The Rose and Thorn

by qqueenofhades

Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails.

21. XXI

-XXI-

The sun was rising slowly behind them, painting blood-red tracks on the boards and matching the steady trickle from the ruin of Job Anderson's head, as Geneva Jones sat with her back against the railing, stared at her hands on her knees, and felt only a detached, mild interest, as if they were glassed-up objects on display in some mad genius's lair. She supposed that she should get up and do something, but in the first case, fucked if she knew what that was, and in the second, the Hispaniola was already under the impression that they had the Rose's captain aboard. It could possibly look rather queer if someone else were to start striding around and giving the orders – especially her. Anderson's words still rattled in her head like hot marbles, unable to be dislodged or destroyed. Think it's time you go back to your dollies and your embroidery, little lady. The Rose is going to get a real man's hand to master her.

Intellectually, Geneva was aware that this was complete bollocks, that she was no less good at what she did just because she had been challenged by an obnoxious man with a loud voice, and that if this Lord Gideon Murray was of a temperament to help them rather than being just another in what she had become convinced was their slow-motion descent through the poet Dante's circles of hell, they could yet get out of this. Her heart was less sure. After having everything she thought she knew about herself, her past, her family, and especially her father upended in such short order, she could no longer return to comforting old certainties. She knew Daddy had been a pirate, she knew all of them had, but that man Silver had described, the merciless Captain Hook, who had killed his own old friend in cold blood, who was willing to take the war as far as it could go and then some… not her father, not the gentle, wry, clever, loving man she knew, who had taught her to sail since the moment she could walk, when the memory of the look on his face when she became captain of the Rose at eighteen could still light up her world. That had to be a different Captain Hook.

He's still the same man, Geneva tried to reason with herself. Nothing about what he did has changed, only what you knew about it. As well, she felt, just as she always had, that their family's life of sober, productive, peaceful probity for twenty-odd years must outweigh their violent hell-raising prior to it. Even that hell-raising, however, had been against tyrants and thieves and madmen and murderers, the same names that the civilized world called the pirates of New Providence. It had been glorious in memory, it had been easy, it had been strong. Now it all fell apart in a morass of broken pieces that cut her when she tried to pick them up and put them back, and no easy or clearly drawn or straightforward answers whatsoever.

Geneva closed her eyes, head pounding. The comparative quiet of the morning was ringing unnaturally in her ears, after the night of madness. A few of the Hispaniola redcoats were still moving around the deck of the Rose, dragging mutineers' bodies away and pitching them over the railings with cannonballs yoked to their ankles, and she could hear the telltale churn in the water that meant sharks. While most of the mutineers had been the new men that she had taken on in Bristol, there were a few of her old hands among them too, the ones she had assumed to be firm and fixed in their loyalties. Daddy thought the same of Mr. Hawkins, no doubt. They were going overboard just the same, men she'd sailed with and adventured with and trusted for six years, and she could hear them being eaten. Between Mr. Arrow and now this, not to mention her own mistakes, she'd managed to destroy everything but the physical ship, and since it was tilting decidedly to starboard after the Hispaniola's bombardment, that too was open to question. Just sink it. Just sink it, and take all of this away.

Geneva harshly swallowed the bile in her throat, as she was not going to vomit like some greenhorn in rough seas for the first time. She let her head fall with a clunk against the boards, wondering how long Lord Gideon felt was a proper time to question "Captain Barlow." Thomas had decided it was too risky to use their own names, and had introduced himself as such – Captain James Barlow, and Geneva as his niece, Elizabeth. Silver had promptly made himself scarce, but she could not help but fear what Lord Gideon might have heard about a notorious one-legged man. And while the family had changed the Rose's markings and flags and other Naval dressing, they had never changed the name, and that suddenly appeared as an unforgivable oversight destined to doom them all. What if Lord Gideon had access to the Navy rolls, knew the Rose had been stolen by pirates years ago, and then decided to –

Well, Geneva thought bleakly. Can't be any worse, can it?

She remained where she was, the sun cresting steadily over the topsails, until she sensed someone crossing the planks toward her, then halting a few steps short. "C – Geneva?"

It was Jim. Dully wondering if he had come to shout at her more about Daddy, deciding she didn't much care either way, and probably deserved it, Geneva cracked a bleary eye; both of them had had time to turn what must be a rather spectacular purple. "Aye?"

Like the rest of them, Jim looked tousled and sleepless, chestnut hair loose from its ponytail and face pale and drawn. But it had been a bloody clever move, that trick with the flare, and must have taken considerably gifted marksmanship to pull off, as well as quick thinking and steely nerves. He might have saved their lives, in fact, and Geneva forced the cold clay of her face into what she hoped was a grateful smile. "You – that was very impressive. Thank you."

Jim shrugged, rather diffidently. "Thank you for trusting me to do it."

They looked at each other for a long moment, the echoes of their confrontation in the cabin still audible between them. Then the mutiny had forced them to work together regardless, and it seemed deeply counterproductive to continue to go for each other's throats, with the disastrous consequences of just such a thing scattered to every side. After a pause, Jim blew out a breath and sat down next to her. "I – " he began, stopped, and tried again. "I'm sorry for what I said. I know you didn't have any way of knowing what your father did."

Even if he was apologizing for shouting, Geneva did not want to talk about her father right now. She felt almost unworthy of the credit Jim was extending to her – she hadn't known, of course, but if she had, would she have treated that knowledge like Silver, keeping it to herself rather than throwing it out like Greek fire, to torch everything in its path? She could give no good answer why Killian Jones had killed James Hawkins, why she had grown up with a father and Jim, as a direct result of hers, had not. Nothing but her entire family's obsessive love for a years-dead ghost, which she had no intention of offering up as a mitigating factor. If he had had, and still did have, that kind of control over them, Samuel Bellamy was a very dangerous man indeed.

"Thank you," she said again, since Jim seemed to be waiting for an answer. "I'm sorry. That wasn't any way for either of us to find out. I would give anything to take it back."

"I know." Jim struggled slightly with the words, but managed to get them out. "What I – well, about your father, I'm sorry for that. But with us, what I – about the kiss – "

"What?" Geneva incredulously peeled open the other eye. "Are you actually wanting to talk about that right now?"

"I just…" Jim stared studiously straight ahead, but she could see his sunburned cheeks darkening further. "I said that you only meant to stab me in the back with it, and maybe that wasn't true. But I – well. It's as straight as I can say this, and I'm not trying to hurt you more. If it was just distraction and deception you were after, could you please not do it again?"

Geneva mulled this over grimly. She wanted to shout at him, just because the prospect of shouting at someone seemed vaguely appealing, but all her passion and anger and driving energy and sense of purpose, all the stuff you needed for a proper shout, had completely drained out of her. As well, Jim had every right to ask her so politely not to toy with him, not to treat him as a puppy or insipid hanger-on or other disposable inamorato. "I'm sorry," was all that came out. She didn't know if she meant for the kiss, or for how she had treated him overall, or the voyage, or coming to Bristol, or everything. Probably everything. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Her voice cracked on the last one, mortifyingly, and she tried to turn it into a cough, but her eyes welled up and spilled over before she could stop herself. She bit her lip hard enough to feel her teeth break the skin; if she started crying now, she'd come completely to pieces, and she couldn't do that. Not even if the Hispaniola men might be expecting some maidenly tears from poor Elizabeth Barlow, nearly set upon and torn apart by vicious mutineers, and confused as to why she hadn't. That was for later. Everything was.

