-XXXVII-

The hangings started soon after nine o'clock. From their vantage in the trees, Jack, Anne, and Emma could see the line of prisoners marched out into the square, fettered at wrist and ankle, and up onto the gallows by redcoats with muskets, four at a time. A periwigged lawyer read the indictment, a further few soldiers pulled down the heavy hemp nooses and placed them around the necks of the condemned, and to the accompaniment of a long tattoo of drums, the captain pulled the lever. Four pairs of feet dropped through the trapdoor, four ropes jerked, and four men, if they were lucky, died more or less instantly. Of the three sets already accomplished, at least two of them had strangled slowly, jerking and kicking, until boys from the crowd darted forward and hung onto their legs, in hopes of breaking their necks faster and earning a few pennies for the service. Once they were finally dead by one means or another, they were cut down and piled into a cart, the ropes were restrung, and the process began again. Clearly, the intent was not to leave the corpses up to rot, but rather to impress the efficiency and extent of the operation. That the British army and Governor Woodes Rogers could hang all the pirates they wanted, thanks very much, and there was not a damn thing anyone could do about it. That they were very much going to wish that they had not decided to throw the offer of clemency back in his face. That now, regrettably, they had made him angry. Very angry.

It could not have escaped anyone, whether the soldiers or the men being hanged, that they had simply had the spectacular bad luck to be caught on the wrong side of events outside their control: they had turned themselves in as pirates in due course, expecting pardons like everyone else, but today that meant a noose around the neck, rather than a parchment in hand. If it was intended to stoke resentment against the diehards who kept fighting and resisting English authority, that their brash and ill-advised actions were forcing their fellows to suffer in retribution, it might have done that very well. Twelve – no, make that sixteen – men had died by the time the executions were temporarily called to a halt at noon, and Anne was pacing relentlessly, white and sick with rage. "Can't believe I missed the shot on Rogers. Two inches lower, I kill the fucking bastard, not just scalp 'im. Then none of this would be happening."

"It's not your fault," Rackham said, running a distracted hand through his hair. "They're punishing us for rescuing Hook, and Charles' fiery destruction of their blockade, not just Rogers' injury – though I don't doubt that's part of it. This is the catch in the bargain. Either we all should have taken the pardons when we had the chance, or they'll grind us into dust."

"I shouldn't have asked you to risk yourselves." Emma swallowed heavily, trying to look away; even at a distance, the scene was grisly, as the last of the sixteen men had all had lingering, painful ends. She tried to stop her ears to the sound of chopping as they were cut down for the gravedigger's cart. "If I could have gotten Killian out any other way – "

"No," Killian said hoarsely, eyes closed, from where he had been settled in a makeshift hammock between two palms. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have been so foolish as to propose we treat with Rogers. But I thought – he was my acquaintance from Bristol, I didn't realize. . ."

"We didn't have a choice," Rackham said, after a moment. "We had to distract him somehow, and at least we got the gold dug up and moved aboard the Jolie Rouge. If you're able to make it back across the island, we can. . ." He hesitated. Clearly, sailing away with Vane's treasure aboard their uneasily shared vessel would result in Vane being very angry when he got back from Charlestown (if he got back from Charlestown), and there was nowhere for them to go that was certain, or even very likely, to be safe. They could find some remote island and hope to hide out until the English got bored and went away, but that was signally unlikely. Besides, with such provocation as this, the whiff of decay already starting to reek ripe in the hot wind, nobody felt in any mood for running like cowards. It had been intended to frighten or guilt them into surrendering, but it was already having decidedly the opposite effect.

"Still, though," Rackham went on, voicing their dilemma. "Charles has helpfully smashed up half their fleet, yes, but they have at least six ships still in fighting order, and while the Jolie could most likely take out a few more, we'd eventually be overcome. They could hang all of Nassau while we were brawling it out in the harbor, and finish up with us. We need more help."

"We need Flint and Sam back here." Emma sat down on the log next to Killian. "Vane might retrieve Flint, and if Sam finds David Nolan – "

"We'd still need more men," Rackham completed. "Even if Blackbeard finished up in Antigua and returned as well, we have no army, and no obvious place to acquire one."

"There might be, though." Killian sat up slowly, grimacing and wiping his mouth, as Emma regarded him anxiously. "Remember when we were crossing the interior of the island and needed to avoid the plantations? There must be a few hundred – or more – slaves on those. Slaves who have no reason to love their brutal English masters any more than the pirates do, and we already have someone who could talk to them. Lancelot and his men are still on the Jolie. If we send them to approach the slaves, sniff out the possibility of an uprising – "

Anne, Jack, and Emma all stared at him. "That's your plan?" It was clear that Rackham couldn't decide whether to be more impressed or incredulous. "Provoke all of New Providence's slaves into throwing off their chains and joining forces with us?"

"Do you have any other ideas about where we could find a force of similar size and motivation, in the very short time we have?" Killian's eyes were fierce. Emma knew that this was personal for him, the former slave, the man so deeply scarred by the experience that it still informed everything he was and did and felt, the boy held in indenture and captivity and the price that Liam had paid to free them. "I realize that I myself am not the most popular individual among them right now, for what I. . . what I did to Ursula, but Lancelot – "

"That's a dangerous favor you're asking," Rackham said, frowning. "He's a good quartermaster, I don't want to hang him out like a hog for slaughter – "

"He and his men left the Maroons' island because they wanted to fight their tormentors. Not just hide away in safety." Killian let out a long sigh. "It was in the bargain we struck. And the alternative is sitting here and continuing to watch the hangings, doing nothing, hoping Flint or Sam or Vane or someone gets back in time to pull our arses out of the fire. I don't know about you, but after what I went through yesterday thanks to bloody Rogers and Jennings, I'm not inclined to do that. We need to try."

"Can you make it across the island to the Jolie again?" Emma asked worriedly. They had patched him up as best they could, but he was still in no shape for extended travail, or really much travail at all. "If someone saw us, if the redcoats caught up. . ."

"Then you'll give me a gun and I'll die fighting." Killian continued to hold her gaze. "I'm not in the mood for peaceable surrender, Swan. I doubt you are either."

