In the weeks following her second encounter with Captain Vane, Eleanor came to realize that the strongest emotion the interaction had provoked in her was a feeling of vulnerability—a feeling she despised. After some consideration, she concluded that the only way to avoid being made to feel vulnerable was to further develop her natural strength of character and mind. As a female she could never be physically powerful, but it seemed to her that power could also be gained by the amassing of knowledge, so she threw herself into the study of economics and business.

She spent her mornings reading voraciously—adding to her father's library with tomes plundered from ships—and working with figures and numbers, not only with quill and parchment but also in her head until she could perform quick, complicated calculations at a moment's notice. She continued to work at the tavern in the afternoons and evenings, establishing her presence there so that it came to be expected, and handling any day-to-day problems that arose. Often she would return to her desk in the early morning to deal with shipping ledgers that had accumulated and that she insisted on looking over.

Far from exhausting Eleanor, this rather obsessive course of study and work gave her increased energy, although she spent so little time outdoors that her skin maintained a perpetual whiteness and her eyes often had dark circles from only catching a few hours' sleep before the new day began.

Mr. Scott expressed concern on several occasions that she was performing an unnecessary amount of extra activity, but Eleanor dismissed his qualms. There could be no such thing as too much exercise of the mind, not when keeping so busy held that feeling of vulnerability at bay. She pursued knowledge obsessively, picturing her mind like a storehouse that needed constantly to be stacked with food and supplies against a time of certain deprivation.

Yet it was all theoretical, and at times Eleanor, longing for practical experience, deeply resented the limitations of her sex. She had never been aboard a ship, for one thing, beyond the trip from England as a small child following her mother's passing, and that she barely remembered. She had in the past tried to persuade Mr. Scott to familiarize her with weaponry; what she knew of pistols and armaments was only gleaned from paper. She was confident in her use of a small dagger to defend herself if and when the need arose, but had no skill with a sword.

By the end of 1712, Eleanor had passed her seventeenth birthday, and was successfully running the flourishing business of the tavern, as well as dealing with many of the pirate captains for goods and supplies that were later sold on the black market. Richard Guthrie had grudgingly come to an acceptance of his daughter's natural managerial ability and let her have the birthright she would have had had she been a boy. Eleanor was no longer an oddity on New Providence Island, and often privately considered herself its very linchpin, thriving under the expectations and responsibility placed on her.

It became more commonplace to see the trio of Vane, Rackham and Anne Bonny in and around the tavern, those days when they were ashore and not hunting goods from merchant ships. Rackham was always very polite to Eleanor; by contrast, she could not get a word out of Anne, and Vane seemed similarly content to let his quartermaster speak for him when business required.

Sitting outside the tavern one morning, Eleanor was enjoying a few rare moments of stillness and sunshine when she caught a glimpse of the Ranger's quartermaster and its first mate having what (for them) was an animated discussion in a side alley.

Eleanor craned her neck, curious despite herself. She'd never seen Anne Bonny with any kind of expression on her face at all, but the woman was clearly angry about something or other as she waved her dagger quite close to Rackham's face. Eleanor watched them for a moment, bemused. Jack was defending himself with elaborate gestures and at last Anne sheathed her dagger, spat on the ground dismissively and stalked away in the opposite direction. Rackham spun, stared at the planks of the building facing him and cast his head up to the heavens as if in divine invocation.

Eleanor rose from the bench and crossed the street.

Running fingers through his spiky upright hair, Rackham gave her a tragic, pleading look. "That woman is fucking impossible."

"I'm sorry," she said with a smile, feeling rather like an indulgent older sister, although he was probably ten years her senior.

"Impossible." He put finger and thumb together in a dramatic manner, then rubbed his jaw and looked at her more closely. "We don't often see you out at this hour of the day. Is anything wrong?"

"No. I just felt I should be taking the air, for once. It's a beautiful morning."

Jack shrugged, looking up at the sky shot through with skeins of silky cloud. "So it is," he admitted. "Though I'm in no mood to appreciate it."

"I didn't know you were ashore. I had thought the Ranger wasn't due back for another fortnight."

He scratched vaguely at stubble on his chin. "Things...happened."

"Is Captain Vane well?" She wondered if she'd sounded anxious, though surely the potential loss of income was reason enough to be concerned.

"Well enough...we were in a minor scuffle. He was mildly wounded. He will recover soon, I hope. Or the crew will start asking for a new captain." Rackham laughed without much humor. "Not very loyal, most men, always with their eye on the next prize."

"Naturally they want to be earning," Eleanor said, not sure why she was defending Vane's crew. Those she knew, she had little use for—she found them a particularly rowdy and venal lot, more prone than most to cause trouble in the tavern or deal roughly with the girls. "Would you take me to the captain? I'd like to see him myself."

He straightened a little. "I assure you he is legitimately out of commission for the time being."

Eleanor was vexed that he assumed she was only speaking with the business in mind, though it was true enough that she did always put the business first. "I only mean to offer help."

"As you wish," Jack said. "Though he may not be in quite the mood for visitors."

"I will tell him I insisted."

