The Rose and Thorn Chapter 11: XI, an once upon a time fanfic

-XI-

It was very late by the time the colloquy over supper at the King's Arms was finished, and everyone began trudging upstairs in ardent search of sleep. Geneva was the last to leave the table, still chewing over everything, and finally, with an annoying sensation of being spied upon, looked up to see Jim Hawkins hovering a few feet away – well, she'd expected it to be Silver, so that was an improvement, if only slightly. "Well?" she said. "Did you need something?"

"No, I was just wondering if you – " He cleared his throat. "Needed me to, er. Walk you upstairs, or anything."

Geneva was almost charmed at this, if annoyed at the unintentional implication that she, a delicate female, could not walk up the inn stairs without stubbing her toe, seeing a mouse and swooning, or experiencing some other womanly distress. It was not the first time that she had instantly smitten some hapless nearby boy, to be sure, though she thought that the titillation and novelty of a Lady Captain was most of it, rather than any deep personal considerations for her. "What? Hoping to have to carry me across the threshold? Be assured, Mr. Hawkins, that I can manage. Good evening."

"I'm not trying to be a patronizing arse, I swear. It's just, the last night I spent in an inn with strangers interested in Skeleton Island, the damn place burned down. I'm obviously hoping it doesn't again, but. . ." He shrugged uncomfortably. "Your. . . your uncle had to rescue my mother, and I. . . never mind. It's foolish."

Despite herself, Geneva was touched, as well as curious about Jim's peculiar reaction every time Liam Jones had been mentioned in the evening's conversation. "How was my uncle?" she asked instead. "Apart from being abducted, that is? Did he seem well?"

"He. . ." Jim looked even more uncomfortable. "Actually, for the last two days, I, ah, I was under the impression that he killed my father, so I wasn't exactly. . . that is, I suppose he seemed well enough, yes."

Both of Geneva's eyebrows flew up at that little cannonball in the middle of an otherwise innocuous sentence. "You thought my uncle killed your father? Aren't you the son of Mr. Hawkins, their old purser? As far as I know, Daddy and Uncle Liam were great friends with him, they served together from their first days in the Navy. He died in Nassau somewhere, but my uncle would never have killed him."

"Mr. Silver said he didn't." Jim looked back at her, as if eager for more confirmation. "I'm not quite sure why he claimed to have done it, but – "

That stumped Geneva too, but she added it to the ever-growing list of reasons why they had to track down Liam, Billy Bones, and Lady Fiona as soon as possible. "Just so you know," she said, "Mr. Silver is far from the best place to acquire reliable information, and I would be wary of putting too much stock in anything he tells you – even if it is true, he undoubtedly intends to charge you for it later. But in this case, yes, he's right. There's no way it was Uncle Liam."

Jim paused, then blew out a breath. A shy, crooked grin emerged that gave Geneva's own stomach an unexpected flutter. "I can't deny I'm relieved," he admitted. "It would have been uncomfortable if we were spending time together with that hanging between us, to be sure."

"Aye, it would at that." Geneva got to her feet, feeling the exhaustion settling onto her like lead. She was grateful that they had made such good time to Bristol, even with the trial of the storm, and obtained some much-needed clarity on their objectives, but the thought of turning straight around and setting back across the Atlantic in another week or so was enough to make her quail. If they were returning to the Americas this year, rather than wintering expensively in England or risking an extremely dangerous out-of-season crossing, they didn't have much time to spare. It was the end of August, and they couldn't realistically tarry here much longer than a fortnight, especially knowing that Bones and Lady Murray were ahead of them. She really just wanted to sleep until Christmas, and then wake and find herself home with her family, but that, alas, did not appear to be an option.

"Well," she said. "I'll bid you good night, then."

"Good night, Geneva." He caught himself. "Captain Jones."

"Thank you, Mr. Hawkins, that will do." Geneva couldn't help biting a slight smile as she moved past him to the stairs, which creaked and cracked underfoot as she climbed to the narrow, winding second-floor corridor. She started down it to the room at the end, only to be surprised by a shadowed figure, standing and staring out through the diamonded window glass at the dark city beyond. Recalling Jim's mention of inns mysteriously burning down with him inside, she was briefly suspicious, but relaxed as she realized that it was Madi, lost in what looked to be considerably unquiet thoughts. "Hey. Are you all right?"

Madi turned with a start, blinking hard, though not fast enough for Geneva to miss the tears in her eyes. This concerned her further, as Madi, to say the least, was not someone easily prone to crying. "Did someone hurt you? Did you and – you and Silver have a – "

"No. None of that." Madi brushed the back of her hand over her face. "You should go to sleep."

"No, I mean it. I'll go if you really don't want to talk, but. . . what's wrong?"

"This city," Madi said quietly. "This entire stinking city. It is built with blood money, fattened on slaughter, stuffing its pockets on the proceeds of the slave trade, and congratulating itself because so few of my brothers and sisters ever actually set foot here. These walls, this house, these streets, these ships, they are all bought and paid for by Bristol's proud status as the origin of the traders' triangle. I hear them screaming everywhere I turn. I see the whip falling on brown backs, crammed together in an airless hold, chained and crushed, every time I close my eyes. I cannot sleep in this place. It is a city of monsters."

Geneva started to say something, then bit her tongue. She was aware in an academic way that Bristol was the port through which nearly all of England's overseas trade goods – mostly purchased, exactly as Madi had said, by the profits of selling African slaves to Caribbean plantations, and by the harvest of those plantations worked by the same slaves – arrived, and she was none too easy with the fact herself, but she knew that she did not experience it at all as Madi did, and had no right to offer any opinion on Madi's feelings as a result. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "For getting you mixed up in this. I. . . if I should not have brought you here, I – "

"You did not bring me here, like an object. I chose to come." Madi turned to look at her, gaze dark and level. "I was not trafficked, helpless to your will. I decided. Do not make the mistake of thinking otherwise again. But I appreciate your concern."

Geneva opened her mouth, then shut it, and nodded. "We will be leaving soon. I think we'll all be happier when we do."

Madi nodded in return, lips tight as if she was doing her best to hold herself together from crumbling on the spot. Geneva hesitantly reached for her hand where it clenched the windowsill, unsure if Madi wanted her comfort, when the creak of the hall boards made both of them turn. Silver was standing in the shadows, watching them but not venturing any closer, and held up a hand in clear expectation of their accusations. "I couldn't sleep either," he said. "This place is also no tender homecoming for me, that's all. If not quite to Madi's monsters, I daresay I see a few beasts as well when I lie down in the dark."