Nonetheless, Geneva could not quite stop shaking, and after a deeply uncomfortable moment, Jim reached out and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her cautiously against his side and letting her hide her face. This made her shake more instead of less, even as she remembered that she hadn't given him an answer and perhaps he thought this was some other devious female ploy to practice upon his sympathies. Why was he here, why was he being kind to her at all, when her father had killed his, had ruined his entire life before he was even old enough to remember it, or know why? He should still be shouting. They all should.

And yet, Jim remained holding her, lightly but firmly, making it clear that she could pull back if she wanted to, or if she felt this was an improper encroachment upon their still-fragile relations. Geneva sniffed hard, trying to gulp down the ache in her throat, and could not muster up enough orneriness to raise her walls again. "That was…" Her voice was muffled against Jim's collarbone, the unlaced neck of his dirty shirt. "That was a really good shot. With the flare."

She felt more than saw him shrug, with his usual self-deprecating nature. "Would have blown my bloody fingers off if I lit it in my hand. I had no choice but to take the risk."

"No, it was." Geneva looked up at him. There was a faint shadow of unshaven beard on jaw and cheeks, almost auburn in the morning light, which almost surprised her – she kept forgetting he was a year older than her. "I probably couldn't have made it."

"You could have," Jim said. "You're about the most impressive person I know."

Geneva couldn't help a shy, surprised giggle, despite her cloud of misery. "I am not."

"Aye, you are." Jim appeared to be quite stout on this point. "Bloody hell, look at me. Kicked out of the Navy, hated by the entire merchantry of Bristol, inadvertently burned down my mother's inn, have no prospects for rebuilding it or making amends if I don't come back with – well, something. Then there's you. You're beaut – clever, strong-willed, brave. You captain your own ship and travel the world, you stand up to whatever it has thrown at you, you're not afraid of anything, and you're just…" He trailed off. "You're intimidating."

Geneva had once seen a man in a social capacity – George Warrington, his name had been – who had said something similar to her. While he had outwardly meant it admiringly, it became clear that he did not, that he would have preferred for her to be somewhat less bright. Not all the way, no, no, not entirely. He was an educated man; of course he didn't believe all that folderol that women were destined to a life of nothing but motherhood and drudgery. He had read books written by women, even, and he was perfectly willing to allow that Geneva be permitted such idiosyncrasies and peccadilloes. But when they were married (he seemed to do quite a bit of talking in this vein), she would need to bridle some of her more outrageous activities. Swearing, for example. She could swear around him, since he was (as he would often remind all and sundry) an educated man. But he did not feel it was proper for children to hear their mother swear, or for her to take quite such controversial notions. She'd have to make sacrifices.

After one too many speeches in this vein, and a family supper in which Grandpa and Daddy had gone rather glassy-eyed listening to George prattle about London stocks and bonds recovering in the wake of the South Sea Bubble, then exchanged the kind of look that meant they were thinking of dismembering him in the back garden before dessert (that memory had always been funny, but now it seemed less so), Geneva had issued George with his notice of dismissal. He had been quite aghast, and called by the house several more times without an invitation, in hopes of changing her mind. His last argument had been that she wouldn't find anyone willing to accept all of her. She was a beautiful woman, she was talented, she was clearly very special, but she was too stubborn, too contrary, too scathingly witty, too prickly, and certainly too sexually liberate to appeal to any other gentleman of quality. Pass him up now, and she would be doomed to a life of either perpetual spinsterhood, or bearing eleven children for some fat old pig who only thought she was good for sweeping floors and baking bread.

"What?" Jim asked, evidently realizing that he had struck a nerve. "I'm sorry, did I – "

"No, I… it's not your fault." Geneva scrubbed at her crusty eyes. "I'm sorry too."

A corner of Jim's mouth twitched wryly. "So, you think we'll just be saying that to each other for the rest of the journey, then?"

Caught by surprise, Geneva giggled again. It was more of a snorted wheeze than an actual laugh, and it felt as if she'd been kicked in the ribs, but it was the first time in what felt like forever, and it seemed a small miracle to know that she still could. Jim coughed, looked down, and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket. "Here," he said gruffly. "Let me clean you up a bit."

"Oh no, it's all right, I can." Geneva tried to take the handkerchief, but he had a firm grip on it. "You don't need to – "

"I know I don't," Jim said, sounding slightly exasperated. "But you've been doing everything for everyone, without a rest, and you fought those men that were twice your size and thought you were no real threat to them. Let me, please?"

Geneva hesitated, torn between an urge to point out that the last thing she needed was more men trying to do things for her, and the sore desire to have someone else take control and sort this out, even for a little while. "Fine."

Jim got up, dipped the handkerchief in the water barrel, and then returned, crouching down next to her, taking her chin in his hand, and carefully wiping the blood crusted on her face. Geneva hissed when he touched her black eyes, and he grimaced in sympathy, but didn't pull back, working carefully and lightly, having to make a few more trips to rinse the cloth. "There," he said at last. "I don't think you've broken anything, it'll patch up."

"It's fine," Geneva said again, feeling an odd, burning tingle in the back of her eyes. "It's just a few bruises and scrapes, I've had worse. You don't need to fret over me."

Jim paused, as if weighing what to say, sensing that she was trying to keep up a stiff upper lip, had to do her damndest to present the illusion of control, even as she had never felt less of it in her life. Then he said quietly, "It's all right for it to hurt, you know."

Geneva looked down at her hands, knotted in her lap. "Not right now."

"Hey." He reached out, took one of them, and carefully unbent her clenched, aching fingers, straightening them against his callused palm. It wasn't forward or suggestive in any carnal sense, but just a solid, simple gesture of comfort, warm and matter-of-fact. "You can do it."

Despite herself, Geneva glanced up at him, almost tentatively. She had been amused by his boyish crush and tongue-tied awkwardness around her before, but she now found herself deeply impressed by his steadiness and his cool head under fire, his perception and his bravery and that confounded refusal to hold a grudge past a few days, when he could conceivably and justifiably have held it for life. I have misjudged this man. Aye, and he is, not a lad. Their eyes met, and all at once, it was Geneva's turn to feel shy, something she rarely did when it came to gentlemen. Her heart fluttered unaccountably at the thought of their earlier kiss, and Jim didn't appear to be fleeing in terror from the potential of another one. She could lean forward – it was foolish, it wasn't the time, she hadn't even answered him yet, but he was there, and waiting, and –

She might well have done it. She was bloody close. Then the moment was broken by one of the Hispaniola soldiers – no, it was a lieutenant, wearing an officer's silver gorget – emerging from the cabin and pulling Madi by the arm. "You, girl, what happened to your mistress in there?"