"I can try to find us horses," Anne said. "Riding back'd be faster n' walking."

Rackham shot her an anxious glance, as he was clearly not sure that this was the time to risk horse thievery on top of every other outrage they had committed recently, but also forced to admit that likewise, one more thumb of their noses at English authority could hardly make much difference. They were destined to hang one way or the other, so they might as well be sure that they had thoroughly earned it. "Fine," he said with a sigh. "Be careful, won't you?"

Anne gave him a look as if to say that she was offended that he thought she would be anything but, and disappeared without delay into the underbrush. Left to wait until she returned, Jack and Emma did their best to ensure that Killian was ready to travel, which was mostly an academic exercise; either he would or he wouldn't. They sat tensely, ready to spring up at any sign of trouble, until the sound of clip-clopping presaged the reappearance of Anne, riding one dusty-looking horse and leading another on a short rein. She swung down with a look of grim satisfaction as Rackham, spotting the fresh bloodstains on her coat, rushed over. "You're not – ?"

"Not mine. Took these off a pair of redcoat messengers. Figured wherever they was going, best they didn't get there." Anne smiled sourly. "Cut their throats, so they won't bring their news one way or the other. There's this, though." She thrust a crumpled parchment at Emma, clearly filched from the saddlebags. "What's it say?"

Emma broke the seal and scanned the slanted, hasty scrawl. "It's from Rogers," she said, mouth dry. "A notice that the pirates have broken the king's peace and nullified the offer of pardons, and that he will be applying appropriate disciplinary measures until Charles Vane's outrageous actions are fully recompensed. Bloody hell, it's addressed to Gold. Lord Robert Gold. He says that he has been wounded in the discharge of his duty, but not life-threateningly, and is asking for more reinforcements to be sent from Antigua at once."

They glanced at each other sidelong as the implications of the letter sank in, and the fact that indeed, on no account could it be allowed to reach its destination. It was clear that Rogers regarded the events of yesterday as tantamount to a declaration of open war by the pirates on the Crown, and as such, would not scruple in doing this the hard way, no matter if he might be personally inclined to a quick and bloodless takeover. Especially since Vane was the main culprit, and as Eleanor was now sleeping with and siding with Rogers and her love-hate relationship with Vane had turned entirely to hate, that added a personal kick in the teeth to the whole thing. In his audience with Killian and Emma, Rogers had told them that he was not necessarily bound to follow Gold's dictates without question, but obviously there would be tighter cooperation between the two English governors in the wake of one attempted uprising. Trying a second, to rouse the slaves of New Providence to fire and fury, would mean still harsher penalties. If they failed, even the very memory of their existence might be eradicated.

There was another pause as they considered this. Then Killian said, "Well? Are we going?"

"I didn't steal the horses to look at 'em." Anne crossed the clearing and gave him a hand to his feet, a small but significant gesture given the fact that she even as recently as a few days ago had still not trusted him, and from the look on Killian's face, it was clear that he recognized it. He nodded briefly in thanks, steadying himself on the nearer of the horses, as Emma came to mount it. She then hauled him up behind her, as Jack clambered up behind Anne on the other one. With a final glance around to ensure that their exit was not observed, they cantered off.

Even with horses, the trip back was still a delicate prospect, as they could not be sure how far the English had proceeded in expanding their presence beyond their tenuous foothold in Nassau Town. The colonists in the interior might well be on heightened alert, guarding against any such potential slave revolt as the news of Vane's memorable exit trickled in, and as Lancelot and the Maroons could not visit all of the plantations at once, garnering their support would by no means be an easy or immediate process. If that did not work, well. . . Emma supposed that they wouldn't have much choice but to sail away in the Jolie, God knew where, with the Spanish treasure in the hold. In that scenario, Vane's wrath would be literally the least of their problems.

It was not much less of a chore than last time, but they finally came into sight of the Jolie, anchored where they had left her on the far side of the island, and picked a cautious course down to the beach. They picketed the horses in the mangroves and hailed the ship, which sent the launch out to retrieve them, and there were noticeable murmurs of concern as Killian had to be helped onto the deck. No matter their new career and command under Rackham, these were, after all, largely still his old men who had followed him into piracy to avenge his mistreatment at the hands of Gold and Jennings. They were thus, to say the least, not at all impressed to hear that Jennings (and Rogers) had had the chance for a second extensive go-round. "Jesus. Isn't that vile bastard ever going to have the fucking good sense to die?"

"Doubtful," Killian said grimly. "The Devil Himself was never going to be easy to kill."

Someone muttered that they weren't sure even the Devil was as bad as Jennings – which, all things considered, Emma was inclined to agree with. News of the ongoing imbroglio in Nassau was likewise not well received. The Jolie's crew wanted to know what was going to be done. Surely they weren't just intended to sit and twiddle their thumbs, and as former Navy sailors themselves, they wanted a crack at their own revenge. Emma had wondered if any of them might have second thoughts, consider going back over to their old employers as things were going from bad to worse for the pirates, but as all the men who wanted to return to the Navy had already mutinied and been killed or imprisoned, the only ones left were the diehards who were determined to cling to their new lives at any cost. Even if they were outnumbered, they had sixty guns. They could assuredly cause a great deal of further trouble in Nassau Harbor, still reeling from Vane's inaugural volley. Their vote was to proceed to a second attack at once.

Given this atmosphere of heated bloodlust, it was therefore a bit of a finicky matter for Killian to suggest that Lancelot and the Maroons try to recruit help from the interior plantations. There were hisses of disapproval – surely they weren't just going to wait and see whether a bunch of slaves decided to fight for them? Pirates were dying right now, likely more if the executions had recommenced after their midday lull. Nobody else was around to handle it. Why not them?

"We'll think about it." Killian was clearly aware that trying to keep a lid on this for too long would be dangerous, and he glanced at Lancelot. "Do you think there's any chance?"

"Of persuading the slaves to join us?" The Maroon quartermaster weighed his words carefully. "Some of them might want to fight, yes. But farmhands with threshing knives and pitchforks are no match for trained redcoats with muskets and bayonets. Can you protect them from the wrath of their overseers and the British army together?"

