"Please come down, Abigail."

Abigail sat on the edge of the calico upholstered bench at the foot of her bed, wringing her hands and stoutly refusing to stand and look Mrs. Milton in the eye.

"He's downstairs talking to my husband," Mrs. Milton continued. "Really, Abigail, he's a fine gentleman. You may never get a better another opportunity like this."

She was right, of course, and Abigail knew it. That's why she wore the nicest dress she had left. Everything else had been sold. It was plain, cornsilk blue muslin, modest enough for any occasion but finely cut enough to suit a formal dinner. Her hair hung mostly loose around her shoulders, the front pieces pinned back to better frame her face. It might be the last time she could wear it like this.

"For the love of God, Abigail," Mrs. Milton's voice broke, "we cannot pay your debt against the crown and we will not be able to secure a good marriage for our daughter if you remain under our roof." She swallowed a sharp breath. Abigail could only stare at the older woman, graying around her edges and more tired than Abigail had ever seen her. When Abigail nodded and stood, Mrs. Milton released her breath in a great gasp. "Good, good," she murmured, ushering Abigail out of the room to meet her fate.

Downstairs, Abigail straightened her spine and followed her matron into the parlor, where a man she hadn't expected stood in quiet conversation with Mr. Milton. He was of average height, a bit soft around the middle and his shoulders sloped where a stronger man's would be square. He held his pale hands behind his back, clad in head-to-toe somber black. A matching, round-brimmed hat lay primly on one of the brocade seats. When he turned at the women's entrance, Abigail was greeted by a soft round face, cheeks flushed from either the warmth of the room or maybe the same anxiety she felt. Round spectacles obscured his eyes, but his face held a genuine smile.

Something akin to relief washed through Abigail in that moment. It was warm and soothing. It guided her feet forward where so many times before she had tried to walk away. He took her hand - his was as soft as she'd imagined - and they made introductions, but Abigail's mind swirled with hope, possibility, and confusion. They made polite, unobtrusive talk with Mr. and Mrs. Milton until the couple suggested that Abigail show the man around their confined garden.

They walked side by side in silence before the man - a Mr. Albert Locke, minister - cleared his throat. "You must be wondering what brings me to seek your company today, Miss Ashe."

Abigail dropped her hand from one of the roses and hummed an affirmative. Even in the fresh air, she couldn't quite find her voice. Where the sun shone, they were both bathed in warmth.

"One of Mrs. Milton's letters found its way to my cousin," Albert went on. His voice was like the rest of him, gentle. "He was…not inclined to reply, but I took a further interest. I'm ashamed to say, I researched you rather thoroughly."

"And you still came?" Abigail stopped walking, cocking her head at him in question.

Albert dipped a nod and had the good graces to blush. "I found your words - what had been published, at least - to be quite ardent."

"So did the jury that condemned my father," Abigail said, immediately wishing she hadn't.

Albert stopped and his face knitted up in pain so tangible Abigail felt an instinct to comfort him. "I'm so sorry, Miss Ashe. That was thoughtless, and not what I meant. It's just," he pulled his hat off his head and turned the brim in his hands, "your words echoed my own sentiments, and so beautifully. I felt that perhaps you were a kindred spirit."

Words failed her. Abigail studied him, awash in surprise and confusion. When his face fell - he must have believed she would reject him - Abigail reached out to still his hands, still nervously turning and bending the brim of his hat. "I'm sorry, Mr. Locke, it's just that I'm not sure anyone has spared a kind word to me about my journal." Propriety returned and she dropped his hands. "I'm afraid you give me too much credit. I was rather naive, and besotted by the men who treated me with common courtesy after I had suffered so much."

"If it was naivete, then I believe we are still kindred spirits." He chuckled nervously, and Abigail joined him. "I found so few people in London who shared my views. It was difficult to keep a congregation, so I came here in search of the tolerance and freedom so many have written about. I want to share the message that all are equal in the eyes of God. All can find redemption in His grace."

"I haven't been fortunate enough to find many more approving of that message here." Abigail's voice fell and she turned her attention back to the brightly colored roses.

Albert moved quietly next to her, joining her inspection of the blooms. "I have secured a position spreading the word for a new settlement. It's one of the furthest reaches of the English empire." He paused and returned his gaze to her, smiling playfully. "Perhaps all the way out there, people will have no choice but to listen."

