-XXIX-

"Get," Emma said, unable to form much more of a coherent response, but feeling that word at least punched out of her as if by a blow. "Get out of here."

"We would, but. . ." Hornigold shrugged, smirk widening. "Christmas Day is such a convenient time to make new political plans, isn't it? Everyone's drunk on cheap brandy and asleep in some filthy harlot's den. Nobody's up and about or inclined to do anything, and with my friend here, well, all he had to do was approach on the backside of the island, drop anchor, and do as he would. I took the liberty of handing all the Navy men clapped up in the fort over to him, as proof of my sincerity, and oh, we also have Miss Guthrie. Captain Hume, if you'd be so kind?"

"Good afternoon, madam." Josiah Hume was a tall, well-fleshed man with plump lips and cold eyes, an immaculately curled and powdered white wig and crisp blue captain's jacket, saber swinging at his side. "I do apologize for the incivility of our behavior, but then, the pirates haven't really left His Majesty's Government a great deal of choice. Now have they?"

"You – both of you – " Emma's mind was racing. If it was true that Hornigold had emptied the dungeons and handed over both the Jewel's men and the mutineers from the Imperator, as well as whatever garrison of flatly sober and grimly-minded Navy soldiers Hume himself had brought to shoot boozy pirates like fish in a barrel, this was a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions. She couldn't let them inside – it was Christmas, nobody had any weapons on them, not even Flint, and the last thing she wanted was to let Hume lay eyes on Sam. But if she sent them away, that was as good as twisting the noose and giving them more time to concoct and hammer out the fine details of their nefarious collaboration. "You. Of course it was you, Captain Hornigold. You let it slip to the Navy that Bellamy was here on Nassau, and promised your immediate friendship and alliance if they sent the Scarborough at once. You son of a bitch."

Hornigold looked unruffled by her accusations; they did not even merit so much as a shrug. "Bellamy betrayed me. Perhaps he gets his own taste of that same bitter draught."

"Ah, so he is here?" Hume grinned, exposing one rakish incisor that gave him a downright cannibalistic look. "I've been waiting to cross paths with Samuel again for a while."

"I bet you have, you sick bastard." Emma couldn't resist a desperate, furtive glance over her shoulder; everyone was still happily occupied in the kitchen, but they would come to see what was taking so long if she didn't return in a few more minutes. "What – about Eleanor, what the hell have you done to her? Just march in and – "

"Miss Guthrie is running the business arm of the illegal operation here on Nassau," Hume pointed out, with that smooth, self-satisfied timbre in his voice that made Emma want sorely to slap him, or worse. "She faces transportation back to England and appropriate judgment for her crimes – as do you, madam, and the rest of your reprehensible associates. I daresay you yourself have planned for that eventuality – " his eyes flicked to her stomach – "but don't worry. I'll ensure you get a conviction as soon as the whelp is dealt with. Unless you want to be sweet, and induce me to change my mind? A workhouse isn't a pleasant fate, but it is preferable to death."

Emma opened and shut her mouth, still drawing a blank on what she could possibly do, short of trying to kill them both with her bare hands on the spot, which wasn't going to go well. Evidently sensing her murderous inclinations, Hornigold said pleasantly, "Oh, if we don't return within a certain time, we've ordered Hume's men to fire the island. Can we come in?"

"Where you can go is directly to hell, you backstabbing, treasonous sack of – "

"Emma?"

She spun around, not knowing who had spoken in the hallway behind her, knowing that any option would be bad – and realizing in an instant that it was the worst of all. Sam, wearing one of the paper crowns and holding a glass of claret, at ease, relaxed, smiling, looking for her – only to lay eyes on the two men standing in the doorway, and for an iron wall to slam down. She had never seen that look in his eye before, the way they went absolutely pitch-black and his face snow white, his spine snapping straight as he fumbled for the sword he wasn't wearing. "You."

"Happy Christmas, Samuel." Hume was clearly enjoying every moment of this. "No fond greeting for your old friend?"

For once, Sam was completely at a loss for words. He barely even seemed to be breathing, until his hand clenched sharply, there was a tinkle of breaking glass, and the claret splashed red as blood over his sleeve and onto the floor. He flung down the ruined stem, breathing hard through his nose; it was clearly taking every single inch of his self-control, all his kindness, all his strength, everything he had deliberately and purposefully built in celebration of his freedom, of being away from this man, to stop him from doing something suicidal on the instant. Hornigold and Hume very much were armed, and both of them had drawn their guns, Hornigold's a heavy blunderbuss and Hume's the usual standard-issue flintlock pistol of a Navy captain, training them dead on him and daring him to make one wrong move. "Emma," Sam said at last, his voice a low croak. "Get behind me."

"No, I – " Of course he would still be worrying that she might get caught in the crossfire, even when he was face to face with his most malfeasant demon. She planted her feet. "If either of you think you're getting him, you're going through me."

"Oh, I'd enjoy that." Hume leered. "But if you insist, we'll make a – "

"What the fuck is going on out here?"

As if the situation was not bad enough, it then featured the emergence of Flint, who had apparently heard enough raised voices and ominous exchanges to work out that whoever was at the door was decidedly not there to wish them Gentle Christmastide and beg for pennies for a bad song. Likewise, at the sight of the world's worst Christmas guests since King Herod and his baby-slaughtering brigade, Flint went stiff, then exploded. "The fuck are you do. . .? Fuck, you stupid fat fuck, I told them we were fools to listen to you for a single fucking. . .! Fucking hell!"

"Language." Hornigold looked sleek. "Surely not on Christmas?"

"I will fucking murder you on fucking Christmas, you traitorous stinking sack of shit, so my language is about the least of your fucking worries." Flint stalked forward, even as both guns clunked and pointed at him instead. They really could not afford to get another of their coterie shot, especially not him, and Emma grabbed his arm. He stopped with a jerk, but barely, a lion slavering to be let off the chain, as he put out his other arm to gesture Sam behind him. "You're idiots, coming to the island like this, to this house. I'll kill you both, you malignant pustules."

"Oh, you do that, if you're so insistent on it," Hornigold said breezily. "See how that works out for you, my old friend. As I was just informing Miss Swan here, we have rather extensive insurance plans in place against that eventuality. The fort is under Navy control, and we have all the prisoners you were keeping penned up. Miss Guthrie is aboard the Scarborough already, under sentence of transportation and execution in London. I'm sure there is a set of shackles waiting for you alongside her, if you insist on being intransigent – but for this time only, it doesn't need to be messy. The bargain is simple. Hand over Sam Bellamy, and the rest of you get to go free, at least until Lord Robert Gold gets his plans sorted out. You see, we're not really biting off more than we can chew. Just one of you at a time."

"Blow it out your arse."

"Come now, James." If Hornigold got any sleeker, there would be a pool of oil on the floor beneath his boots. "When have you ever had any trouble selling out friends and allies, even dear ones, to save your own neck? You have no reason to shield Bellamy just out of spite for me. It's not a smart move. You'll need that extra time to prepare for the invasion."

"Oh, no." Hume smiled. "I see what's going on. Samuel, you've told them some version of the story where you're a misunderstood saintly child who bears no blame at all, haven't you? Probably painted me as the worst monster to ever walk the face of the earth. Well, then." He glanced at Emma and Flint with a faint smile. "Ask him what really happened. See if he tells you the truth. He won't, because he knows he's in the wrong, and it would destroy this lie he's trying to peddle to you. Believe me, you don't know him at all."