Geneva expected Madi to brush this off, as she had done after the storm when Silver tried to check on her, but she didn't. She looked back at Silver with something close to raw, unguarded yearning, as if she wanted more than anything to forget however he had let her down so badly, lost her trust, driven them apart, and for just for a short while, even knowing it ultimately changed nothing, to return to how it was when they loved each other. Despite mistakes, despite cracks and flaws, despite catastrophe and fatality, despite secrets and time and death. Madi looked away, then looked back, something in her softening just enough to let him know to come closer. He paused, then did so, crutch thumping on the knotted wood.

Geneva, feeling suddenly rather awkward, retreated a few paces as Silver joined Madi at the window. They stood there in silence, Geneva telling herself to go but not quite following through, until Silver raised a hand and put it on Madi's shoulder, as slowly and gingerly as if expecting her to go off with a bang. But a sigh that was half a sob shuddered through her from head to heel, she turned, and then all at once, her hands fisted in his ragged blue coat, she pulled him against her, and kissed him hard.

Silver was too surprised to do anything except go along with it, as his free hand hovered in the air behind her head, unsure if it had permission to grasp hold, open her mouth, deepen the intimacy. Then it moved to her face, and his callused thumb stroked the bold arch of her cheekbone, made circles in the hollow of her throat. Their noses brushed, they shared space and air and simple existence, in cooperation and not competition for the first time in who knew how impossibly long, eternities and eternities. "Madi," he breathed, soft and broken, as his forehead rested against hers. "Madi, you're tired."

Her lip trembled, as if the one time she wanted him to be selfish as usual, and take what he clearly still wanted from her, he wouldn't. He put his hand on her shoulder again, pushing her very gently back from him, and turned to Geneva, without apparent perturbation that she had just witnessed all this. "Captain Jones," he said. "I'd be indebted if you could see her to bed for me."

Geneva hesitated, absurdly tempted to tell him that he could call her by her first name after all, but she didn't. Instead she nodded once, stepped up, took Madi by the elbow, and steered her to their room, shutting the door behind them but not barring it. The women silently undressed and changed for sleep, turning back the worn quilt and settling side by side on the feather bolster. Geneva was so exhausted that even before she reached a fully horizontal position, she could feel the soft hands of sleep dragging her under, but Madi lay with hands folded on her chest, eyes open but opaque, like a tomb-carving in a cathedral. Geneva wanted to stay awake, to keep her company for a few of the dark watches of the night, but she physically could not. Her eyes closed, and she was gone.

She slept deeply but not entirely peacefully, haunted by the spectral, seaweed-draped shadow of Mr. Arrow flitting in and out of her dreams, and did not wake up, or even stir, until very late morning the next day. The spot next to her in the bed was smooth and empty, so it was impossible to tell if Madi had actually gotten any sleep, and Geneva rolled onto her back with a groan, flopping her arm over her eyes to block the offensive sunlight. She still felt as if she had been clubbed repeatedly by a very large troll. Come to think of it, surely there wasn't anything she was urgently required for today, and she would have gone straight back to sleep if not for the fact that she was starving to death and pressingly needed to use the chamber pot. Bloody inconvenient, really.

Grumbling and groaning, Geneva heaved herself out of bed, wondered when she had gotten so derelict and elderly, did her business, and shuffled to the dressing table, avoiding looking at herself in the mirror in case she turned to stone. She sat down with another groan, fished her silver-backed hairbrush out of her things, and began to do battle with her tangles of dark hair, which stuck out wildly in all sorts of salt-and-wind-whipped directions. She would absolutely see about a bath tonight, as she could feel grime lodged up every nook and cranny, and made a note to ask the innkeeper to arrange to have a tub drawn. There was nothing much to be done for her hair until then, aside from coil it back into its pins and put on a hat, and pull back on her old dress, no matter that it could practically stand up by itself at this point, as she didn't want to wear any of her clean ones until she had properly washed. Feeling as if the troll comparison was more apt than ever, Geneva reassured herself that it was only temporary and it wasn't anyone she cared about impressing, then went to see about breakfast. Luncheon, really, but never mind.

When she reached the common room, the only member of the traveling party there was her uncle, inspecting a copy of the London Register with abstracted, academic interest, a cup of half-finished tea at his elbow. Evidently it was not merely Madi and Silver struck by the weight of this place, but Thomas as well, staring down at the broadsheet – with its details of society marriages, unflattering caricatures of whatever minister was presently most disliked in Parliament, patriotic appeals to support the war against Spain, notices for required household staff or vicars for parishes, theatre evenings in Drury Lane, dispatches from the Navy Office or the East India Company, and its obsession with noting the worth in pounds of prominent landed gentlemen – as if it was a document from a completely alien world. "I used to read this every morning at breakfast," he said, as Geneva slid in next to him. "It all seemed so important then. Now. . . I can't for the life of me recall why."

"Are you all right? Bristol seems to be. . . a bit more than any of us were quite bargaining for, personally speaking."

"Aye, I'll manage." Thomas picked up his tea and briskly downed the rest of it. "It's nice to have a good cup, at least – what with the ridiculous tariffs they keep putting on tea in the Colonies, it's turned into rather a rare luxury, and I am still enough of an Englishman to appreciate it. We could afford it, of course, but James takes it somewhat personally that such taxes are levied especially for the purpose of paying for the latest of His Majesty's wars. Thus, gustatory pleasures have been sacrificed in favor of political principles." Thomas quirked an eyebrow with wry mischief, reaching for the pot to pour another. "Don't tell your grandfather about this, eh?"

Geneva grinned, even as she could tell that Thomas was using his gentle humor to move them away from the subject of his own feelings on actually returning to England, which could only be raw and complicated and surreal to the point of dreaming. "Where are the others?"

"Mr. Silver left early this morning." Aside from a slight tightening of his mouth, Thomas gave no evidence of his opinion on this. "He took young Mr. Hawkins with him, something about sorting out the preparations for our return journey. I believe he had some idea about finding a replacement for Mr. Arrow, at which I reminded him that you would have to approve any man he thought was suitable. As for Madi, I've not seen her. She must have left early as well."