"No," Killian said simply. "Not if we lose. Then again, we'll all die if we lose, and what's the alternative? Dying in bondage?"

"They'll have family members on other plantations," Lancelot warned. "The owners do that for exactly this reason: dissuading them from starting revolts. If one plantation rises up, their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, sons, daughters on the others will be punished. Hating the same masters isn't enough on its own for them to fight with the pirates. There's only one captain that we know and trust as a consistent friend to us, and that, Hook, is not you."

"Who?" Emma asked, having more than an inkling.

"Sam Bellamy," Lancelot confirmed. "If I approached the slaves in his name, could swear by what he has done for the Maroons and that he would be a wise choice to ally with. . . well, as I said, it would still be no sure thing, but there might at least be a chance. The obvious difficulty being, of course, that he is not here on Nassau, and we have no idea when he might be again, if at all. And I can hardly ask them to risk their lives for the possibility of his return."

Emma and Killian exchanged a troubled look. Their odds, already slim, seemed to be whittled thinner at every turn, and since Killian was still not the captain of the Jolie, he did not possess the authority to order and enforce any course of action anyway. As he turned aside to cough, with an unpleasant squelching sound, Emma could see splatters of blood on his sleeve where he pressed it to his mouth. He was bearing up well, because that was Killian for you; his own suffering was unimportant when there was so much else to worry about, and because he had grown so used to squashing it down and foraging bravely onward. It was clear, however, that his working-over by Rogers and Jennings had been dishearteningly thorough, and just as Emma was not entirely repaired from childbirth, Killian was not in much state to be leading any skirmish parties. They could be reasonably certain that Sam would decide to rejoin them once he made contact with David, or even if he didn't, but as he did not know that the place was occupied by the British, he could sail in with too little caution and wind up as a fat prize for Rogers. Given that Sam had already just escaped hanging by the very skin of his teeth, nobody was in any hurry for him then to be trapped in a similar situation for the second time.

Nonetheless, they could not sit here and do nothing, they could not approach the slaves without Sam, they could not let any of their friends arrive unprepared, they could not stray too far from Nassau, and nor could they permit Rogers' request for reinforcements, and information in the situation to reach Gold. Therefore, after a rather rancorous caucus, the vote was taken to strike out and try to intercept any of the surviving Navy ships that might be setting sail to Antigua. Anne had killed the messengers, but that alone was no certainty of stopping the news from traveling, and in fact might have provoked another round of retaliatory hangings, if their bodies had been discovered. So the Jolie weighed anchor and moved out from the lee of the island, into the lengthening shadows of evening. They would have to do this carefully, if they did not want to tip off the British as to their presence. Moved into the sea lane south of Nassau, and waited.

A few uneasy hours passed. There was nothing but dark, empty water and the moon rising brilliant overhead. Then someone shouted, a pinprick of lanterns appeared on the horizon, and through the spyglass, they spotted an oncoming frigate, flying full canvas and clearly in a tearing hurry. This, then, would be the target. Had to catch it up and take it down.

The Jolie had snuffed all her own lanterns, so the other ship would have no warning or advance notice of their presence, unless they were watching very hard. Rackham and Killian ordered the guns loaded, as quietly as possible, and directed the men to their stations. Holding, holding, until the frigate was so close that it seemed impossible for them to remain a secret an instant longer. Then, and only then, did they raise their voices to bellow the command in unison. "FIRE!"

The night lit up like an inferno as the full might of the Jolie's broadside spoke their piece, screaming and hailing into the Navy frigate at nearly point-blank range. There were howls of rage and shock from the other ship, crashes and splinters as they struggled to get to their own guns; they had, of course, had no idea that there was any other pirate vessel remotely nearby now that Vane had buggered off so dramatically. By that time, the Jolie had a second volley prepared, and one of the heavy thirty-two-pounders struck a direct hit on the mast. Five minutes later, the ludicrously one-sided battle was over, the frigate slewed and shattered, smoking and gutted, the Union Jack ripped clean through with chain shot and sprawled on the deck. It, however, was not about to be left to peaceably sink. The Jolie drew up directly alongside, and the men threw ropes and grapnels, binding the damaged ship to them. Then they slid down and landed on the deck with whoops and hollers, brandishing pistols and cutlasses, as the stunned Navy sailors did their best to mount any kind of defense. This, likewise, did not last long.

Killian and Emma, neither in much fit state to fight themselves, watched from the deck of the Jolie as the officer who looked to be in command (or else had been abruptly promoted) was forced to his knees at the point of a gun. "What's your name? What ship is this?"

"Go to hell, pirate scum."

This answer earned him the crack of a musket butt across the face. "Try again."

The young officer watched them mutinously, blood trickling into his eyes, as the rest of the Jolie's crew continued to round up survivors. Finally he spoke with coldly correct decorum. "My name is Lieutenant Arthur Geoffrey, of HMS Halifax. You brigands have assaulted and destroyed a ship of the Royal Navy and deepened your already unforgivable crimes against – "

"How many men did that shit Woodes Rogers hang?"

Lieutenant Geoffrey hesitated briefly, but apparently saw no need to hold back with this particular piece of intelligence. "Twenty-four all told," he spat. "Sixteen in the morning, and eight more before evening. And when he hears of this immensity, I don't doubt he'll hang at least as many again."

"I don't doubt you're right." The Jolie's men appeared to be enjoying this, even as a faint shiver went through Emma. Lieutenant Geoffrey looked almost hauntingly like Killian had, down to the dark ponytail and searing blue eyes, now standing among the wreck of his ship and life – a man who, if he lived, might choose the same method of revenging himself, from the other side of the coin. Does this ever end, or only go in circles, devouring itself and reborn from the ashes? "Which is why we'll have to make sure he doesn't. First, though. We're going to hang twenty-four of your men, and you get to watch."