In the split second of silence that followed, Hume was about to say something else, before Flint grabbed the muzzle of his pistol, wrenched his arm up as it went off with a bang, hauled off, and punched him so hard in the face that there was an audible crack of bone. He shoved him backwards into Hornigold, making both of them stumble, and then whirled around, grabbed Emma and Sam, and dragged them backwards into the kitchen, slamming the door behind them and lunging for the table, which was heavily laden with Christmas dinner. "Block it!" he snarled. "Block it now!"

"What in God's name is – " Miranda stared at them in shock. "Who is – "

"We need to get out of here. Everyone! Do as I say!" Flint hauled the table toward the door with an ungodly bumping and scraping, food spilling and dishes breaking, until Sam snapped out of his reverie and helped him wedge it firmly into place. Then they both ducked, not an instant too soon, as Hornigold's blunderbuss slammed a heavy slug through the wood that exploded the wineglasses on the sideboard. Killian had his arms out, shielding a goggle-eyed Charlie and Henry, who – like everyone else – had not expected their joyous holiday supper to degenerate into total murderous chaos on the instant. Flint ran back, lifted Miranda out of her chair, and kicked open the back door, which led into an alley. The seven of them tumbled out, Flint slammed it shut again behind them, and grabbed a broken plank to wedge through the latch, but it clearly would not hold for long. Or if Hornigold and Hume figured out their stratagem, went out the front, and looped back around, they could catch them all dead to rights. They had to find somewhere to hide, immediately.

They ran almost bent double between the crooked, low-hanging berms of the crowded houses, terribly aware that if they were apprehended, they didn't have so much as a pocket knife among them, and even the most determined efforts of Flint, Killian, and Sam might not be able to protect two boys, an expectant mother, and a still-convalescing woman with their bare hands (and hook). Besides, it was clear from the look on Sam's face that he wasn't there. Whatever it had been, whatever seeing Hume again had done to him. . . Emma thought back to her first conversation with Sam, just after he had taken her aboard the Whydah, and what he had said, in such a careful, casual way, about his reasons for abandoning his old life. The English Navy hanged – still does, you know – anyone found preferring the company of a man, despite the fact that half their officers must have forcibly buggered the recruits. It was one of the reasons I decided it prudent to leave. I enjoy women greatly, but I also enjoy what they enjoy about men, and that, well, that would have gotten me killed. And if he hadn't been speaking in the hypothetical about officers who forcibly buggered recruits, and if that was what would have gotten him killed. . .

At that, Emma almost felt sick, but at the thought that Flint had only managed to break Hume's jaw (or at least so she hoped) rather than killing him on the spot. There was no chance of saying anything to either of them just now, but she had a sneaking suspicion that Killian knew, that this was what that odd, unspoken dynamic had been when Sam asked him to step aside, that the shot at Hume was his to take. Yet none of it would matter if they didn't come up with something immediately, and none of their options included another major sea battle such as their last one against Jennings. The Whydah and the Jolie were just about repaired, but not entirely, and any good hit would unravel all their weeks of painstaking, scraping, intensive labor – as well, their crews were scattered, celebrating the holiday and probably too drunk to stand up. Besides, Hornigold had said that the Scarborough was anchored on the far side of the island. By the time they spent hours sailing around, the Navy ship would be long gone, with Eleanor Guthrie and whatever other prisoners they pleased. There was no way to run, to fight, or even to stand their ground. They could scuttle like rats from place to place, but their goose – rather morbidly appropriately, considering the day – might be well and truly cooked.

Just then, as they veered into another alley, a shutter banged above them, and the absolute last person Emma had ever expected to see leaned out of a window: Mistress Regina Mills in the flesh, who had apparently settled quite well into a new establishment here. She stared at them for a long moment, the shutter banged closed again, and as all of them were thinking that they were now and officially fucked, the door jerked open. "Get in before somebody sees you."

Not particularly having the luxury of looking a gift horse in the mouth, they did so, piling into the narrow corridor as Regina jerked shut the door and slammed the bar in. She led them past a half-open door, and as Emma caught a glimpse of half-dressed girls sitting on the laps of three Navy officers with their cravats off and their waistcoats unbuttoned, she realized both how Regina had known that Hume was here, and how she could guess they might be in a bit of a jam. Not that this was necessarily any more comforting – if Regina had all of them as well as the Scarborough's lieutenants as pieces to barter with, she might be able to drive an agreement entirely to her own satisfaction with Hornigold and Hume. What that might be, if she intended on handing over Emma or keeping her personally to torment, whether she was loyal to the Navy or to herself or anything at all, was impossible to say.

They climbed the dim stairwell and followed Regina into an unused room at the end, whereupon she shut that door as well and whirled on them. "What in the devil is going on? I think I have some idea, but I would appreciate clarification. The last thing I expected to see was Navy men walking into a brothel on Nassau, so I told the girls to get them drunk and pump them for information, but this – "

"We'd like some as well, madame." Flint's voice was tipped with ice as he put Miranda down on the bed. "Hornigold appears to have sold the information to the Navy about our presence and whereabouts, in exchange for Hume setting sail here at once to risk a sneak attack. I'm well aware that you used to be Antigua's favorite purveyor of flesh for the high-ranking command. How bloody easy would it have been for you to meet with Hornigold and arrange for this information to be dispatched to any of your little rats back at headquarters?"

"I had nothing to do with it." Regina's face was white, except for the patches of hectic color burning high in her cheekbones. "I've been doing just as I was told to, keeping my head down and running a business. I don't have any loyalty to the Navy beyond how they can line my pockets. Not after – " She hesitated for a long moment, then burst out, "The Valiant should never have been given that assignment. Dani – Captain Colter was too new to his post. He didn't know the region, they should have let him start with something easier, but they didn't care. They sent him out to die, and they didn't even care."

"Caring isn't something the Navy does," Killian said grimly. "And as there are three former members in this room, I imagine Flint and Bellamy can back me up on this."

"Colter got himself killed by sailing into that storm." Flint was completely unsympathetic. "It's just chance that it happened to be after the Blackbird. Unless you're still blaming Emma for it?"

Emma herself was utterly astounded that Flint had just said something that didn't even take the usual tremendous amount of squinting and backbending to be interpreted as defending her. Perhaps it was because Miranda was sitting right there, perhaps it was because they had been through enough by now to dent even his legendary solitude, but it was quite remarkable. Nor did Regina appear to have an immediate riposte, though she looked as if she very much wished that she did. There was a long, tenuous pause, until she snapped her mouth shut with a click. "That is none of your bloody business, especially as long as you're under my roof, and only I'm standing between you and an unpleasant reunion with your old friends, isn't it? I doubt there's any chance of taking to your ships and fending them off, so what are you planning to do?"

"We should tell you why?" Flint's lip curled. "Thinking how much you can charge to hand us over, is that it? A woman like you always has to turn a profit."

"And that's different from you how?"

"Bloody hell, you two." Killian waded into the fray, clearly in the role of exasperated peacemaker. "Hornigold and Hume have almost certainly caught up with the Scarborough's sailors and the Navy mutineers they let out of the fort by now. They have likely at least a hundred men on shore already, and more waiting in reserve. We either spin up some magical plan to make them disappear, or we fight them in some desperate, haphazard last stand. Ideas?"

"Aye." Sam's voice was hoarse and rusty-sounding, barely more than a whisper, but it made all of them spin around. "You hand me over."

