The soothing sound of the sea was fighting through the hum and ruckus of the deck.

Her eyes fluttered open.

The sails flapped and Galloway raised her head to look at the azure sky. The sun was high, it was almost midday.

She reached out to catch hold of the board and pulled herself up, pain and misery spilling in her wooden body. The legs were sore from her yesterday's deck somersaults, and even sorer from sleeping crouching down. A touch of tender pain in the neck and dull ache in the back clued she was still alive.

Gates was on the quarterdeck, squinting at the land looming into view.

It was like an arrow – the idea of asking him where Billy was, because she didn't seem to have caught sight of him on the deck. But then the words dried in her mouth.

"It wasn't a lengthy journey, was it?"

"No," Gates felt the grief in her voice.

"I'll vouch for you, kid," he said after a minute of silence, "Whatever lies ahead."

Galloway tilted her head, looking at Hal closely. She studied her weary face and then blinked, letting her eyes stay closed for a few seconds.

"Thank you," she whispered. "And… I'm sorry. For Billy."

Gates narrowed his eyes, gazing at the land, and nodded shortly.

Hal walked out of Eleanor's office and headed straight to the girl sitting at a table like a dummy.

"Miss Guthrie arranged for you to stay in the brothel. Unsettling it must seem to you, but…," seeing the girl wasn't perturbed in the slightest, he exhaled sadly and carried on, "that might be the safest place for you now. Girls out there are always in the know…"

"I suppose so."

"Look," Gates' heavy hand landed on her shoulder as he turned to look at the door of the tavern, "Idelle is here."

A young woman standing on the threshold laid her eyes on Galloway and beckoned out.

The girl followed Idelle into the brothel. She remained under a prominent impression the wench wasn't even remotely happy to be foisted a scut monkey to house, for her face was impenetrable and she hadn't muttered a word to her until they reached her chamber.

"Your room isn't ready yet, you can wait here," she closed the doors and turned to Galloway.

"You don't have to…" uttered the girl. "I don't want to be a nuisance to you…"

"A cup of tea?" Idelle's eyebrows jumped.

"What…Yes. Please," the girl nervously adjusted her sleeve.

"Easy," the prostitute gave Gal a mild smile. "The biggest inconvenience you can cause is stealing my men… But it unlikely that's what you're here for."

"Right," she breathed out.

"That cunt must give no fuck about you to send you here," Idelle smirked.

"Who?"

"Guthrie."

"That's very much possible, I'd say."

"This place is going up in smoke, but if you pay the owner what you've agreed upon, he won't have the guts to throw you out. So, tea is it?"

"If it is no bother," Galloway returned a smile.

"Oh, that brat Hallendale is downstairs, and as much as I want the money, nursing his fetid arse is the last thing I'm itching to do," Idelle rolled her eyes.

The tea was splendid. The small talk was loose and facile. The women sat in the room, sweet fragrances spiralling through, thin veils on the windows flittering. Gal kept shifting her gaze from her cup to the window, studying the palms bending in the wind. And Idelle didn't know how to approach the girl sitting in front of her like a lunatic to tackle the issues that were bothering her. She didn't know if she should. Galloway's tacit, tender mournfulness was so inward and well known to the woman of pleasure: she herself had crashed down, and knew how sometimes questions were redundant. Idelle was the quartermaster of the brother, a Billy-Bones-kind of quartermaster, and she was fighting an absurd urge to take Galloway's hand in hers. She'd heard of the Walrus' most recent navigation, not in detail, but enough to be slightly worried about the stranger in front of her.

However, Gal made it easier for Idelle when she lowered the cup and lined the tea spoon with the saucer, not letting go of the end of the table-ware.

"Is it peppermint… in the tea?" she spoke up, eyes fixed on the liquid.

"Yes… it is," Idelle's mouth quirked up, but curved down in an instant.

The girl nodded, and she saw a tear trace down her cheek.

"Oh, bird," Idelle couldn't help it; she was out of her chair in a second.

She locked her hands around Gal's shoulders, squatting down next to her. But the girl herself soon found her spot on the floor, slipping down. Lips drawn tight over her teeth, she rocked back and forth and then a quiet howl slipped out of her throat. Idelle held her close, trying to quieten the shaking in her body.

Gal shut her eyes tightly as if it would help blow up all the images rushing in front of her, jamming the vision. She had her mouth wide open now, screaming internally, but she wouldn't let a sound escape her lips. At least intentionally, because Idelle still could hear her breathing and suffocating and gasping for air.