Abigail giggled. "So, that's your plan? Corner them in the frontier and establish yourself as the only Christian minister so they have to listen?"

"That's the idea," Albert conceded with a bright grin. He wasn't handsome, but his shy happiness was infectious. She felt lighter than she had in weeks, maybe longer. Albert took a deep breath and tried to put on a more serious face, but his lips were still turned up. "I know this is highly unconventional, but I find myself pressed for time. My arrangements are in place and I will be on my way to the western border of the Carolinas before the end of the month. Miss Ashe, Abigail, I would very much like a partner in my adventure."

Her heart fluttered - an adventure! A fresh start far from the society that rejected her, and with a man who seemed genuinely kind. But the reality rushed in to smother the little spark of hope. "Mr. Locke, I appreciate the suggestion, but I don't think I would be a suitable partner. I am thoroughly soiled, at least in the eyes of anyone who has heard of me, and I am in impressive financial straights at the moment. I would not make a very good minister's wife."

Albert nodded and folded his hands behind his back. "I thought you might say that. Would you like to join me for tea? I can explain the particulars. If you are still interested and don't find me entirely detestable, perhaps I could call on you again tomorrow?"

Abigail felt a warm smile lighting up her face. She took the arm Albert offered. "I think that sounds reasonable, Mr. Locke."

Arm-in-arm, they continued their quiet stroll around the garden, and step-by-step, Abigail began to believe her life might not be over, after all.

Abigail laughed into the mug of warm, sweet liquid Captain Flint offered her. By this time tomorrow, she'd be back on dry land, in the arms of her father. She felt a touch sad about that.

Over the years of separation, her father was little more than a dim memory from childhood and increasingly distant and cold letters. Life on the Siren was vibrant and real. She was surrounded by men condemned by her father, but they were kind. Joji gave her a tiny wooden carving of a dolphin she'd secreted away among the small case of things she was rapidly acquiring on this ship. Mr. Gates took time to answer her questions, and no matter how silly she knew the questions were, he never lost patience with her. She had become Mr. Silver's chosen taste-tester, to the cheers of the crew who enjoyed the improvement in their meals. Captain Flint had furnished her with a small selection of dresses, all a touch too large for her but her own garments were beyond repair, and a journal. "My reading material isn't quite appropriate for a young lady, but I thought perhaps you'd enjoy writing."

She did enjoy writing. She wrote about everything she saw on the ship, her observations of the men, her fears about what faced her in the American colonies, and the handsome blond giant who was never far from sight. Neither Captain Flint nor Billy would admit it to her, but the captain had undoubtedly assigned his quartermaster to look out for her. She wasn't ready to write about what had happened to her before her rescue, nor talk about it, but Billy was always there. He was there when she wandered the deck at night, still too frightened by a closed cabin door to comfortably sleep. He showed her - in a condensed, simplified manner - how they navigated by the stars. He answered her questions as readily as Mr. Gates, but he looked at her longer. His eyes lingered a moment too long before he'd look away, ducking out of sight before she could remark about the pink tinge around his ears.

This evening he was sitting across from her, laughing and cheering at the music and dancing. Abigail set her mug down to clap along with the stomping feet and drums. With a mandolin, an assortment of pipes, and the drumming tattoo of boots on the deck, they nearly formed a complete band. Against the weathered wood of the ship, the salty breeze and rhythmic clapping of waves, their little party was a cheery affair of the sort Abigail had never experienced. It pained her to think she might never experience it again.

A hand presented itself before her, followed by Silver's infectious grin. He waggled his eyebrows at her, so she took one more sip of her panch, set it down and accepted his hand, to the cheers of the crew. He spun her into a fast dance around the tight space of the open deck. It didn't take much between the spinning, exertion, and half a mug she'd already drank, to leave her too dizzy to continue. The men protested for about ten seconds before another pair jumped up to fill the space with a stomping jig. Silver tried to guide her back to the seat she'd abandoned, but she waved him off.

Flint offered her drink up to her. She took it, gulping it down in a decidedly un-ladylike fashion. Only when she lowered the mug, still gasping for breath, did she notice that Billy was no longer present.