"What?" Killian stared at him. "You must be bloody joking. None of us are doing that."

Sam stared defiantly back. "Yes, you are. You misunderstand. I'm not offering myself up to be martyred. Not that I expect that gang of scabrous warthogs to keep their word, mind you, but they did say that if you handed me over, they'd call off the attack on the rest of the island. That's their weak spot, you see. They're so bloody arrogant that they want to stretch it out, they want us to cower, they want us to await Lord Robert Gold's almighty boot heel from on high, to crush us like the cockroaches we are. They likewise know that they can't take all of Nassau with one ship, so they have to bluff most impressively. We can't fight them off, because our own ships are still barely seaworthy and we can't get around the island to intercept the Scarborough in time. So it's a standoff. They bluff, we bluff, but either way, people will die if we don't do something. We can hole up here and settle in for a siege, while they blast their way through a defenseless ragtag of drunken, unarmed men and leave Nassau severely weakened for Gold's counter-punch when it does come. Or we hand me over and. . . come up with a better plan."

"Sam. No." Killian's lips were white. "You can't – that bastard, Hume, he'll – "

"Oh, I'm sure he'll try to hurt me." Sam smiled. For the first time any of them could remember, it was not his usual smile, the one that shone like a lighthouse from his warm and generous soul, but something absolutely cold and terrifying. "But that street goes two ways."

"No," Flint said. "Hook is – I hate to say it – right. We can't do that."

"Yes," Sam said stubbornly. "Yes, we can. All of you know it. I'm not afraid of that man. He wants me to be, but I'm not. He tried to destroy me before, he didn't succeed, and he's sure as fuck not going to succeed this time either. You hand me over as an apparent capitulation, they take me to the Scarborough, and haul me off to Antigua to stand trial for piracy. Just think of the spectacle that will be. Black Sam Bellamy brought to justice at last. They'll drag it out. They'll wait for reinforcements from London. It wouldn't be until later in the spring. That gives us time. And if the Jolie Rouge, the Whydah, and the Walrus should happen to appear just as they do. . ."

Flint, Emma, and Killian exchanged aghast looks. They could, totally unwillingly, follow the thread of the utterly insane and dangerous gambit that Sam was proposing, and risking his own life on. If they gave up Sam as the bait and set the trap, they could have a chance at taking out not just Gold, but Jennings, James Nolan, and all the new ships sent from London to replace the ones Killian had burned. But if anything, the slightest thing, went wrong anywhere, if Gold wasn't inclined to wait but decided to hang Sam on the spot, if Hume decided to keep him for his own sick revenge rather than yield him to the Navy bureaucracy, if any other of the thousand and one possibilities slipped a gear, Sam would die, and that nearly felt like the worst price they could pay. Emma knew that Flint, for all his walls and brutality and well-established habit of betrayal, would die himself before handing Sam, the ghost of Thomas Hamilton, the only man who had ever slipped into his castle and seen what was truly left of him, back to the English government, back to the cruel men and the worse system that had killed Thomas and destroyed Flint and Miranda's lives in the first place. She didn't know if Flint was in love with Sam, exactly, as that was no longer something he allowed himself to give to anyone besides Miranda, and he had already come so close to losing her that he was barely balancing on the edge of a truly black precipice. But it was also true that Sam affected him very deeply and very powerfully, and failing him, no matter the wrack and wreckage that had already become of Flint's heart and soul, would be one thing for which even he could never forgive himself.

"They'll kill you," Killian said at last, quiet and pleading. "You have to know they'll kill you."

Sam shrugged. "I'm sure they'll try. On the event they should succeed, believe me, they'll get absolutely no satisfaction out of it. Besides. I've trusted all of you, helped all of you, the best I can. Am I wrong to trust that now you'll help me?"

Nobody had an answer for that. Sam kept waiting, eyebrow cocked, as a palpable current of despair passed around the room at the realization that they couldn't propose a viable alternative. That if they also wanted one good shot at their ultimate enemies, save Nassau from having both arms broken, and otherwise dodge the cannon blast aimed at them, they would have to give Hornigold and Hume what – who – they wanted, the one none of them could stand to lose. It was unconscionable and even worse, inevitable. Their backs were against the wall, with no way out. This, or annihilation. It was only a matter of when.

"So," Sam went on, when the silence remained. "Let's sort it out. I hand myself over, and you two – " he glanced at Killian and Flint – "get ready to come after me with the Jolie and the Walrus. As Killian pointed out, the three of us are all ex-Navy, and we all left because they tried to destroy everything we were. Isn't there a certain fitting delight at standing together and striking back, as one? Paulsgrave Williams will serve as captain of the Whydah until I'm freed, but first he has to take you two – " he gestured to Emma and Miranda – "as well as the boys, to safety. Then he'll sail to join us in Antigua for the party."

"No," Emma said. "Sam, you can't think that I'll –"

"Emma, you're over five months pregnant. Miranda is still recovering from the closest anyone can come to death and tell the tale. The lads can't fight, nor should we expect them to. It's not a judgment on whether or not you're strong enough, or if you're worthy enough. We know you are, so very much. But the fact remains that it would be criminally bloody irresponsible to put you four in the firing line again, and since that's the case, the wisest plan remains to get you the hell off Nassau. The war is coming. We can't pretend it's not."

"Where, then? Where?"

Killian glanced at her, then sidelong at Regina. Something passed between them that Emma didn't quite catch, as if Regina was about to say something and then didn't. Then he turned back to her. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, love. Believe me. But if neither Sam nor I can take care of you, see to it that you and the child have a future, there is one other man who will."

"Who?'

"My brother, Liam. The real one." He looked at her levelly. "He swore to me that he would protect you no matter what, and regardless his personal feelings for you, as the mother of my child. He's been recuperating on the Maroons' island, north of here. I don't think it's a wise idea for me to go back personally, as I. . . with the chieftain's daughter, Ursula, I. . . let her down badly, and seeing me again could inflame the issue. But if you, Miranda, and the boys went there on the Whydah, I think that would work. Poseidon, the chieftain, he told me that they respect Sam, and that several of the freed slaves who serve on Sam's crewhave families on the island. I think they would agree to take you in on his behalf."

"If that's the case," Regina interrupted, "I'm going too."

Killian gave her an extremely skeptical look. "Oh? You already made sure you could come to Nassau with me, since you'd be so bloody bored there. Now you want to go back? Get a shot at Emma when I'm not there to stop you, is that it?"

"I already told you I don't have to do anything to her," Regina snapped. "And besides, you and I both know that even if I was so stupid as to try anything in front of your stubborn self-righteous jackass of a brother, he'd inflict another serious wound on himself to stop it. As well, since you apparently forgot it while jumping to the wrong conclusion, I'm the one who brought you to the Maroons in the first place. I know them, I do business with them, I have the connections you don't. My motive is the same as yours. If the war is coming here, I intend to survive."

Killian glared at her, but could not rebuff this. Likewise, it was plain that Flint would need no convincing as to the wisdom of getting the women to safety, but he was still not about to give up Sam without a fight. "I'm sure I don't need to remind everyone that the Scarborough's lieutenants are downstairs right now, drinking and fucking to their heart's content, and it would be criminally stupid to let that leverage get away. We seize them, we can twist some kind of concessions out of the traitor and the shitstain when we go to make their infernal bargain. Or – "

"Seize them with what?" Sam looked tired. "We don't have any weapons, remember? Though I'm sure your sarcasm or your stare could metaphorically kill a man, that doesn't do us a damn lot of good at the moment. Do you think that Hume would blink at stabbing them in the back? In case you're wondering, he wouldn't. He'll say that they're degenerates who deserve their fate and cut them loose. All you achieve is dragging this out, making Hume even more determined to hurt me in retaliation, and wasting time that could be better served planning your attack on Antigua. It isn't going to work, James. You know that."