Geneva took this in, not sure what she thought of Silver presuming to appoint a new first mate for her – well, unsurprised, but still severely annoyed. Every time he seemed to take a step forward, it was immediately followed by a dozen back. She hoped that whatever infatuation or interest Jim felt for her would not be overridden by extended exposure to Silver's company, as she did know that Silver was supposed to have a peculiar knack for making men see things from his point of view. Either way, it sounded as if nobody was spending the day loafing in bed, so good thing she had not either. She beckoned for breakfast, ate quickly, kissed Thomas on the cheek and told him to have all the tea he liked, then set out.

The day was fair but very windy, and Geneva's skirts whipped hard against her legs as she made her way down to the harbor front, thinking it was the most likely place for Silver to be holding interviews. If she found them, she intended to stride pointedly in and see if he had enough shame to be flustered in even the smallest degree, though she wasn't putting much stock in it. She hoped Madi was all right; an African woman would most likely be mistaken for a household servant and left to her own devices, but there remained the obvious possibility for trouble, especially if Madi felt like making her hatred for this place more concretely known. Not that Geneva blamed her in the least, but still.

After a preliminary circuit through the docks failed to turn up Silver, and Geneva had ensured that the Rose was being berthed and refitted to her satisfaction (though first having an argument with the port master to convince him that it was her bloody ship and she had the sole right to make decisions regarding it – God, she hated men sometimes) she could not help but want to have a wander up to the sailors' church, the one where Daddy and Uncle Liam had usually visited before leaving from here on the Imperator. Not that Geneva was overly religious – she tended to favor the work of the young Scottish philosopher David Hume and his Treatise of Human Nature, published just last year, and that of the other empirical skeptics – but it was a piece of family history, and she was curious. So she left the docks, climbed the steep path, ignored the offered assistance of half a dozen passing gallants (she really hated men) and made it to the church, with its distinctive arch of a whale's massive jawbone. The door was made of driftwood, and Geneva politely removed her hat, as a gentleman would, before entering.

The sanctuary was cool, dim, and smelled as did every church. A few women who must be sailors' wives were lighting candles beneath the mural of Christ standing on the headland, guiding venturing souls safely home through the storm. Geneva paused, waited until the women had moved away, then put a ha'penny in the collection box and lit a candle of her own, feeling that they could do with any extra help they could get. The walls were inscribed with the names of all the ships who had made their home port here, and she followed them around until she came to the Navy stone. Running her finger down it, she stopped at A.D. 1706 – HMS Imperator. At least she thought it was that. The name had been half effaced by what looked like a chisel blow, as if someone, hearing of the vessel's treason, had decided it no longer deserved this honor and tried to strike it out.

Geneva ran her fingers lightly over the crack, fighting an odd sense of personal affront. What had become of the ship herself – renamed the Jolie Rouge, feared across the Caribbean during her father's brief but spectacular career as a pirate captain, and then taken command of by Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny after the war – nobody was quite sure. Rackham and Bonny had sailed a few years with their cohort, Mary Read, but there was not much space left for that way of life in the Caribbean. They might have gone east to the Indian Ocean, following Edward England, one of their old colleagues on Charles Vane's crew, or all the way south round the Horn and into the Pacific, or somewhere else entirely. Like Flint, there had been scattered stories of their capture or surrender, but none, so far as Geneva knew, had been verified.

She hesitated, then moved to the next marble slab. Here was a list of the Navy men from Bristol who had met their end in its service and were worthy of humble and holy remembrance, and she found Js. Hawkins, HMS Imperator, 1715 easily enough. Nothing for her uncle or her father – which, given that they weren't, strictly speaking, actually dead – wasn't terribly surprising. Still, the message was unmistakable. They had been excluded, cast out, shunned from this place, from the dignity of its memory or the shield of its protection. If she sought it for herself, she would have to reckon with that legacy.

Geneva turned away, just as she became aware that one of the women from earlier was watching her, and had clearly been doing so for several minutes. She was a handsome blonde woman of middle age, with nonetheless something of a perpetually girlish cast to her features, her eyes cool and calculating. Seeing that Geneva had noted her regard, she inclined her head, but it fell short of any actual apology. Then she moved closer, skirts rustling. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon." Sensible of it being a church, Geneva likewise kept her voice down. "May I help you?"

"Forgive me if I am mistaken. But by any chance, would you be Emma Swan's daughter?"

Geneva, who had found the fact that everyone seemed to know her by repute unsettling enough on Nassau, was completely flummoxed to have it happen again in a place as bloody far away as Bristol. Perhaps she should have expected it, having just been lost in thoughts of her family's past, but still. "I – I am, yes," she said stiffly. "Geneva Jones."

"I thought so. I saw you looking at the Imperator." The woman smiled, though not with much real warmth. "Besides, I've heard a few interesting rumors recently. My name is Mrs. Eleanor Rogers. Your mother and I. . . knew each other quite a while ago."

"Eleanor – wait." The penny dropped. "Eleanor Guthrie?"

Something imperceptible flickered in the older woman's eyes. "That was my maiden name, yes. Your mother and I worked together on Nassau, when she was Captain Swan."

"Wasn't that before you married Woodes Rogers and turned against all of your old associates and friends?" Geneva had heard a thing or two about this woman, yes. "Even sided with Robert Gold, if he would give you the rule of Nassau as you wanted? And after your husband was imprisoned, you did – what? He eventually managed to become governor again, but we never heard anything about you going back there. You knew what sort of reception you'd receive."

"Well," Eleanor said. "Aren't you your parents' daughter."

Geneva took this as a point of pride. "You betrayed all of them. People remember that."

Eleanor waved a hand shortly. "For your information, when my husband was imprisoned, I managed to liquidate some of his debts through my grandmother's holdings in Philadelphia. We both agreed that it was wise for me not to go back to Nassau when he accepted another term as governor there – or rather was forced into it. Thus I never saw him again, since he died several years ago – which you, so well informed, doubtless know. The children of his first wife inherited what was left of the estate, any further rights and royalties for A Cruising Voyage Round the World, and the chance to look down their noses at me for the rest of their days, not that they needed any help in that regard. I was allowed a pittance of money from the settlement and to live in one of the Rogers family properties here. I managed to secure our son a Navy commission, but we barely have two pennies to rub together."

"Your son?"

"Aye. Captain Matthew Rogers, of HMS Griffin." Eleanor set her jaw. "He's been gone since last year, he's posted to – ironically – the Indies during the war. Truth be told, I suspect they'll find some way to make sure he never returns – why have him here, potentially mucking about in his half-siblings' inheritance and affairs, when they can keep him toiling at arms' length? They're terrible people, they don't give a whit for him. And he their own flesh and blood."