"He had to check the lines," Flint answered her question before she asked. His face was passive, but his eyes twinkled at her in the golden lamplight. Abigail recalled writing in her journal that underneath his fearsome exterior and beyond his reputation, James Flint was the least intimidating pirate she'd encountered thus far in her high seas adventure. She giggled into her cup, remembering describing him as a grumbling reddish bear, more growl than bite. "You like him." Flint raised a brow and caught her open-mouthed stare, and laughed. "He likes you, and that's saying something. I don't think I've ever seen him sit down and have a drink with everyone for this." He gestured to the still-dancing and now singing crewmen. "He's all business, usually. Oh, don't look so shocked. In another life, you two might have been peers."

Abigail scooted onto the bench next to him, blissfully unconscious of her proximity to him.

Flint snorted a laugh at her upturned face, so earnest and eager to learn more. "His parents made sure he was educated. He grew up in Kent, probably not far from you." Abigail was inching closer, enraptured. The music, singing, and laughing faded in her periphery. "His parents were agitators, religious and political sort. He was snatched right off the docks handing out anti-impressment books. I suppose they thought it was funny. By the time I found him, he was half-starved, half-wild from their treatment. I helped him hunt down the men who took him. He's been with me ever since."

Abigail hung on every word. "He didn't want to go home?"

"No," Flint shook his head slowly, looking out over his men. "There are some things you don't come back from. I imagine he didn't feel he had a place in his family home anymore."

With a terse excuse, he left Abigail to mull over Billy's choice to stay at sea. The moisture of the wood under her skirts was seeping steadily to her skin. She hadn't been fully dry since leaving England, but on the Siren she didn't mind. Her hair had begun to curl wildly and her time on the deck was restoring her color. She'd come to find the regular sprays and touches of saltwater refreshing, even replenishing. There were more stars by half than she ever saw back home. Even the constant motion of the ship - a thing that had been so nauseating on Lowe's ship - was soothing. The endless blue in all directions offered endless opportunity.

Were she in Billy's shoes, she might not want to go home either. But she was definitely not in Billy's shoes. Not in the slightest. She had nothing to fear by returning to her family and civilized society.

By midnight, long after the party disbursed and she was to have gone to bed, thoughts of home kept her tossing and turning. Would she be welcomed back? Her father's letters were distant and impersonal, and they came less and less frequently over the years. She'd certainly never heard of a woman being abducted who wasn't ruined. They always disappeared after their ransoms were paid. Would she be just as unwelcome as a young man who joined with pirates against the King's Navy, no matter how justified?

She had one last goal to accomplish before leaving the Siren, and since she couldn't sleep and this was her last night, Abigail resolved that she was out of excuses. She dug into the traveling case Captain Flint gave her, fished out the boy's trousers she'd found, and steeled her resolve.

Ten minutes later, she was on deck. The sparse night crew either took no notice of her, or had been instructed to make no comment about any of her nightly wanderings. Tonight, however, was a little different. In boys trousers, tied at her waist by a pretty floral scarf, with only her chemise and stays under a boy's loose linen shirt, Abigail was afraid she was downright scandalous. Her bare feet felt every splinter in the deck. The pirates made walking around barefoot look so easy, but hers were too pampered.

The wind blew her loosely braided hair off her face. She fisted her hands and strode resolutely forward, eyes on her destination. She didn't notice Billy leaning against the quarterdeck rail, waiting for her. She didn't notice his double-take, or the way his mouth fell open when he saw her pale feet, or the length of time his eyes lingered on her form glowing on the nearly black deck like a little flame.

She stopped at the main mast and craned her neck to look up. The mess of lines and sails looked even more imposing in the dark.

A quiet clearing of a throat sent her jumping nearly out of her skin. Billy materialized next to her silently - a feat for a man of his size. He followed her eyes up the mast and crossed his arms, frowning. Abigail forced herself to look away. It really was unseemly to be that large.

"What exactly are you planning on doing?"

Abigail put her hands to her hips. "I want to go up there."

"Up there?" Billy pointed a finger straight up. "No, no," he shook his head. "Flint'll kill me."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Well, I want to. And…and I don't think you can stop me." She jutted her chin out and put on her best air of conviction.