Flint opened and then shut his mouth. He looked close to uncertain as anyone had ever seen him, wounded and angry and dangerous. "No," he said again, almost as if he hadn't meant to but couldn't stop himself. "No, I'm not giving you up."

"Yes, you are." The ghost of a smile crossed Sam's lips. "All of you are, and that's final. There isn't another choice. Now, we can sit here bickering, or we can get this over with. And – " he tilted his head at the window, as there had just been a distant crash on the front door of the brothel – "it sounds like they've found us. So. Shall we?"

He turned on his heel toward the hall, even as the others lunged after him. But he didn't look back, striding confidently down the stairs as they followed, Miranda and Regina included, just in time to see the door splinter, then swing inward. A dozen Navy men in uniform, muskets slung over their shoulders and swords half-drawn, advanced inside, Hornigold and Hume bringing up the rear. "We know you ran in here!" one of them shouted. "Come out, or I can promise, this entire place will burn like the bloody pit of fornication that it – "

"No need to shout, gentlemen." Sam stepped into view, hands raised. "I believe I'm what you were after?"

That caught Hornigold and Hume on the hop, as they clearly had not counted on him actually giving himself up. The Navy men pointed their guns at him, but Hornigold made a brusque gesture to lower them. "So. Going to play the hero again, are you?"

"No, I'm just calling your pathetic bluff and reminding you why the crew chose me over you." Sam shrugged, descending step by measured step. "I'm sure it will do wonders for your reputation, now that you've finally completed where you've been headed all along and run cravenly back into England's arms. There won't be a single man who calls himself a pirate who will ever sail with you again, Benjamin. I do hope you bloody enjoy it. When they're done, they'll hang you alongside me. We can dance the gallows jig together. How's that for irony?"

"I'm not going to die." Hornigold drew himself up. "You, on the other hand – "

"Now, now, Captain Hornigold." Hume was having trouble being quite as smug as he doubtless wanted to be, with the heavy, mottled bruising and swelling on his left cheek and jaw, but his eyes burned nastily. "Recall that that is not your decision to make. Lord Robert Gold has the ultimate say on what fate should befall such a notorious criminal. Look, Samuel. All your so-called friends standing there without a word, ready to let you give yourself up on their behalf. Finally found out what sort of man you really are, did they?"

"Oh, we fucking well did," Killian snarled. "And what it means is that we'll all gladly butcher you like the animal you are at the first chance we get, you vile bastard."

"Captain Killian Jones, is that you?" Hume's bruised lips peeled back in a rictus of a smile. "How delightful to cross your path again. From the moment we met on Eleuthera, I had a feeling you'd end up going over to the rabble. Believe me, I'm well acquainted with the reports of your recreations. We'll be sure to save an extra noose for you."

Killian didn't answer, but it seemed to be taking every drop of his self-control not to race down the stairs and gut Hume on the instant, bargain or no bargain. Emma reached for his hand, holding tightly, as both of them were clearly desperate for some last-instant Hail Mary that would prevent them from having to watch Sam give himself up to this man, with no guarantee whatsoever that he would survive such a harrowing wager. Sam, for his part, kept descending, step by measured step, until he reached the bottom, held out his hands, and said, "There. All yours. Now, I believe the bargain was that you call off your dogs, and the rest of the island goes free, until Lord Robert arrives to. . . sort them out."

"Oh, it was." Hume's face remained alight with sheer malevolent delight. "Not that I am not sorely tempted to alter it after what Captain Flint did to me, but unlike you worthless guttersnipes, I am a gentleman of my word. So – " he raised a fist, beckoning to the soldiers – "we'll be on our way. Men, would you please ensure that our old friend is. . . taken care of?"

One of the soldiers stepped forward with a heavy set of shackles, locking Sam's wrists into them, as Emma, Killian, and Flint all made a barely-restrained sound of sickened fury. Sam himself stood as cold and magnificently as the statue of a Roman emperor, as if the scuttling of such vermin was far beneath him, as Hume seized him, spun him around, and then looked up at the party on the landing. "Friendly warning. If you try to ambush us on the way back to the Scarborough, or do anything whatsoever to show that you are anything but in absolute compliance with the bargain, I shoot him dead on the spot. Not to mention, any of you involved. I am sure, therefore, even fools like you will consider your actions carefully. Merry Christmas."

With that, just as the three lieutenants who had been debauchedly enjoying themselves came pelting up in a panic, tying their cravats and gabbling apologies, Hume beckoned to the soldiers, who shoved the door open again, and they marched out into the cold grey dimness, as the fair day had quickly gone sour as if in reflection of the unfolding events. Everyone stood there, stunned into silence, until Flint spun on his heel. "No. Fuck whatever that lying scum said. We can't let this stand. We have to go after Sam, we can still get him back, we – "

"He'll shoot him!" Killian whirled around as well, voice rough with emotion, as he caught Flint's arm with his hook. "Listen to me, mate. Do you think it's not bloody eating me up inside as much as you, as much as it is any of us? Do you think Sam wants us to run headfirst, outnumbered and outgunned, directly into the Scarborough's teeth right after he's already wagered his own life on us doing our part? If we just get shot like dogs, we've failed him, we've bloody failed everything he trusted us to do, and I don't know about you, but I don't want to do it one more time! Not with everything that's at stake! Not like this! Not him!"

Flint breathed furiously through his nose, face white and eyes almost hell-black, half-hearing the sense and half-disregarding it entirely in the haze of the need for revenge. But he at least was well aware that Killian was the only other person present who understood him exactly, that what he would dismiss as craven excuses from another man was the bitter truth from his younger self. After another moment, he jerked his arm out of the hook's grasp and brushed himself off, almost vibrating with barely contained rage. "Of course," he said. "We should be prudent."

"We'll burn them." Killian kept his eyes. "I swear it. I bloody swear it."

"Aye." Flint bared his teeth. "All of them. Now, if we're letting him walk away, then we should be making our plans. They'll rue this day. All of them. Everywhere. They bloody, bloody will."


After the joy and camaraderie in which Christmas day had started out, it ended in black, seething gloom. Nassau had been overturned in less than twelve hours, with Eleanor also taken away aboard the Scarborough as a condemned prisoner, the mutineers freed from the fort (and by the sounds of things, helping themselves to quite a bit of Vane's treasure on the way out) Sam en route to Antigua to await the worst of whatever Hume and Gold's combined perversity could dish out, and any illusion of remaining safety comprehensively and poisonously destroyed. Half the pirates still didn't have a clue that anything had happened, having happily slumbered in a drunken stupor through the whole ordeal, and Flint almost killed a man who seemed to find it funny. Emma and Killian managed to haul him off in time, though both of them were on the hair-edge of snapping themselves, especially since they had to decide whether to set sail immediately – get to Antigua too soon, and they would miss their best shot at taking out Gold and the rest of his ilk, as well as possibly goad him into killing Sam before any further interruptions could be made. But miscalculate, get there too late, and Sam could already be dead.