At Emma's side, Killian made a convulsive movement. He started to say something, then stopped. The similarity could not have escaped him, or the fact that he had no authority, real or imagined, to stop this. His hand tightened white on the railing, as Emma reached over to take automatic hold of his hook. They could not do much more than watch as the ringleader of the Jolie men ordered the others to fashion nooses out of the torn rigging and shrouds of the Halifax, force the Navy sailors into them, and string them up to dangle grotesquely among the hellish glow of the smoldering ship. "We're Captain Hook's men," one of them happily informed the sailor he was in the business of vigorously strangling. "We did Antigua and Jamaica before, you know. Murdered the whole fucking lot of the Navy out here, so the fucking Admiralty had to send you cunts in replacement, and now we've done for you too. Funny, eh?"

At that, Killian could no longer hold back. He had of course wanted the loyalty of the Jolie's crew again, jealously and reflexively tried to pull it back from Rackham, but was clearly being starkly reminded of why he had traded it away in the first place, how he could not go on in this life while building anything remotely real and true and good with Emma. For this, he wanted no part of the credit. "That's enough!" he shouted. "Bloody hell, you bastards, stop! We don't need to do it like this!"

Heads turned to look at him still up on the Jolie's deck, white-faced and furious. There was a brief and evident confusion, as the men clearly saw no good reason why Hook himself would stop them from doing terrible things to the Navy, especially when that had been his raison d'être in the heat and madness of his fall. Rogers had hanged twenty-four pirates; they should be, at the least, perfectly entitled to hang twenty-four Navy sailors in return, as well as repaying Killian's torture at the hands of Rogers and Jennings. But Emma felt, as deeply as Killian must, how sorely he did not want this to go on, the sordid exchange of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, blood and vengeance and violence on either side until it no longer was clear which of them was in the right, or if there was any call to pride themselves on being better than Jennings in any way. Killian remained where he was, staring down at them, as his gaze locked with Lieutenant Geoffrey's. "I am Captain Hook," he said. "I imagine you've heard of me."

"I have, sir." The lieutenant spat blood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "And indeed, what you and your mongrels feel justified in doing to the king's men, especially since you so foully turned your coat and joined the king's enemies."

Killian did not rise to the bait or appear inclined to fight with the young man. "I apologize," he said, not loudly, but his voice still carrying on the night wind, "for what we've done to you."

"Queer hour for it." Half the lieutenant's face was starting to turn black and blue from where he had been clubbed with the musket, but he was still holding onto his dignity for all he was worth.

"So it is, at that." Killian inclined his head fractionally, then turned to regard the Jolie's men still on the deck, interrupted from the business of hanging the Halifax's. Again he said, "Enough."

"We can't leave them alive, Captain. Can't let them tell Gold or Rogers or anyone what we – "

"Their ship's destroyed, they're not going anywhere anyway. It's a bloody long swim back to Nassau from here, but I suppose they might try. Still, though." Killian shrugged. "If you do want to cross me, you're welcome to do it, if you really think that's wise. Otherwise, you'll get back on the Jolie now, and await further orders from myself and Captain Rackham."

More glances were exchanged. The moment hung from a tenuous thread. Killian had already been disastrously mutinied upon once before, after all, and he could well be inviting it again. But after a very long moment, slowly, his men – if grudgingly – did as ordered. They left off from their grisly work, climbed the ropes from the Halifax back onto the Jolie, and cut the lines loose, backing water. Without the Jolie's support, the smaller ship quickly began to list and veer, too damaged to sail but not quite ravaged enough to sink. It was there that it was left, as if for the fates to decide how to play with it. The Jolie put up her canvas again, taking the wind a few leagues south and east until they were well out of sight, and the night was dark and calm again.

Killian blew out a long, ragged breath, as Emma could feel both Jack and Anne watching them. She was unsure whether they concurred with the decision or not. Rackham was not innately bloodthirsty, preferring to talk his way out of tight corners rather than fight, and while Anne had no compunctions about doing whatever was necessary, she was not of a temperament for the unnecessary. All she said, however, was, "You sure of that? They tell someone, and we'll – "

"Their ship isn't going anywhere, and we're far enough away from Nassau that Rogers and his ilk will assume they're on their way to Antigua to warn Gold." Killian looked at her calmly. "I was not interested in being the justification for another massacre. The war does not hang on whether or not we killed them."

Anne considered this for a moment, still inscrutable. Then she jerked her head once and turned away, heading for the cabin, as Jack paused, then followed her. Killian and Emma themselves made their way down to a berth below, crawling in together with a mutual sigh of pain and devoutly grateful to stop moving. Fearful of hurting him further, but still wanting to be close to him, Emma nestled her head onto his chest, and he moved his hand up to stroke her hair. Into the quiet, she said, "You did the right thing."

"I did what was before me. No more. No less." He shifted with a sigh, looking up at the low ceiling. "I don't know if there's anything that's right any more."

Emma didn't answer, keeping her head on his chest, resting her hand on his stomach as if to be sure that he was still solid, had not been broken or dissolved in the ether. There was not much more either of them could manage in their respective enfeebled states, but they nuzzled together nonetheless, arms around each other, and fell asleep.

They were woken early the next morning by the sound of thumps and shouts and general industrious clamor from above, which briefly led them to fear that they had been boarded or ambushed unawares in the night, until they glanced out the porthole, saw the familiar shape of another ship, and then practically fell out of the berth in their haste to jump out and sprint topside. They emerged into a warm, salty summer morning, and thus saw possibly the most wonderful sight of their whole lives: the Whydah anchored alongside, and Sam Bellamy, deeply sun-browned and salt-lashed black hair spilling out of its untidy ponytail, leaning against the railing of the Jolie in intent conversation with Jack. At Killian and Emma's entrance, he looked up, then grinned. "Miss me, eh?"

Both of them rushed as fast as was physically possible across the boards, and he hugged them each with one arm, holding tightly. He kissed Emma's head, then Killian's, and stepped them back to have a proper look. "I heard what that bastard did to you, Killian. Are you – ?"

"Aye. Better now. Fine." Killian hugged him again. "Did you find Nolan? What's going on? Did Jack tell you about the idea with Lancelot and the others, that you could – "

"One thing at a time. Aye, I managed to cross paths with the Windsor, and – well." Sam pulled a wrinkled parchment out of his pocket, sealed with the golden wax and signet of Lord Robert Gold's personal correspondence. "David gave me this. Something he was supposed to carry for Gold, but. . .well. He was persuaded that I could make better use of it. He also apparently refused the posting to Nassau with the rest of the fleet, said he should most properly return to Boston and resume his station there. I don't know if he'll fight for us, but he won't fight against us."