Billy laughed. He snorted, actually, and grinned at her. "You don't think I can stop you?" She sputtered, but he went on. "What were you going to do, climb up there by yourself? You know there's a watch in the nest?" She deflated by a measure and he took her by the elbow, gently but with purpose. "C'mon, you can take the air up on the-"

"No!" She wrenched out of his grip. His eyes widened and his hands dropped to his sides, uncertain with himself. "I just…I'll never get another chance. Please?"

Abigail was many things, probably too naive, but she wasn't that naive. She let her eyes glass over, looking up at him under her lashes and pursing her lips into a pout, punctuated by worrying at her bottom lip. Yes, this look had worked for her more than once, and Billy was no exception. His eyes flickered to her lips and he gulped.

He was left in indecision. He looked between her and the mast, then back to her, and groaned, scrubbing his hand across his face. He turned toward the stern and nodded to himself. "One condition," he paused when her face brightened, "two. No, three. You don't say a word about this, because Flint will have me keelhauled. We'll go to the mizzen." He held out his hand to her. She slipped hers into it and let him lead her.

"The mizzen?"

"It's shorter, and there's not anyone in that nest."

"Shorter." It wasn't a question, just a grumbled comment.

"Yes, shorter." He stopped as they came to the base of the mast. Up close, she didn't think it looked much shorter. "You climb with me. You may have noticed, but we don't do with propriety much here. I'm gonna have to…help you."

Abigail blinked up at him. There had to be some meaning here she was missing. He looked so serious. She wasn't sure, but she gamely nodded anyway. "Of course."

His lips pressed into a tight line. "Right." He gestured for her to stand in front of him, where their climb would start. "Not one word," he repeated before one arm reached over her head and his other hand found her waist.

Oh. That would explain his concern about propriety. She spent the rest of the climb wavering between exhilaration at their increasing distance from the deck and a stuttering heart whenever his hand tightened on her as the mast rocked back and forth, or when the expanse of his chest brushed her back, fully encircling her. Her arms ached, and her feet slipped more than once, but she couldn't have fallen even if she just let go and jumped. When he let her climb a measure before following, his nose and lips came dangerously close to her hair, her cheek. When she slowed or paused, he would murmur a quiet instruction on where to reach next.

He guided her into the confines of the nest before joining her. The platform was tiny and the thin wooden railing didn't do much but give her something to hold onto. At this height, each gentle rocking of the ship was a great arcing sweep. The wind blew harder, but it was quieter. The noise of the living wood and sail was all beneath them. Billy took up a significant amount of space, and trying to give her polite distance was next to impossible.

The stars were even brighter up here. She could nearly reach out and touch them. A thin line of lights glowed on the distant horizon.

"Charles Town," he answered her question before she asked.

Her shoulders slumped. She leaned her cheek against the small rail and sighed. "Already?"

His thigh brushed against hers and he crossed his arms lazily over the railing, having to slouch just to rest his chin. He was still sitting more than a head taller than her. "'Fraid so." He blinked and frowned. "Aren't you ready to see your family after all this?"

"I haven't seen my father in, well, more than ten years now." The city glowed like a small ember in the distance, smoldering and deceptively innocuous. "I hadn't even received a letter in a year when he sent for me. Besides, I'm…never mind."

"You're what?" With his head cocked, still resting on his forearms, bright blue eyes boring down at her with such genuine interest, he looked boyish, young. It was hard to reconcile this Billy with the giant, ash-covered, sword-wielding beast who carried her off Lowe's ship.

Abigail's nose wrinkled with distaste. "Oh, you know." He was still watching her, head still cocked. He didn't know. "Young women abducted by pirates, in this case two different ships, are not typically returned to their families…intact."

Understanding dawned on his face in several phases, each more distressed than the last. "What…? Did they…? Howell said you were just sick from opium!"

"I'm fine!" She grinned at him. "Truly. I could go the rest of my life without ever smelling laudanum again, but they didn't hurt me. Lowe said I wasn't to be harmed unless my father failed to pay my ransom."

Billy still balked and shook his head. "They were animals. You say the word," he tipped her chin up to look at him, "and I'll, you know, kill them. More. The captain will agree."

"Would he?" When Abigail giggled, Billy's smile lit up. "Good, I could use another few weeks of adventure at sea. Charles Town can wait."