Her hair smelled of salt, sweat and fire. Her hands were grimy, and only the face wasn't respectively dirty now, when she'd wiped the tears across it with the back of her hand.

"Hey, bird," Galloway felt Idelle's hand on her head. "You can tell me."

Gal tilted her head to look the young woman in the eyes. Tears welled up again when she nodded.

Idelle helped the girl strip off the clothes – Galloway struggled to get her arm out of the sleeve. They let the shirt fall on the floor. Gal then untied the pants and allowed them to slip down. Idelle's downcast eyes studied the skin covered in minor cuts and abrasions, a couple of big bruises ornamented the girl's bottom and knees. The elbows were red mixed with black. The palms were sorrowful pink. But the most prominent was the purplish mark down her neck. The wench reached to touch it to feel the warmth of the injury.

Gal got aware of all the sores not sooner than she had lowered herself in a bath filled with hot water. It was almost scalding, but she still immersed in, feeling every inch of her skin scream out with stinging pain.

"I'll have those washed," Idelle collected the clothes from the floor. "I've got a couple of spare dresses. Would you like a green or a blue one?"

"Green," Gal turned to the woman; a grateful, almost invisible smile shadowed her lips.

When Galloway was left to her own devices, she closed her eyes.

It'd taken her next to a year to reach the island. After almost a year alone, with no one to turn to, she finally found herself surrounded by people who... somehow had more mercy toward her, a stranger, than some of the crums she'd known her whole life, those who had chosen to turn on her in the moment of distress. At that point it made no matter that all of her new acquaintances could be deceiving her. Finally standing next to someone who recognised her grief was enough. Having spent a year fleeing from one place to another, from one port to another haven, from terror to dismay, she was now stable. At least. A particular place, a particular haven, a particular dismay.

The girl unwrapped the cloth from her wrist and put in on the bath. The cut was clean.

The corner of her mouth etched upward.
Being thought of … felt satisfying. Being trusted to join a crew on board a ship even more so. She wouldn't have believed had anyone told her pirates would bring her into the fold and treat her better than half of the civilised men she was acquainted with… Gates, Joshua, Logan… But there was one man who'd confined in her enough to arm her, test her wits and nerve… who did it with good grace. She only hoped she hadn't deceived his expectations, if any.

The girl put her forworn head on her knees, looking at the bloodied cloth.

"Bless you, Billy," she whispered breathlessly.

And he would turn away, lowering his eyes. Shaking the gratitude off. Maybe, had she died that day, he would've remembered her name. As a first-timer.

But he was dead. Galloway closed her eyes again, swallowing hard.

She felt bitter about William Manderly, but the bitterness was sweet.

"Lovely dress you have here," Gates patted on a chair next to him as Gal entered his tent.

"Thank you. Idelle gave it to me," she let out a chuckle, putting her hand on her stomach and breathing in. "Is there…any news?"

"I've had a word with Flint," Hal was telling beads on a necklace, his fingers moved bit by bit.

"How did it go?" she took the seat.

"Don't be alarmed. When we are to sail for the gold, you will sail on the Walrus: the Ranger crew are too wayward and unpredictable when it comes to women… yeah, women in general, on board or not. That shall be more reasonable. And maybe you'll even out Randall and that bloody new cook of ours: we are on the verge of mass poisoning. No one wants the crew catching shits when we'll come up with the Urca. But mark this - after that, Flint and we go our separate ways. Yourself and I, we'll find a way to make sure you are secure."

"Don't want me near Flint, do you?" her brows gathered. "You don't trust him too."

"Too?"

"Billy Bones didn't."

"Did he tell you that?" Hal straightened in his seat, eyebrows rising.

"No."

"Yeah, he was unlikely to talk to a girl on the ship – not used to seeing skirts up there. Not a single lady passenger on board on his watch," Gates smiled at the thought of Billy. Bones was unlikely to initiate a conversation with any woman, with anyone, for that matter, unless necessary. He had only been seen chatting with a cobbler girl a couple of times, but no one really suspected anything super-platonic about it. It wasn't that he was shy around women, though there was one rather embarrassing episode in Bones' life after what he opted for steering clear of the brothel. Something that Gates couldn't recall without chuckling, and something Billy had always been a bit touchy about.

Hal's heart ached.

"I don't believe he saw me as a girl," Galloway said plainly.