Killian and Emma glanced at each other, as this was at least better news than the worst. The Windsor matched the Jolie in guns, after all, and could have given them considerable difficulty if David Nolan decided that no matter what, he was honor-bound to follow the Navy's orders. "What's the letter?" Killian said instead. "Have you had a look?"

"Aye. It makes no bloody sense – it's in some kind of cipher. Not surprising, since Gold knows his mail might be intercepted and read by anyone before it makes it to its destination. Have a crack, though, if you think you might be able to make some sense of it."

"I will at that," Killian said distractedly, taking the parchment as Sam handed it over. "Did you hear of what's. . . going on in Nassau? Aside from my misfortunes, that is?"

Sam's lips tightened. "Aye," he said again. "And that Vane gutted half of the Navy's power there, but there's still far too much left for comfort, and that Woodes Rogers has made himself a most dangerous enemy. As for the plan you mentioned with Lancelot, well, I'll need to speak with him. Could be we can pull something together, but it'll be dangerous."

"Not surprising, surely. On your sailing, have you. . . had any news of Charlestown?"

Sam hesitated. "Nothing definite," he said, after an uncomfortable moment. "There was a packet boat, though, we caught it up late last night, shortly before we ran across you. Said that Lord Peter Ashe had some pirate lord or other in his custody, and he meant to make an. . . example."

"Flint?" Emma said urgently. "Vane left just a few days ago, he can't have made it all the way to the Carolinas yet, unless he had a truly legendary wind at his back. Do they have Flint?"

"Christ, I hope not. But I was having a hard time thinking of who else it might be, and – wait. Did you say that Vane was going to Charlestown too? To save Flint, or kill him himself?"

"The former. I hope. We told him that the pirates had to join together, put aside old rivalries, that he needed to get to Flint and he was the only chance we had." Emma's stomach did an unpleasant somersault. "Did they say anything about a woman? Anything about Miranda?"

"No," Sam said. "Nothing."

"So they could still be alive, or they could both be dead." Killian's face was grim. "Or she's dead, and they're saving Flint for a spectacle. Jesus."

"Vane might be able to get to him in time," Emma said, more as an attempt to convince herself than anything. "But if Miranda – "

She stopped. She did not want to think about a world without Miranda, the one blow that she had always known that neither she nor Flint would be able to bear. That so soon after giving up her daughter, losing her mother as well was utterly, unthinkably, unfathomably cruel. "Miranda has to be all right," she said, in a sheer and simple statement that she rejected any circumstance whatsoever in which she wasn't. "She has to be."

Sam and Killian glanced at each other silently, as if trying to gird themselves, and her, for the fact that Miranda might well not be. Killian said, "Love – "

Emma shook her head, as if to say that she did not want to hear otherwise, and he stopped. A heavy silence hung over the three of them, until Killian cleared his throat. "I'll. . . have a look at this, then. Gold's letter."

They nodded distractedly, and he headed toward the cabin, limping, as Sam's eyes followed him with concern. "It was worse than he's letting on, wasn't it?"

"I – don't know exactly, Rogers and Jennings had him to themselves for most of the day, they threw me out." Emma swallowed, trying to fight the overwhelming sense of guilt that she should have done more, done better. "I don't think it was pleasant, though, no."

Sam crunched a fist and hit the deck railing. "So it's just trading off which one of us gets to be hurt the most by those bastards? Me, you, Killian, his brother, now Flint and Miranda? Bloody hell. I'm sorry you two had to go through that alone."

Emma put a hand on his arm. "I don't think it would have made much difference," she said quietly. "Killian didn't talk to protect you and the others. If you'd been there, they would just have hurt you too, and you've had enough, Sam. You've had enough."

He managed a lopsided smile. "I'd prefer to be hurt myself," he said. "Rather than letting it happen to either of you. That's easier to bear."

They stood there in silence for several moments, looking back toward the Whydah. Then Emma said, "How's Charlie?"

"Taking to the whole thing like a duck to water." Sam raised a dark eyebrow. "Natural, really. Still, I can't help but feel, doubtless like you, that a lad like him should have a better future than piracy – especially if Rogers is now hanging them by the wagonload. I tried to tell him he should go back to Virginia and resume his studies, but he doesn't want to hear it now. He's had a taste of this life, and he doesn't want to give it up."

Emma doubted that Charles Swan, invigorated by the thrilling experience of the very vocation he had once blamed her for partaking in, would be in any sort of temper to listen to his elder sister on this – the same paradox that Killian had faced in trying to call off the Jolie's men from butchering the Halifax, the seeming inevitability of stopping the turn of the wheel and the repetition of the cycle. Still, though, Killian had tried, so she supposed she could not do any less with Charlie, as soon as she got a chance. She started to say something else, then stopped.

"How are you?" Sam asked, softer. "After – everything?"

"I'm. . . I'm fine." Emma knew it sounded trite the instant it was out of her mouth, but even now, she didn't think she could face up to admitting the weight of everything. Of the small, dull, impossible pain of missing Henry and Geneva, sometimes ignored but never vanquished, and the way her body seemed to feel the lingering wound, slow to heal or bounce back or be like it was before, knowing it couldn't be. It was her turn to do her best brave smile for Sam. "Promise."

He raised the other eyebrow, but knew her too well to press for anything more. Instead, he put a hand over hers on the railing, squeezed hard, and they stood there like that, not speaking, until they were at length interrupted by the reemergence of a flustered-looking Killian. "Here," he said. "I might have found something."