Geneva had attempted to keep a polite expression on her face, but at this, she finally interrupted. "And this has. . . what to do with me, exactly?"

"I thought. . ." Eleanor looked as if this was causing her considerable personal effort. "I realize, as you say, that I wronged friends of mine in the past. If this could be amended, perhaps I could accompany you. England's a fucking miserable place, no wonder we left it when I was a girl, and if I can get back to my son. . . I've got bloody nothing from the Admiralty here, not even the pension I am due as Governor Rogers' widow, so perhaps Royal Navy headquarters on Antigua can be more induced to listen to my case. And of course, this venture of yours, given what I heard about other recent visitors to the city – "

Geneva was briefly impressed to hear another woman use the sort of language she was known to resort to at times, but not enough to overlook her skepticism of this entire proposal, especially as she was in absolutely no mood to be saddled with any more blasts from the past. "Let me get this straight. You think I'll agree to haul you along just so you can get one up on your stepchildren, go to the Navy and badger them for your pension, which you got from marrying the chief enemy of the pirates, the man who tortured my father for information and nearly killed my mother and grandfather,? Then while you're about it, get a cut of the lost treasure so you can once more live in comfort? No. Bloody no. I'm sorry for your circumstances, but they appear, Mrs. Rogers, to be entirely of your own devising. So I'll bid you good day and be on my – "

Any remaining pleasure in the visit decidedly evaporated, she started for the door, even as Eleanor trotted determinedly after her. They emerged into the bright sunlight, Geneva clapping on her hat and feeling in need of finding Silver so she could profitably yell at someone – only to be halted by the sight of the man himself, Madi, and Jim just coming up the path. Whether they were going to the church (it seemed unlikely) or somewhere else was unclear, but in any case, both the adults stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of Geneva's unexpected companion. Eleanor, for her part, appeared just as stunned to see them. A nasty silence reigned.

"Mrs. Rogers." Silver, unsurprisingly, was the first one to recover the power of speech. His tone was ostensibly polite, but the edge was unmistakable. "A long time, hasn't it been?"

"Mr. . . Silver." Eleanor might have been slightly more forewarned of his presence here, but only slightly. "And. . . Madi, was it not? Mr. Scott's daughter?"

"My father worked for you on Nassau a long time, yes." There was no warmth at all in Madi's tone, feigned or otherwise. "I arrived there near the end of the war with the Walrus. I understand by that time, you had already changed your allegiances to the English."

"Indeed." Eleanor gave a tight little smile. "I've just been speaking to Miss Jones here. I came into the city in hopes of finding the arrivals, when I heard there had been a ship from Nassau. I suppose it is only to be expected that you were aboard it."

"Indeed." Silver remained watching her, while Jim looked utterly baffled as to how everyone knew each other and what on earth was going on. For her part, Geneva could not help but wonder what the result would be, when two such supremely self-interested people were brought into conjunction like this. No equal arrangement, that was for sure. Silver went on, "And how, exactly, do you imagine we can help you? Surely you cannot even think we would? After – "

"Aye, so I was informed," Eleanor snapped. "I betrayed all of you. That does not seem to have disqualified your presence here, does it? I've heard a few things about what you were have said to have done yourself, so do you really wish to pursue that line of attack?"

Silver started to say something, then stopped smartly. Then he said, "I am aware of my perdition, believe me. But I think Madi and Max run New Providence quite well these days, without you."

Eleanor flinched, ever so slightly, at the mention of Max, as Geneva was left to speculate interestedly on any number of potential prior connections. Madi herself looked almost pleased at the compliment, before remembering that it was Silver who had given it and for ulterior motives, and her expression turned cool again. Eleanor herself drew in a sharp breath through her nostrils and said, "Much as you will not believe it of me, I have no more ambition for Nassau. That foul fucking arse-crack of a place is welcome to do whatever it pleases. I wish, as any mother does, to be reunited with my son."

"Son?" Both Madi and Silver, who had personal experience with Woodes Rogers' cool, competent, and ruthless nature, looked alarmed at the revelation that there might be a man with his cold blood and Eleanor's cornered-cat ferocity running around out there. "His?"

"Of course it was my husband's child, what do you think?" Eleanor's eyes flashed. "Not that he ever knew him very much, given as it was first debtor's prison and then a return to that horrible island, in thanks for everything Woodes had done for them. Matthew is my only priority now, not Nassau. And while you may have no children of your own, Mr. Silver, I hope even you can understand that. Or can you not?"

Madi and Silver exchanged a look, an odd continuation of their intimacy from last night, but in a different way, as they silently sought the other's opinion and verdict on the matter. Geneva had no way of knowing if they had ever imagined or hoped for children for themselves – Madi had said they had lived as husband and wife for many years, had the question really never arisen at any point? Or perhaps it had, and they did not have the same answer, and that had contributed to their estrangement. It was clearly something very private that did not concern her, even as she pushed away a brief, unwanted pity (unwanted for Silver, at least). Then Silver said, "It is a moving tale, to be sure. But even if we were inclined to pursue it – "

"I wasn't interested," Geneva interrupted. She had made her decision, and nobody got to go over her head and override it, even if she didn't think Silver was in much danger (for bloody once) of that; his feelings on Eleanor were clearly no warmer than anyone else's. "Therefore, the matter is closed, and I am sure we all wish Mrs. Rogers a very pleasant day."

With that, she pushed past the lot of them and began to march down the hill, internally seething. There was a pause, then a rustle as Jim hurried after her, followed belatedly by Madi and Silver. When they reached the street, Geneva whirled on the latter. "Oh, and don't think you're excused. This plan to go behind my back and hire my new first mate for me, did you ever possibly imagine that I would be remotely pleased with – "

"I wasn't going to hire him for you." Silver had the temerity to look somewhat stung at this accusation. "I was merely going to examine a few options, see what was available. We are running short-handed, you know. Mr. Arrow wasn't the only man we lost in the storm, and I can promise that at least a few of them will prefer to stay here over the winter, rather than immediately signing on for another long crossing. Besides, it can't hurt to have more fighters on our side, if we are likely destined for a confrontation at some point."

"So what? Hire the local Bristol street thugs, as long as they can handle a sheet?" Geneva felt her temper scraping thinner and thinner. "Or some old sailor I don't know and who will feel his opinion to be preferred to mine on everything? I'd almost rather sail short-handed, if that's the choice foisted on me!"