He leaned back, resting against the heavy mast. "It's not all pleasant days of sailing and music." He shook his head. "You'll be happy once you see your family again. You can get your life back."

"And if I can't?" Abigail followed, until her back was against the mast and their shoulders pressed together.

"If you can't," Billy exhaled slowly, "then send me a letter, I'll come get you, and I'll help you start your life of crime, yeah?"

Abigail's laughter tinkled through the night sky, against the canvas sails and out over the black water. She took a deep inhale and sighed. "That sounds lovely. I could be free, like you."

"That's the goal." He was still gazing at the glowing embers of Charles Town when he felt Abigail's eyes on him. With her head tilted and expectation all over her face - an expression she'd been using all week to get information - he had to smile. "Everyone should be free. Everyone. You can't own a person."

"How?" The question came out in a whisper. "How do you make everyone free?"

"You fight for it." Billy shrugged, then smirked and rapped a knuckle against the wood at their backs. "You're already a rebel. You climbed the mizzen. No proper English lady's ever done that."

"I did, didn't I?" Abigail brightened. "What next? I'm afraid I'm running out of time to be free."

"The idea," Billy tipped his head conspiratorially, "is that it's sort of up to you."

His face was so close to hers, she could feel his breath on her cheek. The air was distractingly cool against the warmth blossoming through her. As the ship rocked, the mast swung, bringing them at turns closer and further apart. The smell of hemp oil and saltwater was even stronger up here, but this close to Billy, there was something else, something earthy and warm, perhaps the ashy sailor soap they all used. If she wasn't mistaken, Billy had grown quite serious.

They were no longer drifting apart, only together. First their foreheads touched, then their noses, then, finally, before Abigail's heart could burst from her chest, their lips. His lips were firm, but gentle against hers, tugging at her bottom lip in a way that set the warmth spreading through her to fire. As quickly as it started, he pulled away, just far enough to separate their lips. Abigail froze. This close to him, she could feel the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. For a heartbeat, the fear that he would reject her, scold her, shame her, made her blood freeze.

His hand came up to cup the back of her head, brushing the rough pad of his thumb across her cheek. She thought she heard a muttered "fuck it," but the wind stole his words and he was kissing her again.

They stayed in the nest until the final bells rung before the morning crew would rouse and discover them.

It was a night Abigail didn't write about, but she didn't need to. It stayed with her every night after.

One small, somber wedding, and just about two weeks traveling down smaller and smaller roads into the American wilds, Abigail sat high on the cart's seat, jittery with anticipation. Reverend and Mrs. Locke were, according to their driver and the small cadre of soldiers who had joined them at their last stop, just a few hours from the encampment. The fort they departed just two days ago was the last of stable English civilization this far west in the Carolinas. At the fort, they collected a large supply of staples: grains, cheese, salt, cured meats, reams of durable homespun, tools, and more. Those were loaded into carts driven and protected by the soldiers - Marines, they corrected every time the word "soldier" was mentioned - returning to the forward camp.

This leg of the journey had started quietly. The soldiers had kept to themselves, disconsolate and grumbling about the end of their liberty, eager to shock the new recruits with horror stories about life on the frontier. The stories only served to turn Rev. Locke so pale Abigail thought he might actually be sick.

They were on their way to their new life. It was barely a camp, with two English investors clearing land for farming and a small troop of convicts serving their sentences by performing all manner of labor as demanded by the army and the landowners. Within the year, the Carolina governor expected to have enough land cleared for both farms and to start building a real colony, complete with businesses and permanent homes. Listening to the soldiers, Abigail came to understand that the community barely had the resources to maintain a sustenance farm, the humidity would make her feel as if she was swimming through air, the thunderstorms would keep her up to her knees in water and mud, the bugs would cover her head-to-toe in insanity-inducing itchy bites that may or may not also bring a fever and sweating sickness, and she would have to be forever on guard lest a convict or native catch her unawares and commit all manner of violations against her.