He made an uncertain sound in his throat, but stepped out of the alley, and Eleanor followed him out of the town and down the road towards the wharfs.

On the beach, Rackham stopped outside one of the larger tents, clearing his throat. "Captain?"

There was silence from within.

"Perhaps he is sleeping," Jack suggested.

"Perhaps he is dead," Eleanor said sharply. She swept the cloth door aside and stepped in, peering into the dimness with some internal hesitance belying her confident movements. Jack hovered behind her.

"I'm not dead," Vane growled—startling Eleanor, because his form was so still once her eyes adjusted enough to see him.

"What ails you, Captain?" she said, kneeling by his side and resting her hands on her skirts in front of her.

"Are you versed in the healing arts, Mistress Guthrie?"

"No," Eleanor admitted, choosing to disregard his sarcasm, "though I have in my time come across some fascinating chirurgeon's manuals."

Jack coughed.

"Find me some more spirits," Vane said, presumably to his quartermaster, who disappeared with alacrity.

Eleanor persisted. "Where was your injury?"

He lifted himself up on one elbow with an effort and stared at her with those close-set eyes that were hawk-like in their intensity. Every inch of his tanned bare chest was delineated by lean muscle. She was used to seeing shirtless men around the docks (and even occasionally in town as some of the pirates wore next to nothing when it was hot, English customs be damned) but had never been in such close proximity to one. She blinked but refused to be intimidated by his fathomless stare. He pulled aside a corner of his breeches, revealing at first what she feared was going to be an indecent amount of upper thigh until she saw the angry sword-gash scored across the leg.

"That must be kept clean," she said, "or it will putrify. Are you fevered?"

When he didn't respond she reached out, slowly, as she might to a wounded animal, and touched knuckles to his forehead. Warm, the skin was, but not dangerously so, to her perception. He didn't pull away.

"Would it inconvenience you if I die?" He sounded more curious than mocking.

"Your ship and its winnings are a part of my business," Eleanor acknowledged. "I do not know what kind of captain you are to your crew, but to me, you..." she hesitated momentarily. "You make an effective...partner."

He looked amused by this. "I wasn't aware you valued me so highly."

"I value all my associates connected to my work."

"Your personal ones come a distant second?"

She flushed, wondering if he somehow knew about Max, which really was the only relationship she had ever had and had ceased altogether in recent months, not in any dramatic fashion but because Eleanor had decided she didn't care to be vulnerable in that way either. "I don't have time for personal associations."

"You are a peculiar female, Eleanor Guthrie."

I have heard that sentiment expressed before, she thought, and in less flattering ways. Her father had once in frustration used the word "unwomanly".

"I suppose I am," she conceded, her voice catching on the last word only because he reached out for her face this time and she flinched; not afraid, but uncertain. His fingers brushed her cheek before trailing appraisingly along the edge of her jawline.

Eleanor straightened, sitting back on her heels. "I must be on my way. I came to see if you were in need of anything."

"Rum," he said, his voice getting rough again as he eased himself back down. "Where is my fucking quartermaster?"

"I am sure he is hurrying." She was sure of no such thing, perhaps he was arguing with Anne in an alley again for all she knew. "You must rest. Have him clean that wound. I will come tomorrow."

"No need for that," he said, closing his eyes.

"I would do as much for anyone who worked for me."

His eyes opened. "I don't work for you."

"With me," she amended, determined to be agreeable for the moment. She rose, smoothing her skirts and departed.

Eleanor had every intention of keeping her word and visiting him on the following day, but was kept busy by various issues arising in the afternoon, and was unable to get away from the tavern at night. The morning of the second day, she took a long overdue soak in her tub, dressed in a clean skirt and blouse, prepared some fresh fruit in the tavern kitchen and brought it with her down to the beach.

Rackham was outside Vane's tent with a hangdog look of ill-ease about him. He greeted her and helped himself to a piece of mango from the basket.

"How does he?" she asked, squinting against the bright sun.

"The ague has set in," Rackham admitted. "I am even less a physician than you, I suspect. If you would consent to watch him a while, I would be grateful. I could use an hour or seven of sleep and Anne will not administer any care. She has a surprisingly weak stomach for one so able at killing."

Eleanor pressed her lips together. "Of course. Please go and rest. Take a bed upstairs; if anyone asks, say it was authorized by me."

He gave an imitation of a courtly bow which (while done in his somewhat mocking fashion) also managed to be charming, and departed.

She stooped and entered the tent. "Captain."

Vane didn't seem to register her presence. His eyes were shut and he was curled on his side, motionless, the exposed stretch of leg facing up. Though the interior was not too hot, a glow of sweat shone on his forehead. A bowl of water and a rag lay near, and Eleanor settled down beside him, taking the rag and using it to swab his face and neck. The wound on his leg looked worse, shiny and purulent.

"Have you eaten anything?" she murmured, not expecting an answer. "What am I doing here," she asked herself instead. But Jack had clearly needed some rest and there was no one else around offering assistance.

"Can you hear me? Captain Vane." She pushed a tangled lock of hair away from his sweat-sticky chest and saw the raised tattoo there, a circular brand with outward prongs, burned into the flesh.