"Or," Silver pointed out, "you could make me first mate. At least you do know me."

Geneva stopped, tilted her head, and stared at him coolly. "And suddenly I wonder if that was not your plan all along. Threaten me with some unknown and untrusted commodity, so you could then present yourself to me as familiar. Is that how you managed it with my grandfather? Aye, I know you, and bloody little of it is to your credit, especially given how your last post as quartermaster ended! Whatever else she may be, that Rogers woman is right. Betrayal did not disqualify you from being here somehow, but why should I encourage it?"

"Geneva – " Forgetting protocol, Silver reached out a hand. "Either way you look at it, it becomes twisted into malign intention on my part, is that it? Hire an outsider, and I seek to challenge your command and give a stranger a position of authority aboard your vessel. Suggest myself, and I have only craftily misdirected and misled for my own advancement. What can I suggest that you would believe?"

"Perhaps nothing!" Geneva jerked out from under his touch, finally provoked beyond all endurance. "Did you ever consider that, Mr. Silver? Perhaps you should suggest nothing! Not everything is in your purview or requires your contribution! Perhaps it is my responsibility, as captain, to decide who I needed on my crew and when, and there is absolutely no call for your feelings on the matter at all! I daresay if you did that once in a while, or even considered the concept in your life, clever man like you, you might have a few more friends!"

Jim's eyes went wide, as he was wearing an expression that could only be described as "oh damn," and Madi looked almost on the verge of smiling, but as someone who had been too personally hurt by Silver's deficiencies in this regard to find it very amusing. There was an extremely tense pause as Geneva and Silver stared at each other – the one looking furious, the other almost (if not quite) chagrined. Then, slowly, as if worried of making her shout again, Silver raised a hand. "Aye. That makes sense, I understand. I will furthermore leave the question of Mr. Arrow's replacement entirely up to you."

"Good." Noting Madi's gaze flickering between them, and then back to Geneva with something almost concerned in her eyes, Geneva nodded to her, turned about, and left the three of them behind, presumably to elucidate Jim on just who Eleanor Rogers, née Guthrie, actually was. She hoped they had seen the last of that woman, but these sorts of people were not easily shaken off – she should know, given as she had already been dragged from Nassau to Bristol by one, and had no intention of being dragged from Bristol to Nassau by another. Either way, before they were going anywhere, they were going to France. Geneva intended to get in contact with her aunt Regina as regarded her uncle Liam's whereabouts, and warn her about just who was responsible for his disappearance. If Regina then wanted to come along, well, yet another strong-minded woman to make Silver's life difficult could not go amiss.

Geneva spent the rest of the afternoon doing some interviewing of her own – there were always men who hung around docks in hopes of employment on a ship, and since she knew that Silver was right about some of the crew choosing to stay here and return next spring rather than hauling arse straight back, it would behoove her to have at least a few replacements lined up. Half the applicants were immediately gotten rid of, either by refusing to serve under a female captain or clearly thinking they could co-opt the chance for themselves, until there were only a handful left.

After a further few questions, Geneva had about made up her mind, even knowing it was not a completely safe choice, to settle on a taciturn, grizzled, bearded old salt who said that he had sailed with Blackbeard's crew back in the day, and who had been aboard when Woodes Rogers took the Queen Anne's Revenge by trickery, killed Blackbeard with unusual viciousness, and chased the Walrus to Skeleton Island. Anyone could have claimed this, of course, but he knew enough details for it to be plausible, and while he was clearly more than slightly mad, he was courteous enough to her. Moreover, when she mentioned John Silver, his eyes narrowed in a way that Geneva thought might do Silver the world of good. "That sneaking, stinking, slithering shit? I've heard of him. If you have him aboard, aye, I'm most interested in the post."

"We will see. There are still some preparations to be made, but I anticipate we will be leaving before the fortnight is out. No need to join us until then; I think it's best that Mr. Silver does not know you are traveling with us beforehand. I prefer him unprepared." Geneva smiled, close-mouthed. "Is that clear?"

"Aye, mum."

"Good. Then I'll see you soon, Mr. . . .?

"Hands." He inclined his head, but his eyes remained avid, intent as a vulture's in his scarred face, biding its time until its prey wheezed its last. "Israel Hands, at your service."

Sam's head felt rather far away from his feet as they climbed out of the dark hold and – very cautiously – up to the deck, which at least kept his mind, somewhat, off the continued throbbing of his striped back. It might not scar, but it was clearly going to be torture waking up tomorrow morning, not that it was presently too enjoyable either, and his shirt was unpleasantly sticking, causing him a hiss of pain every time it peeled off the welts. He had not forgotten that he had been rescued before the flogging was finished, and for all he knew, a few of the bo'sun's brawny mates would grab him, hold him down, and make sure there was no leaving early this time. Whether or not they were technically enlisted, the Griffin's officers would not be happy about having their authority so openly and violently flouted – let Jack get away with it, and the rest might think that they could too. Somebody was going to kick up a fuss.

Sam was quite confused, therefore, when they made it back above as unobtrusively as they could, and nobody looked twice at them. The crowd gathered for the spectacle of a whipping had dispersed – well, they wouldn't want anyone else playing the hero, he supposed – and all the men had returned to their stations. Given as there were now two of them somewhere who thought that he and Jack had popped off for a spot of refreshing buggery, Sam wondered if they should be careful not to emerge together. Though that was supposed to be secret, hence the whole point of the kiss, and those blokes were not likely to speak up and draw attention to themselves. Should be all right. Should be.

In fact, they managed to get through the rest of the afternoon without anyone taking the slightest bit of renewed notice in them. Sam was relieved, but suspicious – could be they were waiting for nightfall, below decks – and wondered if he and Jack should strategically relocate their hammocks. Though that in itself could be questionable, if it looked as if they were hiding out (or, he supposed, off for round two) and Sam found himself almost looking forward to getting to Barbados, for any number of reasons. There had to be ships there heading back north. They'd get one of those. Scenic tours of the Caribbean might be all well and good, but he would rest a deal easier away from the Royal bloody Navy.