Poor Albert looked sicker and sicker, meanwhile Abigail brushed off nearly every tidbit except the bugs. Those might be uncomfortable. Albert was tipping into outright despair and no gentle encouragement from Abigail could help him. Finally, on the second night around the campfire, one of the Marines told a particularly egregious story involving a snakebite and no doctor or medicine. The whole troop of them grew silent, and all eyes flew to Albert, who blanched and sputtered helplessly, until they all burst into uproarious laughter. Realization dawned slowly on Albert and his pallor gave way to fresh blood in his cheeks, and he joined in their laughter. Abigail dissolved into giggles when she saw Albert finally realize the game the soldiers had been playing.

After that, their journey became infinitely more tolerable, even a little fun. Abigail was tired, nearing exhaustion, but between Albert and their new company, she had a renewed sense of hope. The soldiers now conversed openly with Albert, pleased and intrigued to meet the reverend brave enough to bring religion - and a wife - to them all the way at the edge of the world.

Dappled sunlight filtered through the heavy tree cover, but even in the shade it was still ungodly hot. The soldiers were right about the air here: Abigail's hair had taken to curling into a nearly unmanageable brown mass. A layer of sweat was accumulating so thoroughly she felt she might never be clean again. The closer they got to the camp, the closer she was to an actual bath, which, according to their new uniformed friends, they could have as much as they wanted, so long as they carried their own water from the nearby river. Abigail resolved to become the best water bucket-carrier in the camp. The grime and dirt from their journey was burrowing into her skin like a rash.

Albert walked along with the soldiers while Abigail rode. He had made sure to buy her shoes sturdy enough to survive the frontier, but she hadn't had time to properly break them in. Just a few hours of walking on their first day resulted in blisters so painful she'd barely been able to walk for days after. Albert had gently insisted that she keep her walking to a minimum lest one of her blisters turn into an open sore and became infected. It was both logical and considerate.

One of the soldiers elbowed Albert and the others in their little group started chuckling and jeering him with playful smiles. Albert colored furiously and ducked his head when the noise caught Abigail's attention. When she caught their words, she understood what had embarrassed him.

"…a little privacy with the missus, eh?" one of the younger soldiers ribbed him. They continued laughing and joking, completely unaware of just how uncomfortable they made the new couple. They had no way of knowing that the source of the mutual embarrassment was not prudish shyness. Or perhaps it was. Abigail was too inexperienced with these matters to really know.

What she did know was that her husband had been just as inexperienced and just as embarrassed by the whole thing as she was. He hadn't endured the pain she had, but that seemed to cause him such distress he may as well have been in pain. He had barely been able to look her in the eye in the days following, and they hadn't spoken of it since. Abigail briefly wondered if she might have gotten pregnant, but her courses showed up precisely on time, dismissing the thought.

On the night before they left Philadelphia, before extinguishing the candles, Albert had taken her hand in his with a soft squeeze. "Tell me truthfully, do you want children very badly?"

Abigail had been stunned. They had danced around the topic during their brief courtship, but never actually talked about it. She frowned and thought, suddenly aware that she hadn't given it a moment's consideration, maybe ever. "I'm not sure." She kept her hand in his, but her face pinched in deep thought. "It was always assumed that after marrying, I would have children, but, after my abduction, and my father's fall from grace, I couldn't assume anything about my future anymore. Would it be…un-Christian to not at least try? I do love children, I just-"

"It's not un-Christian," Albert rushed to her rescue. "At least in my study of the Word, there is no edict demanding that we start a family. Paul tells us in Corinthians it is good to set aside both marriage and children if either are an impediment to serving His ministry. Where we are going, we will not have access to reliable physicians or even midwifes, nor schools. It will be rough and dangerous. I'm not sure I could ever forgive myself if I endangered you by demanding children. I certainly couldn't carry on my ministry if any ill were to befall you."

Abigail returned his reassuring grip on her hand and nodded along with him. Relief washed over her in such a way that she was sure must be sinful and could not possibly be what Paul meant, but it was what she wanted to hear. "Then we are in agreement. Bearing children is most likely an unnecessary risk to your mission."

Albert's face had lit up with earnest relief to mirror her own. Neither one would vocalize their real feelings, as such an admission would make this shamefully sinful. But they reached an accord that had provided both with much needed reassurance.

They shifted easily, naturally, into being partners. Abigail found that Albert was every bit as kind as he seemed when the first met, and in turn Abigail offered unfailing support. Her husband doubted himself so often, Abigail wondered if he had lived his whole life the way she had lived since her father's execution.