This was not to mention that there was still significant repair work to be done on both the Whydah and the Jolie, though they were at least capable of floating without assistance. That meant another expedition for Flint to capture a ship, which would take at least a fortnight, and the Whydah of course still had to deliver Emma, Miranda, Regina, and the boys to safety on the Maroons' island before it could reconnoiter with its compatriots to attack Antigua. They were engaged in a very terse argument when Charlie said abruptly, "I want to fight."

"I – what?" Emma looked at him in horror. "No. You need to come with us."

"I'm eighteen," Charlie said stubbornly. "I'm not a child. And you. . . you've been fighting for me and Henry this entire time, haven't you? Even if we didn't know it until recently, you were. Right now you can't, but perhaps you can let me pay back the favor. I'll stay on the Whydah. I'll join Sam's crew. I. . ." He hesitated. "I'll be a pirate too."

"Charlie, no. Being a pirate isn't something you do lightly, and it's not something you can take back. All this time, I've done my best to pay for your studies – you can be a solicitor, you can have a real and honorable profession. They will hang you as a pirate if they take you, and that's assuming you survive. Please. Don't throw it away."

"It's clear that Henry and I aren't going back to Virginia any time soon." Charlie looked at her with the mirror of her stubborn expression. "And that even if we did, you can't really send us money as before, now that the entire Caribbean knows who you are. I don't want to sit in hiding. I like Sam too. I'm going to fight for him. And for you."

Emma was both touched by this pronouncement and terrified that her eighteen-year-old brother would think that he could join up in the middle of a fierce battle, fought by hardened men who had done this all their lives and had absolutely no qualms about burning and beating and maiming and killing. Charlie, no matter how good his intentions, would be chewed up and spat out by the brutal reality of the pirate life, but she also couldn't realistically forbid him from finding out for himself. Not that she wasn't going to try. "Please at least think about this. I know it sounds exciting, like being part of a greater cause, but I wanted to keep you away from this for a reason. If you go, you won't be able to change your mind. You won't be able to turn back."

As she could have feared, this did exactly nothing to budge Charlie's conviction, and she glanced at Killian for help, hoping he could get through to him. Killian, however, was looking at Flint, dark brows drawn, until he said abruptly, "Vane."

"Fuck! Can't we just leave him squatting on his pile of sparkling shit and – "

"No, we bloody can't, and you know it. Hornigold just stabbed him in the back, emptied out the fort's dungeons, handed the prisoners over to the Navy, and let them rob him as they pleased on the way out the door. There's no way Vane will stand for that. Whatever alliance they had is gone, and he'll explode like a mad dog one way or another, so it makes sense to try to get him to do it with us. Besides. There's one other wager we'll have to make with him."

"Oh? Pray tell, please. Whatever stroke of genius you've cooked up to make you think that Charles fucking Vane can be remotely counted on. If you think he might have some tender desire to rescue Eleanor Guthrie, forget it. He already betrayed her by taking the island with Jennings. Those two are burnt and buried. Not everybody is as driven by love as you seem to – "

"It didn't have anything to do with that." Killian looked at him coolly. "I was talking about Blackbeard."

That did succeed in taking Flint by surprise, but he worked it out in a moment. "You think we can get Blackbeard on our side via Vane. Because Jennings, the other man who taught Vane everything he knows, is such a good friend of ours. Of course."

"Blackbeard is Hornigold's former first mate. He took control of one half of the pirate fleet when Hornigold was deposed, and Sam took the other. I guarantee Blackbeard hates Hornigold just as much as we do, and as much as Vane now does. As well, if we went after Antigua en masse and didn't invite him, he'd be furious that he missed the fun. Once again, it's the risk of whether we want him going bloody mental as a lone wolf, or if we can persuade him to help us."

Flint shook his head as if he could not possibly contemplate such naivety. Then again, he had absolutely no instinct to make alliances, to look beyond his own capabilities, to believe anything good of anyone, or conclude that they would not do the same as him, and jettison anyone who was no longer useful, knife plunged deep in back, before it could be done to them. Finally he said, "If Blackbeard and Vane sailed with us, I can guarantee they would join forces to destroy us as soon as they were done. Unless – "

"You make unsavory alliances based on the needs you have. Not on the ones you wish you did. I'm sure you know that." Killian looked back at him coolly. "Pirates betray each other. It's what they do. Surely you're not going to let that stand in the way of doing what we have to?"

Flint opened his mouth, but Miranda laid a hand on his wrist. "James," she said. "He's right. We aren't going to save Sam by you thinking you can take them all on alone. Think about it."

Flint chewed his tongue mulishly, as this was clearly the last thing he wanted to do, but as usual, he was forced to listen to her. "Even if we do go to Edward bloody Thatch with begging bowl in hand, for all the good it's likely to do us, that's another journey to Ocracoke, unless we get wind that he's come south to the Caribbean. Do you think he's going to take two or three unfamiliar rivals suddenly sailing into his hideout as anything but a threat? The Queen Anne's Revenge runs forty guns. We should be prepared for a shootout."

"Aye, I'm sure that's the best way to run a delicate diplomatic mission, wait until the smoke clears and see if there's enough left to barter with." Killian's fingers tapped restlessly on the table. "Besides, that's the point of recruiting Vane. He goes to Blackbeard, he sells it as revenge on their mutual nemesis Hornigold, and it doesn't expose us to any unnecessary risk or politicking with an unpredictable commodity. I've already gotten Vane to come to our side once. Considering how bloody pissed he must already be at the world's worst business partner, do you really think I couldn't swing it again? Hornigold made him a fool and a dupe, and considerably lighter in the pocket as well. If you can keep that in sight, as well as the fact that Vane saved us from Jennings – aye, we might still mistrust him, but there's no way we would have cleared out that festering carbuncle without him – we could have a chance."

Flint once more looked at him with the sort of grudging admiration he had been forced to deploy more and more often when it came to Killian's strategical acumen and ability to weigh and analyze a situation. "Not bad," he said, which, for him, was the equivalent of a torrent of giddy and gushing praise. "That way, we run comparatively little risk for a possibly considerable gain Either Vane and Blackbeard fuck off somewhere on their own and certainly are no friends to the Navy while they're doing it, or they fuck off with us and give Gold, Jennings, Hornigold, Hume, and the rest of those filthy dicks an extra kick where it hurts. There's no way they could be prepared to counter five fully armed pirate ships, no matter what Gold is requesting for backup. We could have an armada of our own. Win not just the battle, but the war."

Everyone exchanged a look, as it was plain that Flint had gone, almost that fast, from deploring the very idea to envisioning himself as fleet commander, commodore and general of a final mighty charge to break the back of English power in the Caribbean once and for all. As if this was remotely possible considering the mesh of personalities that would have to be involved, but, well, that was Flint for you. He was clearly also thinking that if Blackbeard took the little social visit amiss and accidentally killed Vane before he could get a word out of his mouth, this would likewise be no loss to anyone. "Fine," he said. "You do that, if it's so important. But it had better not be our only plan. Are we – " He glanced around. "Is there even any fucking food?"