Gates glanced at her. She was biting her lower lip watching the bead string in his hands. It must've been hard not to recognize a girl in her. Her poise, suave accent, clever eyes and even the tiny line on her forehead hinted she was a lady, lettered, accomplished, endurant. She was just like her father.

She slouched a bit now, as though there was something pressing down on her shoulders, dark circles under her vivid black eyes, and her round cheeks – he could imagine them being full of blood and aglow – were sorry. He'd never seen her before, come to that, he had only heard about her once. When her father had stopped by in Nassau. Tall, wiry, in the full of his health, a shock of dark hair and bushy eyebrows complete with a rich, already greying beard. Eyes lively and shining, thin wrinkles radiating from the corners. Gates knew straight away she was his, though he would imagine her being taller and the snub of her nose was probably something she'd inherited from the mother – for the better, the hawk beak of her father's wouldn't really suit her face.

Gates also knew straight away that the man must've been gone; otherwise she wouldn't be in the godforsaken place.

"Did you confront Flint… about it?" her eyes were on Hal's. "Billy."

Gates blinked. She had the right to know. She had shown readiness and eagerness to protect the crew, thus keeping her under any delusions whatsoever didn't seem fair.

"I did."

"And what did he say?" she asked cautiously.

"Captain Flint has put his crew in danger pursuing his own interests before. And men died. Some of the things he lies about actually promise thrift and prosperity later… Or so he declares. But the means and the price we pay are not to place against whatever he's striving for. And we don't know that even a piece of what he's saying is truthful and fit to live. I know you came here specifically to find the captain, but I'm afraid I have to advise you on the stance of affairs. I've been following Flint for years and have seen him sacrifice a lot for the crew, but now… it is getting out of hand. And, interceding on the crew's behalf, I say: we won't absolve him for Billy."

"I don't believe he… deliberately… Bones just… fell, didn't he?" she swallowed, her gaze troubled.

"You don't have to believe it for something to be true. But does it really matter now? It's the last deal we are having with Flint. I imagine your father advised you to seek that man, but… it might not be the same man anymore."

Gal lowered her head. Barraging Gates any longer was simply merciless

"You still have Billy's dagger."

"I do. Wait, I'll get it…" the girl reached for the holdall Idelle had given to her. Galloway insisted on paying, though, and the wench didn't reject the money.

"No… I actually… thought you could possibly have some of his stuff."

Galloway hesitated for a moment.

"Um… that's… I don't think I could."

"You need a spare shirt and …"

"I can find one... I can buy one: I have some money…There are men on the crew who…who might need it more than… me," she was stammering a bit, and Gates gave her a warm smile.

"Just take it. He was like a son to me. And now you are my daughter, so… it just suits the equation."

He stood up, breathing hard, and drew a stack of Billy's belongings from his chest.

"You may wash it or … whatever…" he made an inexplicable gesture with his hand, sitting down again.

Galloway looked down on the items now resting on her lap.

"These are his oldest ones," Gates pointed at the few amulets on top of the pile. "Must've meant a lot to him… took them off before a huge battle a couple of months ago. Was afraid to lose them, I guess."

She nodded understandingly. Her fingers caressed the rough fabric of Billy's shirt. Right beneath it hid an old copy of Bacon's New Atlantis and a Gargantua and Pantagruel penned by Rabelais.

"Jesus, is that in French?" she quickly opened the book to ascertain. Gates saw some innate suavity in her, and reckoned it was what had worked like a charm on his protégé.

"You liked him, didn't you?" his smile was sad.

"He's kind."

"Yeah, he was."

"He actually talked to me," she said proudly, a bright smile lighting her face.

"I know. I noticed."

She flicked through the pages of what would be considered a masterpiece for years and centuries to come. Gates watched her, hoping tears wouldn't well from his smarting eyes.

"Here," Idelle pushed the door open, letting Gal in a tiny room hid in a labyrinth of the brothel. "It's too small for, you know, making love, so… it won't hurt anybody. I put a mattress down there, didn't know whether you needed one: I've been told you won't be staying here long."

"I… to be honest, I don't have the slightest idea."

"I see… It's all right," Idelle pursed her lips, looking around. "Come down if you need anything."

"I will… Thank you."

The wench nodded, leaving.

Galloway stood still, examining the tiny chamber she could now proudly call her crib.

There was a small square window and a chair. And that was pretty much it.