The soldiers quieted down and lost interest in teasing their quarry as other sounds began to drift through the thick woods. A foreman was shouting instructions over a rhythmic pounding and cracking. Abigail assumed it must be men felling trees, or perhaps hammering something? She didn't know enough about labor. That would have to change.

Voices trickled louder and louder, and Abigail could hardly contain her excitement. She was practically jumping out of her seat, eliciting a good natured laugh from Albert who called up to her, "I told you we'd make it!"

As their train rounded the bend, Abigail gasped. The settlement seemed to simply appear out of the dense woods, clear and bright, with a series of tents, fire pits, and makeshift structures giving way to sprawling stretches of land in the process of clearing. At first glance the settlement looked far more advanced and stable than either Albert or the soldiers had lead her to believe. Everything looked so organized, though she had a difficult time discerning convicts from settlers and paid help. She saw no signs of what she had imagined a penal colony would look like. There were no men hobbling around in irons, nor were soldiers marching about, ready for war. She couldn't see which tents served as the barracks for convicts and which for soldiers. She briefly wondered if there even were separate barracks. Everything looked so open and free.

Shouts heralded their arrival. Red-coated Marines came out to greet their brothers and start unloading the wagons. As Albert helped Abigail down from the cart, a Marine came out from the central tent in this particular area, buttoning his more elaborate crimson coat and placing a tricorner hat over his dark hair.

He paused in front of the couple with his hands folded behind his back. His eyes flickered up and down Abigail and his lips pressed into a hard line. Abigail shrank a little under his scrutiny. Albert stuck out his hand, still grinning and blithely unaware of the man's judgment.

"Reverend Locke," Albert said when the officer finally took his hand, "and my wife, Mrs. Abigail Locke."

"Captain Jacobs," the Marine returned the handshake with a single pump, then released Albert's hand to resume his previous posture. "I apologize," his dark eyes returned to Abigail, "but the last word we received did not indicate that you would be bringing a spouse. This is a bit of a surprise." His voice was low and clipped. His face was clean-shaven and, well, clean, giving Abigail a moment's distraction that she could indeed get washed here.

Albert clapped him on the shoulder and continued his distant observation of the camp, still missing Capt. Jacobs' wince and subtle nose-wrinkling. "My apologies, Captain. It was a new development shortly before we departed. I had hoped to get a message to you sooner but," Albert shrugged, "the mail isn't very quick in these parts, eh?"

"No," Jacobs exhaled through his nose. "In any case, we'll have to see to new housing arrangements. We had planned on establishing a chapel with a cottage regardless, now we will have to accelerate those plans. I am the officer-in-charge here. My executive officer, Lieutenant Swann, will see to showing you around and securing suitable accommodations. Mr. Rowling owns the largest acreage and has been appointed the colony magistrate by the territorial governor. Mr. Kent owns the other acreage and he serves as the magistrate in Mr. Rowling's absence. Both have gone to Charles Town for business and should be back next month. For now, I serve as both camp commandant and magistrate. If you have concerns, please raise them with Lt. Swann before going to anyone else. Welcome to Camp Jackson."

He turned on his heel and marched away, shouting an order to one of the Marines, and not bothering to wait for a response from either Albert or Abigail.

Lt. Swann, a slender, fresh-faced young man stepped into Capt. Jacobs' place and extended his hand first to Albert, then to Abigail with a small bow. "You'll have to forgive the commandant. He has a uniquely stressful position here, managing both the Marines and the convicts."

With the sweep of a hand, he ushered them on a tour of the colony. The tents they'd arrived at served as the barracks for the thirty or so Marines in residence at the camp. To the north were the Rowling and Kent estates. So far they were simple cabins set on great stretches of land not yet fully cleared. To the west, butted right against the foot of the Appalachian mountains, were the convict, slave and prisoner barracks.

Abigail bit her tongue and tried to hide her distaste. She had grown somewhat accustomed to the practice of slavery, as well as the imprisonment of hostile natives, but it still turned her stomach. She had known that they would be serving both soldiers and convicts, but it had not occurred to her that this colony served multiple roles for the crown. Albert's fingers brushed the back of her hand until they clasped just long enough for him to give her a reassuring squeeze before releasing. That was all he had to do to calm her.