It was far from the Christmas dinner they had envisioned, eating the cold leavings from the brothel's kitchen in the dim back parlor as half-dressed whores occasionally wandered in for scraps. Regina declined to answer any questions about how she might have set up in business so quickly, remarking with a demure, blood-drawing smile that surely any lady knew better than to kiss and tell. She likewise did not appear concerned about the possibility of leaving a profitable house behind if she was to accompany Emma, Miranda, and Henry to the Maroons' island, which Emma had hoped would weigh on her considerations. The two of them still hadn't exchanged an actual word, though she could feel Regina's dark eyes flicking to her now and again, uncertain whether they were putting aside her grudge or doubling it. After all, here Emma sat, safe and free, clearly expecting the child of the man next to her, who was holding her hand beneath the table and giving her occasional sidelong glances – the man Regina herself had commissioned in pursuit of her vengeance in the first place, just to twist the knife. Emma did not feel responsible for Daniel Colter's death, or that she had done anything outside what any pirate would have done with the Navy after them and a choice for survival to be made, but she could understand, at least, why Regina would have taken the idea into her head. If their positions were reversed, rational or otherwise, she would want Regina to suffer too, though she couldn't say she would have gone to the same extremes. But though she might understand the other woman, she did not feel bound to extend any overtures of friendship or conciliation, letting her guard down, or otherwise allowing herself to be blindsided. She had lived in this world too long for that.

They finished eating in a silent gloom, everyone doubtless unable to keep their thoughts away from Sam, and whatever he might be enduring in the Scarborough's brig. They knew he was strong, but nobody should be forced to test it in such a ghastly fashion, least of all him. Hume would have to be careful not to leave any marks, as even a pirate could accuse the Navy of wanton and inhumane brutality if they were dragged to trial covered in bruises and beatings, but someone like him was clearly exceptionally skilled at that kind of thing, of slipping the stiletto bloodlessly between the ribs, to leave the deepest cut and the fewest scars. At least to outward glances. Emma didn't have much appetite to start with, and after a few forced bites, she pushed her plate away. "I think I'll. . ." She glanced at Killian. "Go to bed."

"Aye?" Flint put his goblet down with a bang and got to his feet. "I'm going to find the bloody Walrus, see how many of the miserable scabs are fit to piss in a straight line. We'll sail tonight."

"James." Miranda reached for his hand as he turned to reach for his jacket. In a voice so quiet that only Emma could hear her, she said, "I know you need to capture a ship to finish the repairs. But remember that. And remember as well what battle you can fight, and which you can't. You still have a chance to save Sam. You can't save Thomas."

Flint flinched, ever so slightly, but didn't answer. He bent and kissed her hand quickly, thumb stroking over the ring that Sam had given them. Then he straightened up, pulled on his jacket, jerked his head in the tersest of nods at Emma, Killian, and the others, and vanished into the night like a hungry wolf.

Somewhere in the hall, the clock struck the hour.


The last week of the year was dour, cold, tense, and grim. Killian did manage to connive a second meeting with Vane, at considerable risk to his skin, but as most of it involved Vane pacing like a stalking tiger and swearing to dismantle Hornigold and anyone else in his way, it was hard to tell if it would extend to sailing off to find Blackbeard and extending him the offer of a grand alliance. It did not, however, seem likely. Vane just wanted revenge, as well as his money back, and saw no reason to involve his ex-mentor in said proceedings – as Flint had noted, his previous betrayal of Jennings had made him extremely unlikely to want to roll the snake-eyes on another such individual. Blackbeard had been a bit of a reach in the dark all along, so they had to proceed as if he would not be a factor one way or the other.

New Year's Eve was hardly an occasion for celebration, and was kept with a subdued supper at the boarding house: Emma, Killian, Miranda, Charlie, Henry, and Will. Pirates being pirates, the fact that they had gotten drunk and all but slept through a Navy invasion on Christmas did not prevent them from immediately doing the same thing a week later, and Emma kept nervously peering through the front window in search of more uninvited guests. Obviously it wasn't as if Hornigold and Hume would be back, having gotten what they wanted, but the most paranoid part of her couldn't let go of the idea that they had somehow already returned with a fleet – even if such a journey was completely impossible in just seven days. They probably hadn't even made it to Antigua yet, much less collected reinforcements, but she couldn't help it.

Turning away, Emma paced restlessly back to the kitchen, where nobody was succeeding in pretending they were having a good time, not even Will. After a few half-hearted toasts, they gave up, and she helped Miranda upstairs to her room, wincing as the baby rearranged itself with its sharp little heels directly in her spleen. Noticing her expression, Miranda said softly, "You really don't need to be doing so much for me, my dear. I'm much better, truly, and you should be thinking of yourself. What time you have left with Killian. . . I don't want you to miss it."

"We're. . . we're trying not to." This was in fact mostly true; they had been sleeping in the same bed since their reconciliation on the night of Miranda's miraculous return, and their need to be close, to know the other was there, real, still living, still trying, meant that they quite often slept in the biblical sense of the word as well. Yet as vital, as raw, as hungry as they were, as well as they went together, the sparks that they struck and the sheer delight of communion and completion, there was some small cold part of Emma that knew it could never be enough. They couldn't fit a lifetime into whatever stolen moments these were, they could never have the future she so badly wanted, they could not even guarantee that Killian would ever see his child's face, and the bittersweetness of it, the beauty and the poignancy, the simple and shattering tragedy, made her heart ache until she thought it might explode. As if she could not contain the strength of it, the warmth, the bedazzlement, and the depths of the cold ash it would leave when that fire inexorably was quenched, the churches ran out of candles, the sky of stars went dark and void. Even thinking about it was too hard to face for long. The more she let him in now, the greater the damage would be when, as she knew was coming, she lost him.

Yet she didn't say so. Wondered if one of them, her and Killian or Flint and Miranda, would be allowed to live happily ever after, or even at all. She opened the door and assisted Miranda in to sit down on the bed, which they both did with a sigh. They sat there in silence, until Emma said abruptly, "If you ever had a daughter, what would you have named her?"

Miranda looked up in surprise. "What brought that to mind?"

"In Boston, when I told you, you. . . you said you thought of it. That you would have liked a child, perhaps, but it was never meant to be. You must have imagined that child, though. We all do. Even if it's never more than in passing. And I just. . . I wondered."

Miranda was quiet for a moment, looking down at her hands on the worn fabric of her skirt. Then she said, "I grew up as an only child, as I've told you. The daughter of a rich man, destined in turn to wed another rich man in a proper London society wedding, and live the cultured and sheltered life I had always been trained for. I had a friend, though, the daughter of a mere footman of the household and thus not someone that it was considered decorous for me to socialize with. We were like sisters, stole sweets from the kitchen and gossiped under the bedcovers and had adventures, braided each other's hair and told each other all our secrets. And then, well. . . she died. In the winter of 1694, in the same smallpox epidemic in the City that killed Queen Mary. I was just engaged to Thomas, and had intended her to be the maid of honor at our wedding, to damn-all with protocol. His father said to me that it was a good thing she had died beforehand, and thus spared him the embarrassment of seeing his son wed a woman attended by a footman's daughter in St. Paul's Cathedral."

"Jesus." Emma had never met Lord Alfred Hamilton, of course, but she knew more than enough, from this and the other tales, to hate him. "Seems he began as rotten as he ended."

"That man was always rotten." Miranda smiled grimly. "James served him only as he merited."

She paused a moment, then continued. "I thought to myself, well, you miserable old man, I'll have a better revenge. After all, he would only have been forced to suffer it once if she attended me at our wedding, so I decided that as soon as I had my first daughter, I would call her after my friend. How much more would the wretched codger have to stew in his own vile juices if his granddaughter was named in honor of a servant? But while Thomas and I did enjoy each other in bed, it quickly became clear that he was a man who could never be entirely satisfied with a woman. We tried to be faithful to each other, to be sure, but it was little good for either of us. So, because I loved him, I agreed that he could take a man for his lover, and if any rumors arose, I would deflect the blame for it, allow scandal to be cast on my reputation, that I was merely yet another bored society wife entertaining herself while her husband was away in Parliament, rather than anyone should suspect the truth. And it did wonders. James was not the first man we shared, but he was the first one that both of us fell in love with, and. . ."