He and Jack ate with the rest of the sailors that evening, again without incident, and when it was time to retire, Sam shifted and squirmed and flopped about for ages, trying to find any position that did not sting like a fistful of nettles on his back. As there was only about eighteen inches of space per hammock – the deck was crammed to every side with sleeping men, smelling pungently of sweat and salt and musk and fart and arse and armpit – this quickly attracted hostile hisses and whispers ordering him to quit thrashing before they tied his balls around his throat and loaded him into a cannon. Events of the afternoon being what they were, Sam did not think it wise to press the matter. He lay curled uncomfortably on his side like a kipper, back burning, listening to the progressing racket of slow breaths and snores, unable to drop under despite being more exhausted than he had ever been in his life. How he was going to take another few days of this, he had absolutely no idea.

Sam had lain in a restless half-doze for what felt like close to an hour, before – startling him considerably – somebody put a hand on his shoulder. He jerked his eyes open, expecting to see Jack, but it was the cabin boy. He motioned to Sam to come with him, and Sam, after a moment wondering if this was an entirely wise idea, got out and followed the lad's example by crawling on hands and knees under the dim, swaying shapes of the hammocks, so as not to disturb their occupants. The deck boards were foul with spittle and spilled grog and other things Sam did not want to know about, and he reached the far side with relief, straightening up and clambering up the ladder, sucking down a breath of cool, fresh night air that was immeasurably welcome after the hot, cloistered reek of the sleeping quarters. The gun ports had been left open for ventilation, but that still did not do much, and Sam gulped gratefully until the funk had cleared from his nostrils. Remembering, however, his last sojourn on deck at night, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the cabin boy. The little twerp was barely ten; if he tried to throw Sam overboard, he was the one going swimming.

The cabin boy, however, did not have such villainy in mind, and beckoned Sam across to the door of what was unmistakably the captain's quarters. Sam, realizing that the villainy might only have been delayed to arrive in a different form, felt an unwelcome lurch in his stomach, but there was nothing for it. Mouth dry, hoping that the entire lot of them were not about to jump him, he followed the boy into the low-ceilinged, candlelit cabin, rear windows cranked open and the dark sea smooth as glass beyond the stern lanterns.

Inside, Captain Rogers, cravat undone and jacket off, was playing cards with the warranty officers – two lieutenants, the purser, gunner, and surgeon, by the looks of things – but at the sight of them, he quickly finished the game and gestured for his guests to leave. Sam did not find this a particularly auspicious beginning, but forced himself to control his nerves, standing as noncommittally as possible until the last "G'night, Cap'n, sir," had been muttered, and the two of them were alone. It was plain that despite his youth, Rogers had the respect, and perhaps more than a little fear, of men ten or even fifteen years his senior. Sam also did not find this very reassuring, but still refused to fidget. Whatever this was about, he was liable to find out uncomfortably soon, and was more than happy to wait.

"Mr. Cocker," Rogers said. "Sit, if you would."

Sam hesitated, then moved into one of the vacated chairs at the card table. There was a snifter of brandy at Rogers' elbow, but he did not appear to be at all inebriated, and Sam doubted that he was about to be offered a friendly drink. He tried not to let on the way his heart had sped up – the bugger was just Jack's age or so, nothing more than an older boy at school who thought he knew everything, no need to be scared. And as well, no need to make this any worse. "Captain."

A faint smile turned up Rogers' lips. "James Cocker," he said. "That is your name, isn't it?"

"Aye."

"And your friend is Richard Jones?"

"Aye."

"Who are your parents, Mr. Cocker?"

"Uh – Bartholomew. Bartholomew and Ruth Cocker, of Georgia." Sam thought about saying Virginia or some other place, but he'd already mentioned that he was with Oglethorpe's army, no need to muddle the picture. "They're greengrocers."

"Are they indeed?" Rogers sipped the last of the brandy, set it aside, and folded his hands on the table, surveying Sam with that level, appraising look of his. "Fascinating though the work of a greengrocer doubtless is, it is not your parents that I intend to discuss tonight. My concern is rather with your. . . friend. Mr. Jones made quite a spectacle earlier."

"Er, yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, I suppose he did, a bit."

Rogers smiled another of those smiles that never got anywhere near his eyes. "Forgive me, since you have already changed your story on me once, if I cannot help further curiosity into you two's origins. Oh, I believe you are an English soldier, if a somewhat unenthusiastic one – the Crown, after all, does not ask us to love it, only obey it. I will, however, believe a Covent Garden whore is the Queen of England before I believe the same of your friend. Who is he, really?"

"J – Richard?" As if there was anyone else they could be discussing.

"Indeed. You may be interested to hear that Mr. Sherwood, the gunner's mate, will be all right in a day or so, though with a very nasty bruise on his neck. If Mr. Jones had done him more serious injury. . . well, one cannot help but think it was mere chance that he did not. Rather a vicious temper, especially when it comes to defending you."

Sam, who had been about to point out that Mr. Sherwood deserved it, decided this to be unwise. He wished Rogers would quit staring at him like that, or at least blink a few times. "Aye," he said, trying to sound friendly. "Dick is a pain in the arse, all right. Know what I mean?"

"Is that a joke, Mr. Cocker? A rather ill-advised one, at that?"

"I – what?" Sam blinked. "Oh, Jesus. No."

"I'm relieved to hear it." Rogers leaned back in his chair. "So, if that is your honest opinion of him, and as I said, it's apparent he's no English soldier – again. Who is he?"

"How do you know he's not? He's English. He clearly can fight. He could be a soldier." Sam debated whether to mention that Jack's father was a Royal Navy captain – that might reveal that his name was not Richard Jones, aye, but it might give Rogers pause about doing anything too drastic to him. But Sam knew that Jack had not told him that just for him to turn around and blab it that same night, especially to this man. "I'd – well, probably just don't let the crew pick any more fights with him, we get to Barbados, and go on our way, free as a – "

Rogers took his jacket from the windowsill, removed a knife and a small block of wood, and shaved a long, delicate curl off it. "Nights are long at sea," he explained. "Often with nothing to pass them with, so I've taken up whittling. Useless, of course, with a dull knife. Useless and frustrating. To get anywhere at all, one must keep the knife sharp and be patient. Carve away at the block bit by bit, even if it looks nothing like one hopes, until some sort of shape is revealed within. It does take effort, and forethought. And of course, if one is not paying attention, one could cut oneself rather badly. Not something one does absently, whittling."

Inexperienced he might be, but even Sam was not thick enough to miss the decided – and decidedly sinister – double meaning of this remark. He resisted, again, the urge to fidget or gulp, instead gazing as blandly back at Rogers as if they were actually talking about woodwork. "Oh? What're you trying to make, then?"