"Get your hands off her!" Geneva jumped to her feet, outraged. She knew that Madi needed no help in defending herself in the usual course of things, but with what they had just been through, for her to be called "girl" and mistaken for Eleanor Guthrie's slave had to be the final salt in the wound. "That's a free woman, Mrs. Scott, and you will leave go of her immediately!"

Surprised, the lieutenant looked over his shoulder at her, then – with a somewhat too-precise movement – let go of Madi, who murdered him with her eyes. "Your pardons, Miss Barlow. I discovered the Negress inside, and assumed she was tending to your companion."

"You assumed wrongly," Geneva said, very coldly. "And under what warrant, exactly, are the lot of you pillaging my – my uncle's vessel?"

"Lord Gideon's," the lieutenant informed her. "There was just a mutiny on board, was there not? As the king's agents, we have a responsibility to ensure the return and establishment of law and order, and to impose it ourselves if your uncle is unable. What did happen to the lady in there? Wounded, aye, but that doesn't look to be a recent injury. What else has been going on aboard this ship, the – " He raised an eyebrow, as if in expectation of a name.

Geneva raised one back at him, as if in expectation of his first.

"Lieutenant Jeremy Woodlawn, madam. I don't think I've actually heard what this ship's name is yet. Do you know where your uncle keeps the registry papers?"

"My uncle is speaking with Lord Gideon," Geneva said. "I'm sure he's sorted it out."

"The ship looks quite Navy in her trim." Woodlawn glanced up at the masts, then across the deck. "How long has your uncle sailed her, do you know?"

Geneva was very wary of giving any answers that might conflict with Thomas', since she did not know what he might be claiming to Lord Gideon. "I don't."

"Hmm. Well, the papers must be somewhere in the cabin, and since this is not your slave, perhaps you wish to show me instead?" Woodlawn put his hand on the latch. "Then we can have this all sorted out and – boy, did I ask for you? I don't recall doing so."

Jim didn't budge. "I'm sure I can help."

Woodlawn eyed him, as if to say that he knew damn well Jim was trying to get between him and having Geneva alone for further persuasion, friendly or otherwise. However, he could hardly make it plain that he might be about to mistreat a wealthy merchant's niece in front of the rest of the men, and jerked his head. "Very well. Make yourself useful."

With that, the lieutenant followed Geneva and Jim into the cabin, which was low, dim, and smelled of blood and laudanum, as Eleanor had apparently been self-medicating throughout the chaos of the events outside. Her eyes were dilated, glassy, almost black, and she did not appear to take much notice of them. Geneva was trying to think what the devil to do – she knew exactly where the registry papers were, of course, but since they gave the ship's name as the Rose and its captain's as Geneva Jones, that, obviously, would be bad for their ruse in any number of ways. Woodlawn also did not seem like the kind of man who would be satisfied by putting a perfunctory effort into it and admitting failure. As Geneva and Jim came to a halt in the middle of the floor, he said again, "Well? The trunk or the desk, do you think?"

"I – can't be sure, I don't – "

"Excuse me." The slurred voice came from the bed, as Eleanor pushed herself up on an elbow, eyes unfocused, and pointed an accusing finger at them. "You, sir. You are invading my quarters. Do you know who I am?"

"I do not, madam." Woodlawn turned to her. "Did you possibly wish to inform me?"

"She's an – old friend of – a friend," Geneva said hastily. "Not particularly – "

"I'm Mrs. Woodes Rogers," Eleanor announced. "My husband will punish all of you if you persist in this insubordination. Woodes Rogers, you have heard of him? The governor of Nassau?"

Woodlawn's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "Governor Rogers has been dead for eight years, madam."

Eleanor frowned, then shook her head woozily. "No. No, he's not. He's – "

"See," Geneva interrupted, sensing her opportunity. "Mrs. – Mrs. Smith is raving. Bad reaction to opium. She was wounded in the side by a falling spar not long into the journey, it's been a terrible trial to care for her. Really, you will insist on bursting into an invalid gentlewoman's bedchamber and ransacking the place? For shame, sir! For shame!"

Lieutenant Woodlawn squinted at her, but after a moment, very grudgingly, took a step backward. "Apologies. Christian consideration must be taken into account. We can wait for your uncle's return."

They managed to make it back on deck, as Geneva felt her knees wanting to wobble and locked them as hard as she could. It was at least an hour since Thomas had gone on board the Hispaniola, maybe more; they had not been sounding the bells in the disarray of things. How many questions, exactly, might Lord Gideon have? Something seemed faintly, damnably familiar about the man, as if she should know him from somewhere, but she didn't. It was ominous enough that he was from Charlestown. She was trying to suppress the urge to pace, fingernails balled painfully into her fists, when a voice said, "Lieutenant, we've found a few more below."

Geneva, Jim, and Woodlawn all turned to behold two redcoats dragging John Silver by the arms, one of them carrying his false leg; to judge by the bruise rising on Silver's cheek, the man had already struck him with it. They dropped him in a heap, as the first one said, "There's another in the brig, m'lord. But before we ascertained what he was in for, we didn't think it wise to release him on the – "

"Jesus Christ." Silver spat out a few dribbles of blood. "I already told you, don't let that man out, unless you want us all blown to – "

"Shut up." The soldier kicked him, which Silver absorbed with a grunt. Addressing himself to Woodlawn, he went on, "The surviving mutineers, they've sworn that this one was the chief of the uprising. Talked himself into control of it and was intending to carry it out, until the lad managed to signal for us. Should we execute him as well, sir?"

"The chief of the mutineers, was it?" Woodlawn inspected Silver closely. "A one-legged man, to boot. How very curious. No, Jenkins, hold your fire. Lord Gideon is going to want to see this."

Geneva and Madi glanced at each other almost inadvertently, as if to gauge what the other was thinking to see Silver prone and bleeding in front of them. Nobody could argue with him deserving it, and Geneva might still have a few slaps in reserve if the opportunity arose, but she did not quite want to see Silver shot like a dog. He had killed Anderson, but was that in defense of them, or because Anderson had threatened his authority as leader of the mutiny? Now that she had some emotional remove from the heat of the situation, Geneva had to admit that she could not see Silver veering so quickly from saving her from Hands and insisting that he could not watch her die, to handing them all over to a scabrous gang of malcontents without a second look back. But there remained the fact that Silver's methods, whatever his motives, were often very hard to tell apart for friend or foe, and there was no reason to think he had been lying about being willing to do whatever it took. He always had, no matter what, and assuredly always would.

The wait dragged on interminably as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Geneva was feeling almost completely dissociated from her body, between hunger, exhaustion, emotional turmoil, anxiety, and everything else, and Woodlawn finally (gold medal for him) allowed her to sit on the hatch cover and have a drink of water. Jim perched protectively near her, as a few of the redcoats likewise seemed rather taken with this pretty, vulnerable-looking young lady, and Geneva couldn't decide if it was worth the effort to disabuse them. If they thought she was in fragile estate, they could potentially refrain from anything too drastic, but the question remained if Lord Gideon would be fooled. If he ever got bloody back, or if Thomas did. Jesus, could this just get over with, or at least not get any worse? For once?