Gal emptied her bag onto the mattress and set to sort the things out. One of Billy's shirts didn't smell of him, and thus she knew he had had it washed. She took off Idelle's dress and threw the shirt on. It was a bit too big, but would work if she managed to tuck it in her trousers. The sleeves were rolled right below her elbows, though the cleavage seemed to be revealing – that was to be fixed with a couple of stitches. Galloway got into her breeches and tied it up.

She folded Billy's clothes and put them onto the chair, pressing them down with the books and some of his trinkets. The blue coat he had had split open at the seams and she twitched at the threads to test the solidity of the wretched garment. She breathed in deeply and plopped down on the mattress to reach for the dagger.

With a swift motion she ripped open the stomacher of her dress and retrieved some coins.

Father, if you ever meet Billy Bones there… Or it must be William Manderly, know he is a good man.

Galloway hid her tattered clothing under the mattress and gathered Idelle's dress.

Dropping the coins into her pocket, she tucked her braided hair under the scarf and went down, closing the door.

"I knew you weren't a crew," voice came from a man to her right as she sat at the table downstairs with a bowl of stew in front of her.

"Excuse me?" she turned to consider the pirate who'd helped the now-one-legged-cook escape cheat dead fate.

"'Ve heard on the beach that Flint took a girl on board…"

"Right?"

"Beg you a pardon, it might not be seemly of me to approach you so frankly… But it just doesn't strike me as being completely true."

"And what do you reckon I am?"

"Well, in the given circumstances, the range of choices is rather tight…"

"It is erroneous of you to assume I'm a prostitute," she raised her eyebrows and smiled, as though she was being apologetic.

"Well, you might not be now, but…"

"That is not in the planning stage either."

"I'm convinced it never is a calculated move."

"Who… are you?" she refrained from decorating her speech. "And how exactly can I help you?"

"My name's John. And I believe we can frame a mutually beneficial rapport."

"Is that so?" she laughed, showing her teeth. His eyes wandered down her face and lingered on her shirt.

"Isn't it a bit oversized?"

"It is."

Silver then noticed the cut on her hand. And the mark on her neck. And all the other slighter injuries that were open to the eye. Meanwhile, Galloway, relieved he had stopped bothering her, went back to eating. And John, having understood that the girl indeed had been on the Walrus that night and was most definitely going to join them when they sail for the gold, was now elaborating an alternative strategy.

"Thinking hard, aren't you?" she was picking at the vegetables in her bowl.

It turned out Gates was committed to her late father beyond measure, so he confided in her, revealing the lowdown of the Urca concernment. Thus, she was heavily protected from Silver's sly-aresedness.

She snapped him out of his thoughts. John blinked a couple of times.

He was about to shoot back and already opened his mouth, when one of the prostitutes touched Gal's shoulder and beckoned to the entrance.

The girl thanked her and, leaving her food on the table, stood up and went off.

Silver saw her approach Gates waiting outside.

John Silver was an opportunist. And he recognised an opportunity when he saw one.

Flint poured some more rum into his glass.

"You and I have a problem, because Billy wasn't expendable to me. And I will not let the girl be used at your whim and fall another victim for a sacrifice…"

"I'm tired of the energy it takes to believe you. To believe in you. Faulkner only believed in you because he wasn't here to see what you are. Had he known he wouldn't have scooted her here…"

"When it's done, you and I will quietly go our separate ways. And I will take Galloway. And I'll thank you not to protest."

The captain chugged his drink down.

If Gates impeachment wasn't jarring enough, his mentioning Mr Faulkner took its toll.
The last friend Flint had in the Old World. Now dead.

Had sent his only daughter under the aegis of James. As the last resort. What kind of deliverance is that?

How much did she really know about him? Did she know who he was, who he had been?

What had her father told her? Did she really grasp what she was sailing into?

Did it really matter?

"There is no joy here. There is no love here."

James put his hand onto his forehead. Perspective.

"The door is open. I've opened it for you. And it requires no war and no blood and no sacrifice."

His other fist clenched. The girl had already fallen a victim to the thing they had started. The person who had nothing to do with it. The hairs on his forearms reared up.

"This path you're on it doesn't lead where you think it does."

It was palsy. She had killed a person he loved, forced his exile, ruined it all, murdered his friend and flumped his daughter's life like a sack of carious potatoes. The Empire.

Whether the path did lead anywhere, whether it didn't, James Flint wasn't even contemplating budging.