Emma and Sam turned around to bend over the parchment with him. As promised, most of it was an elaborate, crabbed cipher that they had little chance of decoding without the key, but the part that had attracted Killian's interest was the small seal that Gold had inked at the bottom. It was a five-pointed star in a circle, with the Latin words camera stellata squeezed in tiny script around the boundary. Furthermore, the letter was addressed to a Mr Plouton, which sent a jolt like a lightning bolt through Emma. "Plouton – isn't that the man who – "

"Yes." Killian's lips were thin. "Gold's friend, the crooked assurance agent from Bristol. The one that Liam made that infernal bargain with for our freedom. Sink the Benjamin Gunn for him, and he'd pay off our bonds and commissions. He was there at Gold's mansion the night Liam and I were accused, when Jennings cut off my hand. So they're more than business partners profiting off the misery and desperation of others. They're fellow members in – this. Camera stellata. Star Chamber."

"Star Chamber?" Sam blinked. "As in the Court of Star Chamber? Can't be. It was disbanded. Over fifty years ago."

"Wasn't that the court started exactly in order to convict the rich and powerful of the crimes that a lower judiciary couldn't hold them to account for?" Emma was not well versed on English law, but that name was sufficiently infamous that it did not take an expert to recognize. "Isn't that an ironic organization for him to be a member of?"

"No," Sam said. "Given that the Star Chamber became, especially under the Stuarts, an entity unto itself that could arbitrarily destroy anyone it pleased, a vessel for the personal tyranny of the monarch. King Charles the First used it in the eleven years he ruled without Parliament, a good deal of the reason they chopped the bastard's head off and stuck Cromwell in there instead. As I said, though, it was disestablished by the Commonwealth – or it should have been. If Gold and Plouton have started it again, I doubt it answers either to King George or to the tattered, defeated remnants of the Jacobite cause."

"So this would be it, then." Killian looked almost feverish. "The answer to the question of who Gold is truly loyal to, and what he's doing all this for. It's not England, it's not the Jacobites, it's not Rogers and the army, it's not the Navy, or even the Spanish. It's none of that. It's a shadowy secret society that thought it had the power and the right to overthrow even the mightiest people in the world, and answer to nobody in doing it."

"Fitting," Sam muttered.

"Aye." Killian smoothed the parchment. "This is high treason. As Sam said, the Star Chamber was outlawed over half a century ago, and was well hated before it was. So we – what? Hand this over to Rogers as proof that he should be fighting Gold instead, order him deposed and dragged back to England in chains? I'm bloody well not going near him again."

"I could, then," Sam suggested. "If someone had to."

"No," Killian and Emma said together. "Absolutely not."

"Very well. I can't say I was terribly enthused by the idea either. I could give it back to David Nolan, though he might have set out for Boston already, but by the sound of things, I'm needed here to help Lancelot with rousing the slaves. Still. David is the only Navy captain with enough standing to make this accusation, the proven desire to listen to us, the power to arrest Gold, and get him back to London for trial. We need to tell him, not Rogers."

"Emma and I could go," Killian said slowly. "You stay here, Sam, with the Jolie, and we take the Whydah after David. If you'd agree, of course, but you'd need the firepower of the Jolie, and the Whydah's considerably faster. Where's Lord Archibald Hamilton, by the way?"

"He stayed on the Windsor. Found it a more congenial atmosphere than a pirate ship, even mine." Sam looked wry. "David isn't in a hurry to hand him in for being a Jacobite, so I suppose he sees it as his best option of winning back his position if this should all happen to blow over. I'd be willing to lend you the Whydah, aye, if that's what you want to do. But are you sure we shouldn't better stay here together, rather than splitting up again? Yes, if we can topple Gold, that's the head of the snake, but the battle here on Nassau – "

"If we don't topple Gold now, we might never have the chance again." Killian tightened his grip on the railing. "I hear you about not parting ways again so soon, believe me, but nothing is going to come of sitting on this, especially if David is still nearby. It can't be that long of a voyage to catch him up and give this back. Any news of what Blackbeard might have done to Antigua?"

"No. I caught the Windsor at sea, we didn't get near Antigua." Sam glanced at him. "Meaning that if Blackbeard managed to sack it after all, Gold might be dead anyway, without us having to run this risk? Could be, but I doubt it. There were several ships left behind to guard it – the Navy is going to take absolutely no chances with a second incident like yours. If anything, Blackbeard could have sailed into a trap, expecting easy pickings, and met them all waiting for him."

"Shit." Killian ran a hand through his hair. "So that's it, then? A quick voyage to overtake Nolan, hand this off, and then we return here. If Flint and Miranda don' t – " He stopped. "Well. We'll have to fight with the two of us, then. It's all we can do."

"I suppose." Sam didn't look particularly more enthused, but also couldn't demur. "All right. I'll take you over to the Whydah and inform them of the arrangement. No sense, I suppose, in wasting time."

That part, at least, was more or less straightforward. Killian and Emma boarded the Whydah, checked the charts against the last position where Sam said he and David had crossed paths, and determined they could most likely make it, assuming the wind cooperated, in a day or two. Sam, meanwhile, would stay with Jack and Anne on the Jolie, and confer with Lancelot as to whether there was any possibility of making contact with the slaves in the interior. It was far from a perfect plan, but it was the best they had, and now that it was decided on, they did not want to waste time dithering. With a final warning to the other to be careful, as if that would make any real difference, they raised canvas and set out.

The Whydah's crew knew their business, and did not need Killian and Emma breathing down their necks, so they gracefully retired. Emma went to talk to Charlie and Killian went into the cabin, more thankful than he wanted to admit to lie down on the bed and not move. He ached all over, pummeled and bruised and raw, and as much as he had done his best not to make Emma and Sam worry, he still felt as if he might abruptly fly apart if a single thread snapped. It hurt to breathe too deeply, it hurt to close his eyes. He couldn't pay undue heed to his own suffering when so much else was at stake, not yet, and he was still not convinced that he did not deserve it. The offenses on his account remained well outstanding, and what he had done last night was not, to his mind, terribly efficacious in settling the debt. There was still too much. Too much.