It was going on noon by the time the young governor finally reappeared, emerging onto the deck of the Hispaniola and crossing over to the Rose, as Geneva's eyes swept from side to side and noted at once that Thomas was not with him. She barely managed to hold her tongue until Murray had arrived, then blurted out, "Excuse me, where's my uncle?"

"He'll be remaining behind for the moment." Lord Gideon regarded her coolly. "That makes sense, of course, given what he said about your – circumstances?"

Geneva had no idea what Thomas might have told them, and took serious leave to doubt that his detainment had been voluntary. She took a step. "Look, you – "

"Sir," Lieutenant Woodlawn interrupted. "Miss Barlow is rather hysteric, you should leave her be for the moment. This scoundrel is of considerably more interest."

While Geneva was still trying to decide if she should step on Woodlawn's foot for the hysteria comment, or affect a swoon, or anything, Murray looked over at Silver, who still had several bayonets pointing at him. Something flickered across his face that Geneva decidedly disliked, and he contemplated Silver for a long moment. Then he said, "Correct me if I am mistaken, but am I in fact honored with the presence of the notorious pirate, Long John Silver?"

There was a deeply unpleasant pause, after which Silver seemed to decide that he could hardly deny it. "I do not go by that name presently, but yes."

"I thought so. That also explains why you attempted to conceal yourself – individuals of your former occupation must not be terribly fond of the sight of redcoats." Lord Gideon turned to Geneva. "But then, Miss Jones, you knew that too, didn't you?"

It took a moment for everyone to catch this. Geneva felt a lurch in her stomach as if she had missed several steps going downstairs. "I beg your pardon? My name is Barlow, Miss Elizabeth Barlow, not – "

"Please." Murray held up a hand. "I did suspect, but I needed the sight of him to be sure. Your name is Geneva Jones, and your uncle is Thomas Hamilton. Likewise, am I incorrect?"

Geneva opened and shut her mouth like a fish, surely not doing anything to convince Murray of her bona fides. Then suddenly and horribly, she remembered something that Madi and Max had said to her back in Nassau – and which, to judge from the look on Madi's face, she had also just thought of. "You," Geneva said. "You were the man that Billy Bones met in Charlestown, who sent him haring across the ocean to England. Weren't you?"

Murray inclined his head with sarcastic grace. "And you had – your uncle Charles, would it be? Charles Swan – write to David and Mary Margaret Nolan, prominent merchants of the same city, to have them ask who in Charlestown might know something about it. As well as giving details of your situation, and that you had departed aboard your ship, the Rose, in company with John Silver and in hopes of catching up to Mr. Bones. Well? Did you?"

"I met him," Jim said defiantly. "They didn't. Him and that mad old witch he's traveling with, Lady Fiona. She burned down my mother's inn, by the way. I'm sure of it."

"Did you?" Murray looked at Jim narrowly. "How interesting. Lady Fiona is – regrettably – my adopted mother, and I have no more reason to wish her success than you must for Bones. But speaking of families, Miss Jones, I have met yours. They were in Charlestown, where they came to visit me, and I engaged them to perform a few small tasks."

"Why would they help you?"

"Because they might not see your father again if they didn't." Murray spun on his heel. "I sent them to Philadelphia, but they slipped through my fingers after that. I knew you still had to be somewhere in the offing, however, and that made you my backup plan. It was simple enough to set sail to where you could be guessed approximately to be, if you were returning from a voyage to England, and hope we crossed paths. This worked better than even I was expecting."

Geneva continued to stare at him. She wanted to ask what the bloody hell he meant possibly not seeing her father again, until something else occurred to her. That odd encounter after the hurricane, with the ship called the Pan, its cocksure young captain, Rufio, and her inexplicable sense that something was wrong, when she asked him what was in the hold. Just a stubborn ox, my lady. There was no proof, none whatsoever, but – she had sailed past, if that had been Daddy held prisoner, and she had missed her chance to –

Geneva had no idea how to react, as her anger and sense of betrayal at her father's long-ago actions wrestled with her still-deep love of him, and her fear that her failure might ultimately be the one that kept them from mending fences, rather than his. But there was no way to know where Killian Jones was now, or what had happened to him or any of them. Lord Gideon was clearly not about to let them wander off and find out, and with that, Geneva knew what he wanted. Coolly, she lifted her head. "You want us to take you to Skeleton Island. Since you couldn't sway Billy to your side, and because you lost my family. Don't you."

"I do, yes." Murray folded his arms and looked at Silver. "I would be correct in thinking that was where you were already bound? And that you, sir, know the coordinates?"

Silver hesitated for a long moment. "Where's Thomas Hamilton?"

"Aboard the Hispaniola, still – for the moment – an honored guest. That can alter if you displease me." Murray flushed. "Do you want to wager with his safety?"

"No," Silver said, after another pause. "No, I very much do not."

"Well then?" Lord Gideon jerked his head petulantly. "Aren't you going to cooperate?"

Silver flicked his eyes at the bayonets still hovering a few inches away from him. "It would be difficult for me to do anything in my present situation, Your Excellency."

Murray made a brusque motion, and the redcoats lowered their muskets. They hastened to grab him by both arms again, however, and force him into a pair of fetters, which Silver rattled sardonically. "Are these necessary? They have, as you see, already deprived me of my leg. Unless the British Army is in the habit of fearing elderly cripples these days?"

"If we were truly to contain the most dangerous part of you, we'd have to put on a muzzle." Gideon looked at Madi, who had taken an involuntary step forward. "And you, madam, would be Madi Scott, the co-factor of New Providence Island? You will also be coming with me, to discuss the trading arrangements that currently exist between Nassau and Charlestown, and David Nolan's controlling interests in each. Lieutenant Woodlawn, you're now the captain of the Rose, congratulations on your promotion. Station your men accordingly, mend any damage, and follow us closely. Mr. Silver will be giving us instructions on the Hispaniola, as to the whereabouts of Skeleton Island. Is that clear?"

Geneva was so incensed she could not speak, although part of her wondered why she was even still surprised. They had been delivered from one mutiny straight into the jaws of another – she had lost control of her ship first to Job Anderson and his frothing dogs, now to Lord Gideon Murray and his infernal redcoats, and that was only part, by the sound of things, of the trap he had cooked up to ensnare her family. But Thomas was a hostage, and she could not under any circumstances endanger his life, so she made herself stand still as Madi and Silver were hauled off onto the Hispaniola. The hell was she going to do, anyway? It was pointless. It was all so fucking pointless.

When we get to Skeleton Island, she thought. I'm bloody killing all of them.

---

To say the least, the air was tense when Sam and Jack – having been marched back to their cramped berth and locked in by Billy, who shrugged off all Sam's attempts at conversation with an impervious grunt – had been left alone again. If it was awkward to share a small space with a bloke before, when he had stripped off his shirt, showed you his scars, and told you a horrible story, it was several orders of superlative worse when that selfsame bloke had then grabbed your arse and claimed to be shagging you on the regular, to save your blood from being used for some esoteric Potion of Youth. Sam had long since accepted that he lived a somewhat more eventful life than your average likely lad, but still. This was just rude.