She stopped again, composing herself. "You know that English common law automatically decrees any child born to a married woman to be her husband's, even if everyone knows there is almost no chance it is. Thomas knew I wanted a child, and when it became clear that he was unlikely to give me one, told me that I could take any lover I wanted, and he would happily acknowledge any resulting offspring as his own. I thought of it, to be sure. But I. . . for better or for worse, I wanted it to be his child, my husband's, not merely some handsome aristocrat who I didn't know from Adam. Besides, I could be the one who was incapable, not Thomas, and thus all the outside trying in the world would make no difference. So again, I put it aside."

Emma squeezed her hand. Even as close as they were, Miranda had rarely spoken this candidly of her past life or her first husband, her life in London in the gilded birdcage of high society, her struggles with Lord Alfred Hamilton from the very first days of her marriage. Some wounds were still too deep, even after all this time. "And then when you and James were exiled to Nassau, as you said, you accepted it as punishment."

"Oh yes." Miranda's smile was very faint and very sad. "I dreamed up a child then, to keep myself company. I think I would have gone quite mad otherwise. The daughter I had imagined having with Thomas was a proper lady, one who knew how to dance at balls and speak French and play the harpsichord and sing, whom I would teach to dress and behave and everything else expected of her, but also to know her own mind, and to value it. The daughter I imagined with James could not have been more different. A girl growing up here would be no lady, no proper English rose, but as wild as sea and sky, learning rope and sail and in all likelihood, all manner of terrible oaths before the age of five. The two girls in my head could not be less alike, but I loved them both, even though they had never been. When I finally accepted that I would never have either, I had to mourn their loss as if they were living children, and I had buried them."

Emma's throat thickened, and she couldn't immediately answer. Then at last, she asked quietly, "And so. . . what was her name? Your friend?"

Miranda took a moment to answer, still lost among her ghosts. Then she said, "Geneva. Her name was Geneva, though I called her Jenny. Those were the girls. Lady Geneva Hamilton, and Jenny Flint. I cannot say that I do not still grieve for what they could have been, that they died before they had ever come to live, because I do. But I do not dwell on them any more. I have let them go. As I said, I had a daughter after all, and her name is Emma."

Too moved to speak, Emma leaned in to put her head on Miranda's shoulder, their cold fingers finding each other in the darkness. Then at last, Miranda shifted, kissed her forehead, and said softly, "Go to him, my dear. I'll keep."

Emma hesitated, then nodded. Got softly to her feet, let herself out, and went down the hall, to the room at the end. She couldn't say she was sad to be out of the attic, but it was hard to enjoy sleeping in a proper bed every time she thought about Sam. She prayed he was giving as good as he got, as he had made it clear that he had no intention of serving as Hume's sadistic plaything without retaliation, but if he fought too hard, they might just kill him and save themselves the trouble and expense of a trial. To be sure, Gold would be furious if they deprived him of such a spectacle, but he could compensate for it with a successful invasion of Nassau. If. . . if. . .

Emma shook her head, opened the door, and let herself in, as Killian glanced up with a start; even if they had been sleeping together every night, he still did not expect it or take it for granted. He was in his shirtsleeves, cumbrous leather brace unbuckled and removed, though his stump was bandaged; he was leery about letting Emma see it in its full mangled glory, as if it might repulse or revile her. She shut the door behind her, then came over, sat on the bed, and took hold of it lightly, as she would his hand. He looked up at her with a wry, tired smile, tensing but not pulling away. "Not much of a good omen for the new year, is it?"

"I don't know." Her fingers circled the abrupt end of his wrist, carefully in case she might hurt him, just wanting to freeze time, to stop the world from turning, to keep them here in the softness and the silence of the night, before the daylight would inevitably come. Then she shifted, turning to face him, and took hold of his good hand, tugging up her shirt and curling it around the warm skin of her belly. "Do you remember our conversation about a name?"

"Aye." His attention was torn between following the movements, and paying attention to her. "Did you think of something, then?"

"I had a suggestion, yes." Emma shifted her position, leaning back against the pillows, but keeping his hand on her stomach. With that, she told him the story Miranda had just told her, and finished tentatively, "So, if you agreed. . . after everything, after what Miranda's done, what she's meant – if you don't like it, we can come up with something different – "

"No," Killian said at once. "Absolutely not. It's a beautiful name. Geneva." He pronounced it with a soft Irish lilt, markedly different from his usual proper English accent, that made Emma's heart flip. "Geneva. And if we can give Miranda something she so deeply deserves, even better. Do you. . . do you happen to know what Sam's mother's name was?"

"Aye," Emma said quietly. "Elizabeth."

"Geneva Elizabeth." Killian tried it out aloud, so that both of them had to take a moment to catch their breath at the reality of it, the elegance of the name and the depth of the emotion behind it – and the fact that both of them knew they were choosing it now because they might never have another chance. "Well, it'll be awkward if she ends up being a lad then, won't it?"

"I. . . I don't think so." Emma tugged him toward her, as his arm came around her shoulders and tucked her against him, her nose in his neck, breathing him. "But if so, I will name him Sam."

"Nobody could argue with that." Killian's voice was very soft, his hand stroking her back, as he pulled out the quilt and got it up over their legs. She clutched hold of him, suddenly utterly unwilling to leave him, no matter what the best decision was for them, for her, for the fight that was coming. It was another thing she wanted to ask Miranda, who had such long experience now in letting Flint go, knowing what he faced every day. It was different for Emma, since she was just as used to being in command, to controlling her own destiny, to winning her own battles, and being asked to step aside was the last thing she was accustomed to doing. Still, she could at least accept that now she had other people to help her, that she didn't have to do everything herself, and hence could take care and consideration for her own future. And yet. Facing danger yourself was always easier than asking someone you loved to do it on your behalf.

She didn't say anything, though. Merely nuzzled closer, listening to their breathing. Wanting to stay awake, to glean whatever moments she could, what small pieces she would have to use to fill the empty spaces later, but she was only human. And so, despite herself, she slept.


January, the Year of our Lord, Seventeen Hundred & Sixteen, started off with a torrential thunderstorm, and did not appear inclined to improve much from there. It was still tearing leaves off the palms and roofs off houses, sending any unsecured cargo cartwheeling across the beach, and tossing the ships at anchor like toys (thus leaving Emma and Killian on permanent edge that all their weeks of repairs were about to be smashed to kindling in a few capricious hours) four days later when Flint returned, towing a ship that looked as if he had started to destroy it and then remembered halfway through that he needed it intact. It was a large snow with a good-sized crew, which Flint had also gotten halfway through before grudgingly remembering to stay his hand, and it was clear from the general expressions of the men on the Walrus that it had been the devil of a fight to take. John Silver seemed to have had something sly to do with it, and while Flint still to all appearances could not stand him, Emma got the sense that Silver had quietly and deliberately gone about making himself indispensable to his captain's troubled and fragile second reign, that he had made it clear he could do far better with his cooperation than his contrarianism, and that Flint at least had enough of a well-honed self-preservation streak to know it. Indeed, she wasn't sure she liked how chummy Silver had become, apparently now serving as acting quartermaster in Gates' place (though there was a cautionary tale if you ever needed one) and he had turned up at the strategy meeting brazen as you please, all slick charm and winning smile, to make sure nobody forgot his previous contribution – or his current one. "Sorry, we're supposed to be launching an attack on Antigua now? Even weakened, that sounds like suicide."