"How did you get that?" she murmured. Many of the men who passed through Nassau had rough, self-inflicted tattoos; she'd seen all manner of facial striations, burns and scars, but this one was so uniform. Her fingers traced it unintentionally for a moment before she pulled her hand away, embarrassed by the moment of unwitnessed curiosity. She resumed dipping and wringing out the rag for application on his skin again. She hummed a little as she did so, to offset the oppressive silence. After a short time his body began to tremble. Eleanor didn't know if he was cold or hot, but she found a blanket and pulled it up over his torso anyway.

It felt strange to be sitting, tending to someone in this manner. She'd never done it. Once or twice she had gotten ill herself and Max had stayed by her bed, bringing her food, changing her linens, helping her dress. Eleanor considered that she had a solid constitution because certainly all manner of diseased individuals came across her path at the tavern, many with ailments they couldn't explain or name. No man of medicine was permanently stationed on New Providence Island, though some came and stayed for a time; it was generally considered a location too fraught with danger. Instead, there was a variety of dubious local women who practiced their own herbal medicines. Mr. Noonan's girls went to such with their complaints, but Eleanor had seen Max employing some of the wise woman's methods and thought frankly that the cures and tonics prescribed seemed more repulsive than the ailments themselves, though she had never interfered.

After a time Vane's shaking subsided somewhat and he lay still. She thought perhaps he had fallen back asleep but eventually his eyes opened fractionally and he looked at her with no apparent recognition.

"I brought you some fruit," she said. "You will grow weaker if you don't take anything to eat."

She moved the basket close and held out a slice of the mango, thinking it an innocuous offering, but his nostrils flared and he promptly gagged and knocked it out of her hand. Slightly offended, she sat back a little, baffled. "I suppose, like all men seem to, you imagine spirits alone are sufficient to sustain life."

He mumbled something that sounded like a profanity.

"Curse all you please," Eleanor said. "I doubt I have not heard it before. If you don't want fruit, tell me what you will eat and I will find it for you." In my spare time, of which I have none, she added mentally.

Now he told her in slightly more enunciated terms what he would eat, and she couldn't help it, she felt a flush rising up from under her blouse collar at the words. "I don't believe you have the strength for that either," she said finally, mustering some self-possession. "Although I suspect if you can think of such things, then you are not close to dying."

He muttered something else and at first she assumed it would more be along that salacious vein but then she realized it was: "Have Rackham put the ship up for careening."

The man gives orders like I am one of his crew, expecting they will be followed without argument.

Well, she would follow this particular order, only because it made sense. A slow Ranger, whether it was trying to escape from pursuit or needing to gain ground on a merchant prize, was of no use to any of them. Eleanor inclined her head in almost sardonic acknowledgment of the instruction, but he had closed his eyes again.

That order could wait until tomorrow, however. She meant to stay with him until Jack returned.

Which the quartermaster did, by nightfall, only very slightly inebriated, thanking her profusely for the use of the rooms and for her attentions to the captain in his absence. Eleanor assured him it had been no trouble, which wasn't strictly true; though Vane had slept off and on for most of the day without a further word to her, she had chafed at the unaccustomed inactivity. Besides, she had gotten hungry, and ended up having to eat the rejected fruit, though that was no hardship as they were at the peak of ripeness and (she had thought) delicious.

She delivered Vane's instructions regarding the beaching of the ship and cleaning of its hull, wished Jack Rackham a good night and went on her way.

Anne Bonny, enigmatic creature, was slinking through the shadows as Eleanor left.

I would give much to know the inner workings of that woman's mind. Though they had never exchanged more than a few words, Eleanor had come to develop for Anne a grudging admiration, partnered with a more deeply hidden feeling that if she had examined closely she would have admitted to be jealousy. That a woman could be all that Anne Bonny was: not only a deputy to one of the most notorious pirate captains in their sphere, but canny, fierce, and a deadly assassin on the strength of her own name. It was threatening. To Eleanor, at least. The brothel whores would occasionally titter and speculate on Anne's physical attributes or sexual proclivities, calling it unnatural for a woman to want to work alongside a man, to participate in the raiding of ships and killing of crews; they wondered how she could do it. Eleanor, having had her own comparatively mild level of ambitions criticized for being unwomanly, was sensitive to such negative assessments of Anne's character and mental condition, but she had never bothered to rebuke the whores, who spoke more often from a place of ignorance than malice. Yet Eleanor truly did wonder how Anne had achieved her place in the society of New Providence; so little was known about her past, less even than was known about Charles Vane's.

As she nodded to Anne passing, though the other woman barely acknowledged the gesture and ducked her own head under her hat, she decided she would presume upon her acquaintance with Jack Rackham and see if she was able to use him to glean more information about both Anne Bonny and Captain Vane. Swords and fists might be their weapons; knowledge and information were hers.

Additionally, Eleanor was going to enjoy attempting to weasel details out of Jack Rackham, who often played the fool in public but in whose eyes she'd seen plenty of native intelligence. Inclined to theatrics though he might be, one did not attain the position of ship's quartermaster by being an idiot. She suspected there would be a lot for her to learn about him as well.