He had thought, with apparently criminally naïve optimism, that even Jack would be forced to talk about what had just happened, but Jack, as ever, did not think he needed to descend to such provincial mortal trivialities. He sat in the chair by the desk, obliging Sam to either crawl back into his bunk or perch on the trunk, and since the bunk was not going to do anything but make him toss and turn some more, he elected for the trunk. His insides were creaking with hunger, especially as the rising sun filtered through the cracks above and he could hear the rest of the ship wakening, but it seemed signally unlikely that a hearty breakfast would be forthcoming – unless Lady Fiona wanted to feed them up like that grisly German fairytale about the witch who ate children, which Sam rather wished he hadn't thought of. Finally, since it was stare at Jack's back some more or go mad, he said, "Fucked me over a barrel, was it?"

"Preferable to having your blood sipped for a refreshing aperitif, wasn't it?" Jack didn't turn around, so he remained half in shadow, as if cut from black velvet. "Or is this truly about your sense of offended decency?"

"It's not, it. . ." Sam could feel his cheeks heating. "Look, you make fun of me because I can't lie to save my life, but you – I've been honest with you, all right? I just – "

"And I haven't?" At that, Jack did look up, eyes fierce. "I told you that story about my scars – now what? Do you want to know every bad thing that's ever happened to me?"

"Congratulations," Sam said. "You've told me one bloody thing about your past. Let's hope the world can keep spinning, after a shock like that."

Jack looked as if he was about to fire back, then stopped. He braced his hands on his knees, turning the chair with a screech on the worn boards, leaning forward as if he was a runner waiting for the crack of the starting pistol. "What do you want me to say?"

"I have no bloody clue. If I had to guess, though, now you probably point out it was the logical thing to do to save me from Lady Fiona, just like it apparently was with the sailors belowdecks on the Griffin. And who knows, you're probably right. Since we've already established you don't want to tell me about Charlotte, I'm just curious why that doesn't – "

Jack looked back at him, eyes cold and narrow. Finally he said, "The first thing I ever told you about Charlotte was that it was complicated. I don't owe you anything else."

"Fine!" Sam shouted. "You don't owe me! But I'd like to know why you'll lie to protect me, you'll claim to be me, you'll kiss me or act like we're sleeping together or anything else, you'll even tell me that story about your scars, and the rest of the time, it's back to acting as if I'm the scum of the earth! I'm sorry if I can't presume to the lordly Jack Bellamy's knowledge or rationale or understanding of things, so I suppose I just have to put up with whatever mood you feel like inflicting on me from day to day! I don't think you hate me, by the way. I don't think you do at all. But I could just be imagining things, given the way you told me off on my birthday. Oh yes, and then ran off! And got my best friend killed, more or less!"

He found himself on his feet, taking a few steps (which were all he needed) to close the distance, as Jack stood up sharply as well, raising his arm as if he thought Sam was going to hit him. Sam was aware that this was a not unreasonable conclusion to draw, given as he had done the same thing when Jack had found him in the woods in Barbados, but he was now additionally aware that it was a deeply conditioned instinct, that Jack would in fact expect an angry man to hit him, and that was why he had gotten so good at hitting back. The smallest prickle of shame punctured Sam's anger, and he took a step away. "Fuck you," he said, more quietly. "Fine, you don't have to tell me anything else, ever again. Just tell me that this – whatever you do for me, whatever this is – is actually just what you think is sensible, you don't like me but don't want to see me dead, and have it done. That's all I really expect from you, anyway."

"I. . ." Jack opened his mouth, shut it, and rubbed his hand over his face. "I'm sorry about Nathaniel. I'm bloody sorry. If I'd had one friend like that as a boy – if I'd had any friend before Charlotte – and someone got them killed like that, I wouldn't have forgiven them either. I know you're angry at me for it, and I don't expect you not to be. But if you could for once – "

"I'm not asking for the bloody moon! You just – one moment you're soft to me, almost gentle, you open up, you comfort me. The next, you throw an iron wall in my face and act like I'm the fool for thinking you were ever any different! The world won't end if you're honest for a godforsaken minute, but since that's apparently too difficult – "

They were almost nose to nose, and Sam was still tempted to give the oaf a good shove into the wall, just to emphasize his point. Or maybe a knee in the balls, that was also a deeply appealing option. But he ended up raising his hand and giving Jack a stupid jab in the shoulder instead, Jack swatted at him, Sam grabbed back, got hold of the collar of that nice new shirt the bastard had made such a meal of putting on, and – he didn't know what he was going to do, exactly, but it would definitely convey his displeasure. Only Jack wriggled around, and shoved back, and – they didn't know exactly what the blazes either of them were doing, but one moment it was fighting, and then the next, with no clue on Sam's part how, it was –

Sam opened his mouth, doubtless intending to say something clever, but as their mouths were presently locked together, and Jack was kissing him practically violently enough to break bones, this did him no good at all. He clawed hold of Jack with both arms, getting them around his shoulders, as they banged noses, bit tongues, bloodied lips, and kept knocking heads every time they tried to turn them to get closer. It was the world's ugliest kiss, wet and raw and clumsy, as they pulled at each other, got fistfuls of the other's hair, stumbled backwards against the bunk, and slid down it to the floor in a heap. They rolled over and over, still kissing, until they fetched up against the trunk (there not being much other room to go) and came to a halt, Sam sprawled on top of Jack, breathless and dazzled and drunk. He tried to push himself off, but his arms had turned to water. They just lay there, wheezing.

After a moment, Jack tried to recover enough to speak, which Sam could see no good to come of, and since they were in for a penny, in for a pound, there was not much to be done for it. He bent down and kissed Jack again.

This one was somewhat less like two jousters riding at each other full tilt, but no less vigorous, and they struggled half upright, Jack sitting with his back against the trunk and Sam straddling him, knees to each side of his hips, Jack's hands sliding up his sides and his own gripping at Jack's head. They kissed themselves completely breathless, mouths raw and bruised and swollen and marked with teeth, until Sam had no blood north of his heart at all and felt lightheaded enough to float off directly into the ether. He slowly, deliberately unstuck their faces, sweaty hair spilling loose from its queue and waving wildly in his eyes, as Jack raised a dazed hand as if meaning to tuck it back for him. Instead it fell to his side. He said hoarsely, "Jesus."

That, Sam supposed, was one way of putting it, and considerably more eloquence than he himself could manage at the moment. He recalled Charlotte, and felt a stabbing pang of shame that he had disrespected her like this. That was another thing to attend to when he got off Jack, which he had completely forgotten how to do. He rolled his hips instead, which made both of them groan, and leaned forward, open mouth against Jack's cheek, their breath hot against the other's skin as he sucked in short, shallow gasps that did nothing to ease the unbearable constriction in his chest. "You," he managed, with a feeble poke in Jack's stomach (with a finger, though for bloody sure other things wanted to poke as well) "are – such – a bastard."