Killian dozed uneasily, too uncomfortable to slip under into real sleep, as the day whiled interminably away. They sailed hard, making up time on a strong nor'western, and as the Whydah was also faster than the Windsor, it seemed reasonably likely that they could overtake her soon if she was still bound for Boston. At some point he heard Emma come in, and wondered if he should wake up to talk to her, but that likewise seemed a considerable difficulty. She lay down next to him, quietly so as not to disturb him, and it crossed his mind to wonder if he should ask her to marry him. There was, as Blackbeard had asked him once, no chance he would meet someone he liked better, they already had a daughter, and perhaps Emma would want that, that promise, for whatever it could be worth. But they had watched Flint and Miranda married a few weeks ago, then promptly thrown into the maelstrom of Peter Ashe's betrayal, and there was no surety that either of them were still alive. Asking Emma, with that as a precedent, and Killian's own sense that he was nowhere near through atoning for his crimes and could not presume to have such happiness until he was, seemed more like a curse than a blessing.

Eventually, sheer exhaustion must have dragged him under like a boulder around his ankle, because he woke in darkness with someone knocking on the door. "Captains? We think we've sighted the Windsor. You'll be needed."

Gritty-eyed and sore to the bone, but at least devoutly grateful that something had bloody worked right for once, Killian pried himself upright with a tremendous effort of will. Emma sat up beside him, yawning and tousled, and he smiled at her quickly, leaning in to kiss her cheek, before they made themselves more or less presentable and trudged out onto the deck. The night was clear, calm, and lucent with stars, and when he peered through the spyglass and agreed that it was indeed the Windsor, the crew moved to hail her. Killian thought of his last encounter with a Navy vessel, the sight of the burning Halifax and the men dangling in the rigging, and grimaced, pushing it away. He'd better bloody hope David Nolan did not know about that, or he might lose whatever slender tether of loyalty was binding him to assist, or at least not openly hinder, the pirates' cause. Most of it must be because of Sam, anyway.

In either case, it was time for the moment of truth. As David appeared on the Windsor's deck, somewhat confused to see the Whydah again and clearly expecting Sam, Killian stepped forward instead. "Captain Nolan?"

David blinked. "Killian Jones?"

"Aye. We've come to return something to you. You gave it to Sam the other day, and I, well, I had a look at it. If you can put off going back to Boston, there's something for you to do." Killian dug in his coat and produced Gold's letter. He was aware that this was a fairly thin piece of evidence on its own, but David could swear that Gold had handed it to him personally, and given the Star Chamber's notorious association with the Stuarts, and flagrant despotism and abuse of power, the Hanover regime would not require much more proof of duplicity. "This?"

"I gave that to Sam, yes." David looked wary. "Did you get anything out of it?"

"I did. That's this." Killian removed a second piece of folded parchment, in which he had written out as much of an indictment and explanation of Gold's crimes as he could. The English authorities would care more about the possibility of association with the Jacobites, but even as venal and corrupt as the system might be, it would not stand for everything Gold (and Plouton)had done in the name of seizing power, wealth, and absolute authority for themselves. If David could just get this to Antigua, it meant the end of Lord Robert Gold at long bloody last, and Killian could do nothing more than pray that he would, at this final juncture, be willing.

David considered him for a moment. Then he said, "We picked up a ship's boat earlier. Survivors from a frigate attacked last night, so they said, by pirates. HMS Halifax. Do you know of them?"

Killian hesitated only briefly. "Yes. The Jolie Rouge attacked – we attacked them. The men. . . treated the captured Halifax sailors dishonorably, and in my name. I have no excuses."

"It was a Lieutenant Arthur Geoffrey who had command." David was still looking at him closely. "He said that you ordered them to stop."

"I. . ." Killian wasn't sure if this was a trap or not, but nor could he lie. "I did, yes."

"Even though there had been pirates hanged on Nassau by Governor Rogers?"

"When we were in Antigua, and you approached us to offer a bargain in saving Sam," Killian said. "You requested that we not destroy St. John's, and so we – Sam, Flint, and I – prevented Vane and Blackbeard from it. I have not changed my mind so much, between then and now, that I am any more eager to return to my old habits. I do not ask for praise, believe me. I know it is barely sufficient. But please. Take the letter to Antigua. Whether or not you care for me."

"Lieutenant Geoffrey was surprised, in fact. That you would." David continued to look at him. "He had been assured that Captain Hook was a monster, and indeed when his vessel fell under the Jolie Rouge's attack, saw every reason to believe it so. So to hear this is. . . not what we expected, admittedly. Sam trusts you, as well. I admit I am not entirely sure why, but he does."

"I know it's a good deal I'm asking of you," Killian admitted. "But Gold's a traitor no matter what creed either of us believe in, and I know you're not afraid of standing up to defy the Admiralty, to do what is right no matter what the law says. You did it to save Sam from Hume, and you did it again on Antigua to help us save him. I know you're a good man. I don't know what I am, but if you don't help us, no one else can."

"For a. . . for a pirate." David smiled wanly. "You've grown on me a bit, I suppose." He hesitated an instant longer, then said, "Fine. I'll take the letter."

Killian let out a barely-muffled heave of relief. "Thank you."

David nodded. It seemed as if there was something else he wanted to say, however, and after a moment he finally said, half in a rush, "Your cause. Your. . . I suppose they must be your friends. That was the other news we had. About Charlestown."

Killian distinctly felt his heart skip a beat. "What? What about Charlestown?"

"I'm sorry." David, at last, could no longer quite hold his gaze. "They had Captain Flint prisoner. They – well, I don't know what happened exactly, but it's so. He and his wife are dead."

Liam Jones had not intended to sail for Charlestown. Indeed, it was the last place he had ever planned to go anywhere near, well aware of what was about to befall it and not wanting any delay in reaching Paris, and safety. He also saw no reason to test the veracity of his pardon while they were still anywhere close to someone who could dispute it, and wanted to be far away from the Caribbean, and the Americas in general, before the hammer fell. And indeed, they had made it several days out, doing as well as could be expected given the circumstances, before the wind had abruptly turned contrary, stalled or slacked, and left them in the doldrums for several more. Liam was edgy, as he did not want Geneva fed from the nanny-goat longer than she had to be. The best thing to do, after all, was to engage a human wet nurse for her as soon as possible, and if the goat stopped giving milk before then, it would be, clearly, a dangerous situation. At least the weather had more or less held up, but they needed bloody wind.