The young lieutenant was busily explaining the order of things: Marines and convicts alike were roused by morning bells at six. All residents ate from the same rations. Morning meals were distributed at seven, dinner at two, and evening repast at six in the evening. The civilians ate first and received double rations, something Albert only shook his head at. They would be eating the same as everyone else. Marines ate next, then the convicts. The slaves and native prisoners ate last.

Abigail was further shocked to learn that convicts enjoyed a higher degree of freedom here than slaves and natives. Their barracks were less crowded and after their morning formations, they were left to take themselves to and from their daily duties. The commandant even saw fit to assign certain convicts supervisory duties over the others. The lower classes of prisoners were directed by armed guard and brutal-looking foremen. All except the civilians were subject to summary execution if they attempted escape. The mountains served as a natural deterrent. Swann insisted that only some of the natives would even be capable of surviving the wilds, everyone else would either come crawling back to the colony or be found dead within miles.

Camp Jackson was home to some odd 150 convicts and 75 slaves and prisoners. Of those, less than 20 were women. The women were assigned more domestic tasks. The most privileged female convicts had the pleasure of serving as housekeepers for the camp commandant and landowners.

"That's nearly 230 prisoners here, isn't it, Lieutenant?" Abigail found her voice midst the overwhelming deluge of new information. "And only 30 armed men to guard us?"

Swann smiled - the first she'd seen from anyone at the camp. "That, Mrs. Locke, is why the governor sent Marines rather than army regulars. Our men are more equipped to handle austere conditions and maintaining security in situations that may appear impossible." He paused outside a standalone tent and gestured to the flap. "Until we get your accommodations in place, you may make use of my tent."

"Oh, we couldn't possibly-" Abigail started.

"I insist," Swann offered with a warm tilt to his lips. "I can't very well have you bunking with the female convicts, and although we originally intended the reverend to bunk with the non-commissioned officers until the chapel is built, I'm not sure he would be prepared to see exactly what Marines are up to in their barracks." He let out a jovial laugh and clapped Albert on the back, who joined the hilarity slowly, quietly, unsure if he was getting the joke.

Swann whistled and waved for someone. "James! Get a working party and come to my tent. I'll have them clear out anything I need and get your things moved in," he offered as explanation for the couple.

Abigail was busily inspecting the camp around her - the tents, the people moving about their day, eying them with outright curiosity, the green wildlife that seemed everywhere at once, the sounds of crickets and birds and wind moving through the trees. She turned her attention back when heavy steps jogged over the drying leaves on the ground and joined their little party. She had to look up, and then up and up until she saw a face that made her heart slam to a stop.

It couldn't be. Abigail burned through the possible scenarios that could have led to this precise moment but none made any sense. Was she dreaming? Had she fallen asleep on the cart? Had she fallen right out of the cart and bumped her head?

William Manderly was frozen and staring back at her with such astonishment, he must have been wondering the same. His face was partially exposed by a thick blonde beard. Words in black ink marked one of his forearms, but Abigail was too stunned to read them. He looked at least a decade older than when she last saw him…what was it now? Four years ago, but it was Billy, her Billy. Abigail's heart resumed beating and was thundering with such force, her pulse was all she could hear. Her mouth must have been hanging open like a fish.

"James?" Swann's voice came through their mutual haze, sharp and demanding. "Did you hear a word I said? If you don't stop gawking at the minister's wife-"

"I'm so sorry!" Abigail's voice came out at least an octave too high. She reached and reached for something to say. "I must be making him so uncomfortable. I've forgotten my manners. Mr. James, you are the spitting image of a boy I grew up with in Kent. For a moment I thought I must be dreaming!" She forced out a shrill giggle that earned her particularly strange looks from both Swann and Albert. Billy relaxed by a measure and tore his eyes away.

"Sorry, Ma'am," he mumbled, eyes on the dirt. "I'll take care of it, Boss." In several loping strides he was gone as quickly as he arrived.

The rest of the day passed in a hazy cloud until Abigail found herself in bed, next to her already sleeping husband, staring up at the white canvas roof, already so similar to the Siren, wondering what power on Earth had led her and Billy Bones to the same bloody penal colony.