Jack looked as if all things considered, he couldn't deny it. His hand had made it to the small of Sam's back beneath his shirt, spreading on the smooth, unmarked skin, running up the knobs of his spine. Sam shifted, partly in response to this and partly in hopes of easing the strain on said other parts of his anatomy, which really didn't help. He was still breathing in those whooping gulps, clinging onto sanity by the very edges of his fingernails, and made himself remember that Robert Gold could be in the berth just across the way, listening to everything. That did succeed in deflating some of his. . . ardor, but not all of it. He thought about putting his hands on Jack's thighs to slide off, but that felt exceedingly dangerous.

Extremely belatedly, Jack also seemed to remember that whether or not he had lied to Lady Fiona about this being a regular feature of their activities, now was not the time to turn it into the truth. He slowly eased upright, sagging back against the trunk, as Sam skidded off his lap and landed with a thunk on the floor, thus making his tailbone the second most throbbing part of him. They both stared up at the ceiling for as long as humanely possible, until Sam said, "So. . . you don't hate me, then?"

Jack huffed an exasperated-sounding snort. "Don't push your luck."

Sam supposed he could swipe at him again, but that seemed liable to end up with more kissing, and that would be detrimental to the whole thing. A small warm ember had somehow ignited in his chest, burning steadily above his heart, until it was quenched by cold reality. "We, ah," he said, and coughed. "We shouldn't have. If Charlotte knew that, she'd – "

"Look, just. . ." Jack finally seemed to have reached his limit on how many questions about his wife he would curtly deflect. "Our arrangement is. . . flexible, all right?"

Sam blinked. He wasn't quite sure he'd heard correctly, and didn't want Jack to repeat it, just in case. He did know, of course, that Grandpa, Granny, and Uncle Thomas all lived together, that Granny was married to both of them, and that Grandpa and Uncle Thomas were also partners, but still. He had just assumed that that was something peculiar his family did – another pirate habit that was all well and good for them behind closed doors, but certainly not shared in any way by the outside world. This was likely true, given as Sam had encountered the conflict between his family's accepting views of sex and those of starched-up colonial polite society before. But if it was possible that Jack wasn't callously two-timing Charlotte, and that if they lived through this, there might be the slightest chance for a repeat opportunity – no, not that he was thinking of that, he absolutely was not. Not at all. This was purely academic information. Besides, he was still so mixed up and angry and conflicted over Nathaniel and revenge on Gold and whether he blamed Jack for it and how they were going to get out of this and what Lady Fiona might want with them, that there was no real desire to pursue it at the moment. He felt as if they had in fact punched it out (though with some slight differences) and he scrubbed his face with both hands, trying to make any sense whatsoever of the last five minutes. It felt like a very highly colorized dream.

The morning crawled past on turtle feet. Both of them were trying very hard not to look at each other, speak to each other, or acknowledge the other's existence in any way, and there was still not much to do in the tiny berth. There was a bucket in the corner to piss in, which was about its only amenity, and which Sam held off on using until his eyeballs were floating. There were no books and certainly no important papers left conveniently lying around, and he had no idea where they were going. He was so hungry he almost felt sick. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten something of any substance, and his innards were knocking together with a clacking sound. Food had never been a question for him; his parents complained good-naturedly about how much he (and Nathaniel) ate, but they never begrudged it, especially not his father, who remembered all too well growing up in bondage and never having enough. If it ever ran short, all they had to do was drive down the road to Leroy Small the grocer's, and buy more. Sam could count on his mother cooking breakfast, on a hearty plowman's lunch packed for school, on cakes or jam tarts or other small treats when he got home, and then roast or potato or soup or sausage or whatever else for supper with his family. He had simply never had to worry this much about where his next meal might be coming from, and it unsettled him.

Jack, of course, gave no indication. He must be much more used to the withholding of food as a punishment, to scraping by and hoarding it in his room and sneaking down to steal it, probably risking another thrashing if he was caught. He had to be hungry too, but he must also be well used to ignoring it, until Sam almost felt jealous. Not of his past, God no, but that Jack seemed, as ever, much better equipped to tough these things out than him. Finally, however, his stomach growled fit to wake the dead, and Jack raised an eyebrow. "Don't go swooning away, then?"

"Sorry," Sam muttered, cheeks hot. "I'm hungry."

"Well," Jack remarked. "If she wants to drink your blood, I suppose it would be easier to get it from you after she starved you to death. Likely not very healthful, though."

Sam glared at him. "Was that supposed to be funny?"

Jack raised his hands, as if to say that if gallows humor was their only diversion, so be it. Sam himself was highly tempted to see if Jack's head could be used as a battering ram, both for personal satisfaction and to break out of here before he went completely raving mental. Maybe that was the point – starve and bore them slowly into insanity, until they gladly agreed to whatever Lady Fiona proposed if she would just let them out. That was quite bad enough, though Sam had expected worse. He tried to calculate in his head. How far could they have gotten from Barbados in a few days? Were they running with or against the great clockwise current of the westerlies? He had no idea. God, he hated sailing.

They managed to get through most of an afternoon of productively ignoring each other– Jack still in the chair, Sam lying on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling, and wondering if he would get thin enough to slip through one of the cracks – until there was finally another knock on the door. "You two. Come with me."

It was Billy, again, and Sam was so weak and faint with hunger, poor pathetic creature he, that he could not even think of a snappy retort. He tried not to scramble too quickly off the bunk, though he did go briefly dizzy when he sat up, and slid down. Only to catch the seat of his breeches on a snagging nail, plunge, and break his ankle – or would have, if Jack had not adroitly caught him in both arms, de-snagged the nail, and set him on his feet. Sam was fairly sure that the heat of his face could have been glimpsed by the Old Man on the Moon.

The lock rattled, and Billy opened the door, beckoning them brusquely out. Sam saw absolutely no reason not to, and trotted up to Billy's side as they started above, snapping his fingers under his nose. "Oy. Hey, you. You. You can keep ignoring me all you want, but I won't shut up. Ask Jack, I'm really good at not shutting up. One of the only things I'm good at, but never mind. Where are we going? Are we there yet? Are you planning to just keep us in the dark like funguses – fungi – whatever the whole bloody time? Until your sodding maniac of a boss decides it's time to off us, is that it? What about – "

"Be quiet." Billy thrust aside the hatch and pulled Sam through it, into the cool blue-gold evening air. Jack climbed out after them, with a cocked eyebrow as if to say if Billy could succeed where he had failed, he would be very surprised. "Lady Fiona is waiting for you, so – "

"Oh, now we're getting back to the blood-drinking bit, are we?" Sam stayed light on his feet (very light, he might crumple up and blow away with a good gust) and stared at Billy. "You know, I think I've figured out something about you. You just like to serve someone, it doesn't really matter who, and when you are, you won't think about anything else they might be doing. Then you do think about it, and go mad trying to destroy them for whatever bloody reason that is. First it was my – Captain Flint, and then you turned on him. Then you went to Woodes Rogers and sold the pirates out, and ended up stuck on Skeleton Island for your trouble. Then you found your way to Gold, made a deal with him, and then turned on him. Finally, you've ended up with Fiona 'Nuttier Than Squirrel Poo' Murray, whom presumably you will also turn on once you realize she has been a Bad Person. I could really speed that process up for you. Here: she's terrible. Help us escape, in – I don't know, a longboat or something, you and Jack could row, we'd steal provisions. You could still redeem yourself and do something worthwhile. Get me back home, and my family would forgive everything else."