"I'm not sure just yet." Rogers turned the small carving in his hand. "That, though, is the other thing. You can't wait too long to decide, must set your design and commit to it. Wood, after all, is not a very malleable substance – you cannot start to make something and then change your mind halfway through, or all you do is ruin the work. You must etch one likeness, or another. Helps build one's resolve, shall we say. Tell me, Mr. Cocker, what does a greengrocer's son do for recreation? Toss onions about? I imagine with sufficient practice, you could even learn to juggle them."

"For recreation?" Sam repeated. "Same as other lads, I reckon. We're not some strange and separate species."

"So I see." Rogers continued to regard him thoughtfully, until Sam was seriously tempted to do a stupid thing and just order him to get to the bloody point. But this one did not hurry, and that was the danger of him. It reminded Sam of something, some story he'd heard, especially. . . well, the thought had crossed his mind. But Rogers was nearly as common a surname as Jones, and was no proof at all that this deliberate young man with his elegant whittling threats and air of polite incredulity was, in fact, the spawn of Governor Woodes Rogers – whom Sam had never met, and thank God for that. He knew about the man, of course, for the role he had played in the history of their family and Nassau alike, but to Matthew, even allowing for an unfortunate event where he was the governor's son, it would be likewise just old stories. Or would it?

After a moment, when Sam volunteered no more information, Rogers put the block back in his jacket, but kept hold of the knife. "You asked," he said, as if continuing their earlier conversation with no interruption, "how I could be sure that Mr. Jones was not an English soldier. You say your parents hail from Georgia. I realize, of course, that the colony is a large place. . . but with a name like Jones, that look and coloring, such clear hatred for the Royal Navy and everything it stands for, and knowing that Georgia was the last place we can establish the residence of Killian Jones, formerly Captain Hook. . . Mr. Cocker, do you know who your friend really is?"

Sam just managed to keep the telltale lurch of shock off his face. "What are you suggesting, exactly?"

"I am suggesting," Rogers said, with some impatience, "that your ruffian of a friend is, in fact, the son of a notorious pirate, who himself deserted from the Royal Navy long ago and poses, I am told, a severe and ongoing threat to the English Crown's interests both in the Caribbean and elsewhere. I am under specific orders to find and secure this individual at all costs. If your friend is the child of Captain Hook, I am afraid – "

"He's not." Sam's hands were shaking under the table, so he clenched them. "I know his parents, they're, ah, their names are John and Jane."

"And why does the son of John and Jane Jones hate the Navy so much, Mr. Cocker?"

"Well, you know. They can be a bit. . . not to everyone's tastes."

"Indeed." Rogers studied him a moment longer, then raised his voice. "Come in, please."

Outside, there was the sound of scuffling and struggling, a yelp, a thump, and then the cabin door opened again, to admit, with difficulty, Rogers' former card-playing partners. The two lieutenants were wrestling Jack by either arm, the gunner (doubtless with a personal vendetta for Jack having left him short his mate for the time being) had him in a headlock, and the purser was watching the whole thing with a sort of grim satisfaction. They made it inside, the purser shut the door, and the lieutenants forced Jack, again with considerable struggle, to his knees in front of the captain's table. "Got 'im, sir."

"Indeed," Rogers said again. He regarded them critically – one had a split lip, the other a black eye, and they were both out of breath – and then turned to Jack, who was glaring up at him through the long lock of black hair that had fallen in his face. "Good evening, Mr. Jones."

"The fuck it is." Jack's gaze slid briefly sideways onto Sam, almost as if he had to make sure that Rogers hadn't hurt him any more while they were alone together. "Go ahead, beat me all you want. I figured this was coming."

"No, I don't think so," Rogers said. "But if you'll excuse me, I just need to perform a brief test of a hypothesis. Warwick, hit him."

The lieutenant in charge of Jack's left arm passed custody of it to the gunner, then stepped around, squared up, and as his fellows hauled Jack into a half-standing position, slugged him in the stomach. Jack doubled over momentarily, but unlike Sam, he clearly knew how to take a punch, and he was straightening up again even as he was, breathing heavily and gulping hard but with evil stare undimmed. "Four men to come get me while I'm sleeping?" he rasped. "No wonder England is so proud of having all you brave heroes in its service."

Lieutenant Warwick cracked his knuckles threateningly, but Rogers raised a hand. "That will do, thank you. That was all I needed to know. You are, Mr. Jones – as does not surprise me, given your lineage – clearly not a man whom violence can break. You are too used to it, and it only strengthens your recalcitrance. Therefore, I see no call for effort and unpleasantness to be expended in beating you. We can make this simple. Are you the son of Killian Jones, better known as Captain Hook?"

"What? No."

It was clear that Rogers did not believe this, and Sam fought an insane urge to yell out his real identity, as he had admittedly been doing a bit too freely on this adventure to date, but bit his tongue at the searing look Jack threw him. The captain paced a measured circle around Jack, looking down at him with slight disgust, as if a man so clearly governed by his passions and darker impulses was little better than a savage of some distant land, far from sharing in the exalted exercise and virtue of Reason that, the new philosophers assured them, was special and unique to Western men. "Are you then," Rogers said, more coldly, "related to Killian Jones in any way, or have some knowledge of his current whereabouts?"

"I don't have a fucking clue. Are you done?"

Rogers raised an eyebrow. Then he nodded to the gunner and the purser, who – leaving the lieutenants to manage Jack – suddenly and alarmingly grabbed hold of Sam and slammed him down on the table so hard that he saw stars. The gunner pinned him with a beefy forearm, while the purser opened one of the drawers and removed a riding crop. To say the least, riding crops were not normally required aboard a ship, so this one must be present for the exact use to which it now threatened to be put. "I quite believe that we can make no headway on your resolve by violence applied to your own person," Rogers said, as if explaining a simple concept to a rather dull-witted schoolboy. "But given what efforts you went to this afternoon to save Mr. Cocker from a thrashing, I wonder if that also holds true when applied to him?"

For a moment, which was somehow more terrifying to Sam than the fact that he was thrown flat on a table and possibly about to be whipped again, he saw Jack go white. He did not have a sharp answer ready for that, and Rogers smiled with a distinct air of victory. "You know," he went on. "I am aware of the certain. . . attachments that can sometimes form between crewmen, serving together in close quarters for long periods of time and deprived of the society of women. Unlike other captains, I have not seen any call to go to violent lengths to root it out, as long as it does not interfere with the smooth and orderly running of the vessel. So please do understand, Mr. Jones, that this punishment is not for sodomy, but for insubordination. Unless you wish to spare your little Patroclus, and tell me the truth?"