Killian shifted his weight. He had made it abundantly clear that he, at least, had not changed his opinion of the slippery bastard at all, and no wonder. Emma knew that they had met as boys, that Silver's father had been the Captain Silver that had held Killian and Liam in bondage, and thus also the one Liam had arranged to have drowned to buy their freedom. That could hardly be a pleasant connection, and all Silver's self-serving manipulation and service as the devil's advocate could hardly have endeared him to Killian any more upon their reunion. "Nobody asked you for your bloody opinion, you know."

"Maybe not." Silver shrugged. "But after the ordeal we had trying to take the Ann Gally – that's the ship's name, by the way, in case anyone was wondering – I would be remiss not to point out, Captain, that the men are wondering just why they have to keep putting their necks on the line for your personal vendettas. There has to be profit involved in this somewhere, doesn't there? Even you wouldn't attack Antigua on sheer outraged principle alone."

"You think you know quite a bit about me, don't you?" Flint growled. "As for profit, I stole forty thousand dollars from the Spanish wrecks just a few months ago. It's not my fault if they've drunk or pissed or fucked all of their share away already. Not to mention the other ships in the last six weeks. Any man who wants to carp that I haven't taken a good score, or that we need another one already, can shove it up his arse."

"I understand you, believe me. I'm just saying that they may not." Silver smiled. Emma was finding that it irritated her more every time he did. "Unless, of course, I could tell them just what awaits us on Antigua? The prospect of glorious sacrifice for a greater cause motivates soldiers. Not pirates. You wouldn't be taking us to die just for your interests, surely? Not at all like you."

Flint continued to regard his underling with a hooded, loathing gaze. It was clear that he would cut off his own arm, roast it, and eat it with apples and a nice red wine, sooner than telling Silver in the slightest degree about the true nature of his determination to rescue Sam. "I've told you, it's a. . . collaborative effort. The Walrus, the Whydah, and the Jolie Rouge all sailing together. Even the Ranger, if Vane shocks the world and does something useful with his life. A chance to revenge ourselves on the Scarborough for all the misery it's caused us, and the Navy more generally. That should be enough for them."

"Except for the fact that they aren't deserters from the Navy," Silver pointed out. "You and our – friend – " his eyes flicked to Killian, who stared belligerently back – "may have something rather more personal vested in this, but they don't. Oh, I'm sure they'll happily cause mayhem, but they need a larger cause. And not just martyrdom, which I likewise do not support. Death may be glorious, but it's so final. Living is much more useful."

"Fuck their larger cause. They're my men, they'll sail where I tell them to, and more importantly, where you tell them to. You want to play at being valuable to me, well, be fucking valuable and maybe you'll accidentally stumble into it. Or are they a bunch of spineless chickenshits too frightened to face the Navy head to head, after they slept through Hornigold and Hume's little Christmas present? Maybe they can use the last of their money to buy themselves new trousers."

"It can be arranged." Silver took a sip of his rum. "Just tell me what we're really fighting for. I can spin it to them somehow, but just between us, don't I deserve to know the truth?"

"You don't deserve a poxed whore on a freezing night."

"Grouchy, grouchy. Has anyone ever told you that?"

As Flint opened his mouth for what was sure to be an even more heated rejoinder, Killian broke in. "Bloody hell, you two, enough. You're telling me that your men are cowards, Mr. Silver? I burned Antigua's entire harbor, and at least six ships, with my one. This time we'll have three on our side at least, possibly more. I'd offer to hold their hands, but alas, that is also something I only have one of. Because the bastards took it, along with much more. Whimper and mealy-mouth and beat around the bush if you're fucking frightened, but I'm going."

"See." Flint raised his cup in sardonic toast. "We're going."

Silver evaluated both of them with a raised eyebrow, as if trying to discern the cause for this apparent solidarity after Flint had spent so long disdaining Killian nearly as much. "Well. Far be it from me to stand in the way of success. I do hope this Bellamy fellow is worth all the fuss."

With that (more or less) settled, they sent men to strip the Ann Gally and distribute her parts and timbers to finish the repairs on the Whydah and the Jolie. It took another three days to finish, and then the Walrus, which had been sailing hither and yon with very little respite, had to be hauled onto the beach, careened, refitted, resupplied, and otherwise touched up, which was a monumentally difficult task. With Eleanor Guthrie gone, the island had devolved into a mess of small-time suppliers, all fighting to establish a monopoly on the market and to offer their goods at better rates than everyone else (while simultaneously cheating their customers out of an appreciably useful cut of the take). There was also no way to be sure how or where future spoils would be turned into hard cash; everyone had deplored Eleanor while she was around, but seemed to be discovering just how much more they would miss her now that she was gone.

At this, Killian, sensing an opportunity, informed Regina that she should stay and take over; a hard-nosed woman with an eye for a deal and no tolerance for fools would find it easy to step into Eleanor's shoes. As well, it would keep her off the Maroons' island and thus away from Emma, which both of them were still uneasy about. Regina, however, utterly disdained the idea that she should be expected to spend the rest of her life managing a shithole like Nassau, and they would just have to remedy their trade difficulties without her assistance. Nice try.

It was into the fortnight of January, over three weeks since Christmas and Sam's capture, when they were at last finally prepared to sail. They couldn't risk waiting any longer; it was too early for Gold to have gotten reinforcements from England, but he could have called in Navy ships posted in the Americas, of which there were several – including, of course, the Windsor, under the command of Captain David Nolan. As well, rumors were starting to percolate in that the Jacobites, under the command of the Earl of Mar, had been dealt a sharp defeat at the battle of Sheriffmuir in November, and that James Stuart had been forced to flee with his tail between his legs. If this was true, it would have grave political repercussions for covert Jacobites in the Caribbean – not least, of course, Lord Archibald Hamilton in Jamaica, and all his machinations in service of the Stuart cause. If Gold scented an opportunity to crush all the traitors at once, he might well do exactly that, and to hell with waiting for spring. It was now or never.

They were down at the docks and preparing to board their respective ships, Emma and Killian unwilling to say goodbye for what might be the last time, when someone shouted. As such, everyone looked up, and saw an unfamiliar ship at the mouth of the harbor. Not a Navy ship, but a pirate vessel beyond a doubt, low-riding and well-gunned, flying a distinctive standard: a crowned skeleton spearing a heart and toasting the devil. One that was known, but rarely glimpsed, at least for several years now, in Nassau. One which meant –

As they stood there, a boat launched, several men began to pull its oars with great alacrity, and it sculled closer and closer, until its captain stepped onto the sand and regarded the assembled company of pirates. He was tall, well-set, and wearing a leather bandolier slung with pistols and grenades, and a sword swung at his side. All of this, however, was incidental before his beard, a fine bushy black specimen twisted with the remnants of charred fuses, and his deceptively jovial grin. He surveyed them for a long moment as the silence stretched out almost audibly, nobody wanting to be the first to break it. Then he unscrewed his flask, took a long sip, and flung it to the sand with a splash.

"Well, well, well," said Edward Thatch. "You're all having a party to go after the fucking Navy, and you didn't even invite me?"