Billy regarded him impassively. But for a moment, he seemed almost about to answer – to justify himself, perhaps, to explain why he believed that destroying Flint was the only path remaining for him to have peace in his life, and Sam felt an odd, cold shiver. He knew just then that he did not want to end up like Billy, so fixated on eradicating one man that he couldn't hear or accept reason at all, who was self-aware enough to know that he was proceeding down a dark path, but so stubborn and self-righteous that he felt it must be justified in the name of combating a darker evil. And by that system, in small steps and slippery slopes, he had gone from Flint to Rogers to Gold to Lady Fiona – each time, serving an objectively worse master in the name of revenge on the one before it. That's no way to live. That's no way to even exist.

"Your grandfather," Billy said abruptly. "If, for the sake of argument, I was to agree to this half-baked proposition of yours, help you and Bellamy escape. Then I walk in with the pair of you, and see him. Is he going to shake my hand, thank me for my service, say we should call it fair and go our own ways? Or is he going to shoot me on the spot, now that he has me there, in sight, and can settle it once and for all?"

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it. He knew his grandfather could, to say the least, be of a similarly vengeful temperament – any family with Captain Flint and Captain Hook in its branches could not be unfamiliar with its corroding influence. But surely, if Billy brought him home safe, Mum and Granny would prevail on Grandpa to forgive and let him go. Surely.

There remained, however, that pervasive small kernel of doubt. Flint and Billy had both been left behind on Skeleton Island, stranded and alone for months, and their lives forever changed as a result, but it was only Billy's that had been destroyed. That, Sam felt, was as much down to his own choices as anything, but Flint had gotten the world back, a family, a home, a happy ending, and Billy had not. He had been dangerous before, and this made him more so, and James Flint was not in the habit of leaving alive those who had threatened or harmed his loved ones. It was possible that even if Billy brought Sam back, Flint would not consider the ledger wiped clean, and would not call off the hunt. Sam wanted to lie, to say that there would be absolution and gratitude no matter what, but the words got stuck.

Billy seemed to sense the answer nonetheless. A dark shadow passed over his face, and if there had been any chance of reaching him, of changing his mind, Sam felt it wither to dust in his hands. Billy turned away. "Come on," he ordered. "She's waiting."

Stomach leaden, knowing that had been his last shot and he had missed it, Sam trailed after him into the cabin, half-expecting to see some diabolical alchemical setup with smoking crucibles and bubbling cauldrons or God knew whatever else. As such, he was almost relieved (deeply so, in fact) to realize that it was a dinner table, spread with an assortment of savory-looking dishes that immediately made his mouth water. Lady Fiona was sitting behind it in her sinister sartorial best: a low-cut black gown trimmed with sparkling onyx, and a jeweled hairpiece with a black ostrich feather pinned in her bouffant updo. "Good evening, boys," she said sweetly. "You must be very hungry, mustn't you?"

"We're not," Sam said, as his stomach once more growled like the volcano about to bury Pompeii of old. He had identified a decided problem in this apparently generous offer. "Not for whatever poisoned slop you'd be feeding us."

"Poison?" Lady Fiona raised a heavily plucked and penciled eyebrow. "Is that what you think?"

"Actually," Sam said. "Yes."

Lady Fiona shrugged, poured herself a cup of wine, and took a drink. Then she cut a bit off the gleaming leg of roast chicken and nibbled it daintily off the end of a golden fork, watching Sam pointedly the whole time. When this did not occasion her dramatic death, and Sam still didn't move, she shrugged. "Bones, take them below. Apparently they're not hungry."

"I… wait." Sam would have been willing to do a great deal to avoid another slow, starving day and night in the tiny berth with just ignoring Jack for entertainment. He was aware that plying a prisoner with food and drink in hopes of getting them to talk was an old interrogation trick, but at least if he knew she was trying it, that had to be worth something, didn't it? He was so bloody, bloody hungry, and if she was going to kill them, which was extremely likely, at least he would not die on an empty stomach. "Fine. Fine."

Lady Fiona beckoned them to sit in the two empty chairs across from her, and once more nodded for Billy to depart. Once they had, eyeing her with extreme dubiousness, she waved a magisterial hand at the table. "Help yourself. I doubt my brother fed you bountifully, now did he?"

"Your brother's a git," Sam said. "Runs in the family."

Lady Fiona laughed, apparently not at all disconcerted. "Believe me, I know. Robert is quite a troublesome fiend, isn't he? He always has been. I heard what happened to your little friend, by the by. That must have been very awful."

Sam meant to answer, but his throat had closed up. He looked down, mastering himself, then checked what was already on her plate and served himself only from those dishes, as Jack paused, then followed suit. He didn't much like the taste of wine, but there was nothing else to drink, so he poured a cup from the same decanter that she had earlier. Obviously there was some sort of twist or catch or whatever else, but the first bite of warm herbed chicken and steaming fresh bread with butter almost brought tears to his eyes. He munched warily, trying not to inhale it all at once, on high alert for any symptoms of abrupt and unpleasant death, but for better or worse, didn't think she'd poisoned it. He was probably too much bloody fun to play with first.

"So," Lady Fiona said after a few moments, seemingly when she had a chance of getting a semi-human response. "Do you want to kill my brother, young Samuel?"

Sam's mouth was still full, so he swallowed first, feeling it undignified to spray crumbs. "And why would you let me do that?"

"Why not?" She shrugged. "I don't have any personal need to accomplish his death myself, and fratricide is rather unstylish. However, I need information on his network first, all the branches of this new society he's built, his contacts and his influences and his acquaintances. Robert has always been very thorough when it comes to that sort of thing. I want to use his system, simple as that, and it will be easier to do it without him around to compete with me. He of course knows this, and that I need him alive until he talks, which I think even he will do, eventually. Especially if he meets his son, or rather my son. Lord Gideon Murray, he's a fine young man, and he absolutely hates his father. I made quite sure of that."

Sam took another bite of chicken, rather than answer too fast. He hated Gold, no doubt of that, but if there was anything worse than Gold running this secret murder society of his, it was Lady Fiona running it. He couldn't help but feeling, again, just that tiny (very tiny) bit sorry for Gold, who was obsessed with power past all sense and had done many terrible things to many people, but at least had some crumb of human feeling and sentiment, some possibility of attachment or remorse. Lady Fiona, so far as Sam could tell, had no soul at all.

Jack, meanwhile, had an odd look on his face, as might be expected from this talk of sons hating their fathers, of being willing to destroy them for their crimes. He lifted his cup of wine to his lips, then put it back down. With considerably affected casualness, he said, "Would you happen to know if a Captain Jonathan Howe is part of this network of your brother's? Last the commander of HMS Eagle, out of London."