Jack opened and shut his mouth. As if in an attempt to ascertain his resolve, the purser yanked Sam's shirt over his head, and the gunner dealt a ringing blow with the crop that lashed right into one of the welts from earlier, making Sam utter a strangled scream despite himself; he could feel hot blood trickling down his back. He struggled with a ferocity that surprised even him, but the gunner banged his head back onto the table and belted him again. Sam twisted around and tried to bite him, but a backhand full across the face sent him reeling, and his ears were ringing enough that he almost missed Jack yelling. "Bloody hell! Bloody hell, you fucking bastards! All right, I'm his fucking son, does that make you happy? Jesus!"

Sam's jaw dropped – which, considering that it had just gotten soundly clocked, made it hurt considerably. He was on the very verge of speaking up, but Jack gave him another of those searing looks warning him not to do it or he'd kill him personally, and he snapped his mouth shut. The air was tensed to the point of total explosion, as Rogers, with that same measured stride, approached Jack once more. "For clarity and confirmation's sake, I think we'd all like you to repeat that. You are – ?"

"I'm his son. Killian Jones' son." Despite being unspoken, You motherfucker hung in the air loudly enough for them to hear it anyway. "Satisfied?"

"It's a start." Rogers glanced to the lieutenants. "Until we reach Barbados, I think it's best if Mr. Jones is kept in the brig. My lord will undoubtedly wish to question him personally, so anything that leaves him out of shape for talking is strictly forbidden. I will be very angry if this order is found to be flouted. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Take him away. As for you, Mr. Cocker – " Rogers turned back to Sam – "you are excused from further obligation to serve on the crew for the rest of our journey. We will instead find you something suitable for the skill of a greengrocer's son – swabbing the decks or mucking the head, perhaps, or helping Mr. Alfred in the galley. As long as you make yourself useful, the crew will be informed that the matter has been settled, and any man who pursues a grievance with you will be punished. Test me again or challenge my authority, however, and you will very much wish you hadn't. Likewise, am I clear?"

"Yes." Sam's lip felt fat and painful, but that was not the only reason the word was difficult to choke out. "Sir."

"Good," Rogers said again, with one last lingering look between them. "Well, gentlemen. I'm glad we've sorted everything out. Good night."

The rest of the voyage to Barbados passed in something close to a blur. Sam knew that it was more than his life was worth to sneak down to the brig, but he was still angry at himself for the cowardice of this – surely if he was brave enough, he would do it anyway, especially as Jack was taking what should have been his sentence. Why on earth the stupid git had decided to come over noble for once in his life and lie about this, Sam had no idea – he assumed that it would have been entirely in character for Jack to sell him out quick as spit, just as he had with Da Souza. Evidently, however, Jack hated the Navy a lot more than he hated Sam, and thus was willing to endure the slings and arrows of one if it meant sparing the other. Exactly why, well. . . Sam figured it wasn't a good idea to think about that too much. The kiss had just been a ploy, and besides, there was still this mysterious Charlotte. Best not to go getting things confused.

At least, Sam supposed, he wasn't still being forced to muddle along with sailing, but it was almost worse than if he was. Everyone knew he was officially not good enough to hack it with them, taken pity on and made to do odd jobs that he could handle without calamity – scrubbing deck boards and scouring pots for the cook, sluicing out the reeking head after the crew had all taken their morning shits. Something suitable for the skill of a greengrocer's son. No wonder Rogers had never been troubled by a single flicker of suspicion as to whether he had gotten the wrong man. Jack was the exact sort of son that everyone would expect Dad to have. But Captain Howe was the real monster of a father, and not Captain Hook.

Sam tried to focus on what was before them, to remember that this was doubtless building his character, and he would probably be able to laugh about it some day. But for a boy like him – so proud of making friends, of being liked, even as he feared so greatly that he wasn't – he nonetheless struggled with some kind of hatred that was building slowly in him like poison, that almost made him want to be sick. Hatred of who or what exactly, he didn't even know.

They reached Barbados two evenings later, gliding into Bridgetown harbor on the gilded road of the setting sun and dropping anchor. Despite the lateness of the hour, Rogers was insistent on paying a call at once, and Jack was hauled up from below, wrists in irons, and marched across the deck to the jeers of the crew. He and Sam exchanged half a glance, and Sam couldn't tell if Jack was disappointed or not, if he had expected Sam to come up with some plan to get them out of here before it came to this. Probably not. Jack was likely not at all surprised that he had spent the last few days in the brig pretending to be Sam, and not seen hide nor hair of the real one.

With Sam joining the visiting party thanks to the gunner grabbing his arm and dragging him along with Rogers, Jack, the lieutenants, and a dozen men with muskets, they went ashore and rode in a pair of carts up the hill, into Bridgetown, and toward the impressive estate that sat magisterially gazing down on the port. Rogers spoke in a low voice to the guards on the gate, and they were admitted through at once, rattling down the immaculately kept drive and up to the white-columned house. Jack and Sam were roughly extricated and escorted up the steps, Rogers knocked, and a servant let them in. Another quiet word was exchanged, and they were pointed to the back of the house.

Sam was starting to have a bad feeling about this for more than just the fact that they were in another important bigwig's house after Güemes in Havana (though as allies – maybe – this time, instead of adversaries) and Rogers thought their delivery important enough that it couldn't wait until morning. He had said he'd been told that Killian Jones remained the greatest threat in the Caribbean, that he was under specific orders to find him, and that "my lord" would want to question Jack himself. All of this added up to an individual that Sam was suddenly quite certain he did not want to meet, and that bad as things might look right now, they might be about to get several orders of magnitude worse. Why didn't you think of something, you bleeding idiot? Why didn't you get us out of this? Completely bloody useless, James Cocker the greengrocer's son. Completely!

They reached the door into what looked like a study, but as Rogers raised his hand to knock again, it opened, spilling golden lamplight into the dark hall. The figure thus revealed was a slight man, leaning on a cane, with long grey hair tied back, hooded eyes that reflected almost black, and a ring with a star emblem gleaming on his first finger. He was at least Sam's grandfather's age or older, but likewise still just as dangerous, if not more so. He surveyed his unwilling guests, turned to Rogers, and smiled.

"Ah, dearie," he said. "Do come in."