her. She had somehow expected it to be gentle, numbing, somehow hoped that the depth of her conviction would protect her. But the flames licking her flesh were agony, were poetry. The smell in her raw nostrils was more pungent than burning wood or oil or cloth. Seared flesh.
Minutes passed as hours as her skin blistered, stiffened, and cracked, her hair caught and sizzled, the heat singed her eyes and throat. She couldn't cry out even if she wanted to, even if there was someone to hear. Water seeped through the ruined wood and pooled around her feet, flame's cold counterpoint.
It wasn't until the dinghy was mostly submerged that the Flying Dutchman finally broke through the waves, rising from the ocean. Her captain gripped the rail as the vessel drew alongside, the confusion written on his face cresting over into anguish, but not yet understanding.
Elizabeth licked her blackened lips and drew a last rattling breath, forcing what was left of her eyes to focus on her husband's face. "Captain," she rasped, "I've come to pledge myself to your crew."