Sam shot him a sharp look, which he could see Jack pretending not to notice. Lady Fiona, for her part, tapped her fingers speculatively on the table. "The name seems somewhat familiar, yes. I am sure I could arrange to find out more. Are you interested in doing business with me, Mr. Bellamy? You would, of course, be most welcome."

Since looks did not appear to be working, Sam kicked Jack under the table, hard. Aye, Howe needed to get very dead, and promptly with it, but he was far from sure that making a deal with the devil was the way to go about it. Even he, much as he still wanted revenge on Gold, wasn't about to leap for the serpent's apple that Lady Fiona was temptingly dangling. Jack wasn't stupid, he could see she was bad bloody news, and would snap him up the instant he ceased to be useful. Right? Right?

The silence was taut and tenuous. Then Jack smiled. "I am interested, Lady Fiona," he said. "Very much. Shall we be allies? It is a considerably more agreeable situation than prisoners."

"It is." Lady Fiona was practically purring, leaning across the table and giving Jack an excellent view down the front of her dress, stroking his wrist, as Sam thought he might vomit in his mouth. Then she straightened up and turned to him. "Well, Mr. Jones? Do you intend to join us?"

Sam hesitated. He could feel Jack's eyes on him, and couldn't be sure if this was just a ploy to get Lady Fiona on their side and inclined to treat them better for the rest of the trip, or if Jack was genuinely willing to work with her to get a shot at his father. After hearing that story, he couldn't blame Jack, had no right to judge him, but –

But.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. His voice sounded thin and shaky, so he swallowed and tried again. "I'm sorry, both of you. But I'm not going along with it."

"Aren't you?" Lady Fiona considered him shrewdly. "So you don't want to make my brother pay for what he did to your friend? That does surprise me."

"Yes," Sam said. "Yes, I bloody do. But I don't want to end up like Billy Bones, revenge has already done enough damage to my family, and if I do get it, it isn't going to be through selling my soul to you. And there's nothing you can say about me not caring for Nathaniel as much as I thought I did to guilt-trip me otherwise. He was my friend, my best friend, and I'm going to miss him for the rest of my life, probably. Gold and Jack and the soldier who shot him are all responsible, maybe, in some way. But you know who's the most to blame for it? Me. I'm the one who got him killed. Took him along on this adventure and thought I'd always be able to get us out of it, and I didn't. And playing your game isn't going to change anything about that."

Lady Fiona's eyebrows arched again, as if almost impressed at this display of forthcoming honesty – aye, it must be a rarity around her. "Oh, I believe you," she said. "I quite suspected that ill-advised streak of nobility was going to resurface, in fact, so all we have to do is – ah. That worked quite well, didn't it?"

There was a soft thud from next to Sam, and he spun in his chair to see Jack topple face-first into the table, just missing his plate. Sam stared at him, thinking he'd somehow managed to fall asleep, then suddenly was afraid he'd had an apoplexy. He reached out, gripping Jack's shoulder and shaking him hard, but there was no response. "Hey. Hey! Jack! Jack. Jack. Jack!"

"He won't wake," Lady Fiona said. "I only gave him a small dose, as I didn't want him interfering if you decided to be difficult. I gave you a bit as well, so I wouldn't move too quickly if I were you. Might make the world go quite topsy-turvy. If you aren't going to help me, and you don't want to kill my brother – well, I could sell you back to your family, it's true. But I don't need the money, and it would set a bad example. Besides, when you refused me your blood, you did make me think of another recipe I've been wanting to try. The tonic works tolerably well at keeping me young, but I do have to continue taking it. If there was a solution to solve it permanently, or at least for several years – well, I might not have to kill quite so many boys, and I do get rather fond of them. So you see, sweetheart? You can still be useful after all."

Sam jerked back from the table and tried to stand up, but just as she had warned, his legs had unaccountably turned to wet sand, and he staggered, clutching at the tablecloth and pulling it half off. His chest felt as if it had been filled with hot mud, stealing up behind his eyes. Whatever Lady Fiona had dosed him with, however she had done it, it was undeniably potent. "What?" he croaked. "What the hell are you going to do, eat my heart?"

"Oh, do you know some of the occulted arts?" Lady Fiona seemed amused. "That is in fact what I am going to do, yes, once I've brewed the proper potion. That should keep me in youth for at least several years, rid me of the disagreeable business of draining the boys for blood so often, and perhaps I can find a proper philosopher's stone and do one better. I am sure Jack will regret your passing, but I will tell him some heroic story to soothe his consciousness about continuing to work with me. So." She reached for the folded napkin next to her, flipped it over, and pulled out a black-hilted dagger, honed to a lethally sharp edge, glittering in the candlelight. "This will hurt much less if you don't struggle."

Sam backed away. The chair caught him painfully behind the knees, sending him stumbling, as he tried to recollect enough control of his drugged limbs to search the cabin for a weapon. He reached out, fingers clumsily batting Jack's shoulder, but he was dead to the world. "Wake up!" Jack had protected him from the start of this adventure, however grumpily or reluctantly or unusually. From Da Souza, then the ocean, then Lieutenant Warwick and Matthew Rogers and the bo'sun on the Griffin, then Gold, then Lady Fiona earlier. Always had, and without him, Sam felt suddenly and terrifyingly vulnerable. "Jack! Wake up!"

"I told you," Lady Fiona said. "He won't."

With that, she lunged at him, much quicker than one would expect for an eighty-year-old lady in long skirts, as Sam caught her wrists and forced them away from his face. He was taller than her, and probably in the ordinary course of things stronger, but she was some evil alchemy vodou witch and he was quite thoroughly foxed on whatever vile compound she'd managed to slip into the dinner. There was only one chance, and that chance was terrible. "Billy!" It came out choked, because Lady Fiona had managed to clamp one bony hand around his throat, and he was starting to see spots. Nonetheless, he struggled to get enough air into his straining lungs to try again. "BILLY! BLOODY HELL! BILLY!"

"He won't help you." Lady Fiona's eyes were almost completely black. "Not when he knows his revenge on Flint is what I can give him – and aye, his revenge on my brother. Not everyone is so noble as you, to pass it up. So I'm afraid, young Samuel, you're out of allies. Just you. And you've never been enough, have you? Always needed someone else to save you. Well, if it's any comfort, now you'll save me. I do appreciate it. Good night, sweet prince."

She stabbed at him again, as Sam clumsily knocked it aside, but not far enough. He was aware of a distant, disconnected pain, observed the slash in his forearm and the slow, sludgy trickle of blood from it, but it barely seemed real. Then the world was cartwheeling out from under him, he was falling, and she was above him, like a ravening dark shadow, a carrion bird with black wings outstretched. Tore his shirt aside over his heart, and raised the blade –

– was that someone shouting? It wasn't Jack, Jack was still unconscious, and Billy wasn't coming, nobody was coming –

Then the dagger bit into his chest, hard and sharp and cold, and Sam Jones screamed.