Still. Charlestown had not figured in any way in his calculations, and likely never would, if it was not for the tender ship that had crossed their path the other evening. They were not far off from Bermuda, which lay almost directly due east of the Carolinas in the Atlantic, when they spotted it. Tenders were supply ships usually found close to harbors and ports, not intended for sustained open-sea travel, and that was why this one caught Liam's attention. He frowned, ordered her to be hailed, and when they had drawn near enough for conversation, noted that the ship looked as if it had been driven pell-mell away from – well, something terrible, as fast as humanely possible. The captain likewise only insisted that he had no choice, he had to get away. "Pirates. Pirates burned it. Killed Lord Peter Ashe, sacked it, would have done God knows what other horrible things to me and my men if we hadn't fled! Madness. Madness!"

"Charlestown was sacked?" Liam was certain he could not be hearing correctly. "By who?"

"There was one Ashe had prisoner – Flint, I think – and then another turned up. Some bleeding madman called Vane. They took the city to pieces, between them. Not sure which of them killed Ashe, but one of them did. Sailed away only once the lot of it was on fire."

"Charlestown." Liam knew he sounded foolish repeating it, but he was staggered. He hadn't precisely expected Flint to sail in and make fond reparations with his old friend Ashe, magnanimously forgive him for the betrayal, but something on this scale suggested that the calamity was far greater than anyone had planned for. "Did you hear anything about a woman? Miranda Barlow? She would have been with Flint."

The captain gave him a very strange look, as clearly the proper response was not to ask about whichever harlot the pirate had with him, but to commiserate about the ordeal they had suffered and agree that the outrage was indefensible. "No idea. Heard there was a woman shot in the Governor's house, aye, but couldn't say who. We weren't interested in waiting about for details, not when the bloody place was burning to the ground."

Liam and Regina exchanged a long and troubled look. Neither of them were certain how to ask for more details, which the captain clearly did not possess, without giving away their position on the whole thing. Once the two ships had drawn apart, Regina said, low-voiced, "He could be mistaken. About her."

"He could be." Liam grimaced. "I don't know that we should wager that he is."

Regina's lips went thin. She would never admit out loud to caring about anyone, but Liam could see well enough that she was worried about Miranda. He felt the same, as the two of them had not survived Jamaica, Jennings, storm, shipwreck, and being set adrift with her only to feel that this was any sort of just ending for her. If she was already dead, there was of course nothing they could do, but Liam was not altogether sure that they could simply sail away without knowing for certain. He knew as well that Miranda and Emma were very close, and that as this was Geneva's grandmother for all intents and purposes, they still had a duty to their family. He looked at Regina again. "Is there any way it would be worth it?"

She glanced down. "Geneva isn't feeding well from the goat's milk," she said after a moment. "It's keeping her alive, but she isn't gaining weight or growing, and she cries half the time. She still could get to Paris if the wind cooperated, but. . . if nothing else, there would be a wet nurse in Charlestown. It wouldn't be that long of a voyage from here."

"Aye." Liam had certainly noticed the baby's inconsolable crying, as had most of the ship; it was not that large, after all, and it was hard to shut the noise out. "But if it's been sacked, it can't be terribly safe. Or – "

"If it already has been sacked," Regina pointed out, with a certain acerbic edge in her voice, "there's hardly very much that anyone can do to it again, can they? You could pull off one of your usual heroic actions and rescue some poor woman who needs to get away from the city and can provide milk for a newborn as payment. And at least know what happened for certain, instead of relying on whatever he's telling us. Or if not." She shrugged. "By all means."

Liam gave her a cold look. The two of them had grown decidedly fond of each other in a way that went much deeper than mere sex, but he knew that meant that if for any reason he decided against it, Regina would bash him over the head, tie him in the hold, and ensure they went anyway. This seemed an easier way for all concerned, and he was not sure any of them wanted to risk a crossing without being sure of Geneva's welfare. "Very well," he said at last. "We'll go."

That was how, therefore, he found himself making bearings for Charlestown, against all odds. The Jolly Roger was fast and light, and the wind, as if in a sign that they were indeed supposed to be going in one direction and not the other, strong at their backs, which sped the journey. It was clear as well that Geneva had all but stopped taking the goat's milk, which sharpened the urgency to make it in haste, and Liam worried himself to distraction about what he could remotely tell Killian and Emma if their daughter died in his care. It was, therefore, with something perversely close to relief that he finally breathed the first distinct whiff of soot and smoke and char in the wind, drew around the headland, and beheld the scorched and scarred waterfront of Charlestown. It was as comprehensively destroyed as Kingston had been, when he and Regina had arrived there on their search for Killian the first time.

"Jesus," Liam muttered reflexively. Flint and Vane had undoubtedly been very thorough and very angry, and after a brief discussion, he, Regina, and Will decided to risk rowing ashore. Will would find a wet nurse and bring her back to the ship with all dispatch, while Liam and Regina would do their best to sort truth from rumor. The sun was going down as they launched the boat, made it across the harbor inlet, and dragged it up on the sand. It was heaped with broken planks, fallen stone, and rotting bodies. The smell was like a punch in the face.

Will, gagging slightly, pulled his shirt up to breathe through the fabric, not that that did much to help, and hurried up toward the city, while Liam and Regina did their best to start combing through the wreckage. They didn't want to find Miranda here, or anywhere in this abattoir, but now that they were here, they could not leave without knowing for certain. It was quickly getting dark, so they lit a torch and Regina held it overhead while Liam dug through the mess. It looked as if this was where the citizens had dragged out the snapped debris and detritus from the burned streets, and whatever corpses had not been claimed for proper Christian burial. Liam's gorge rose in his throat as he kept working. Hopefully Will had had better luck than they had, would have found –

Oh, bloody hell.

He shifted aside a shattered heap of rubble, and his breath shriveled in his throat.

Miranda had been shot glancingly along the skull, as if someone had been aiming for the middle of her forehead, but she had been shoved aside in just the nick of time. The blood was crusted and red-brown down her face and shoulder, and her dress was filthy, stained with rubbish and offal, as if people had thrown things at her. Perhaps her body had been carried out for triumphant display, to prove that this was what became of pirates and those who fraternized with them, and both Liam and Regina uttered small, choked sounds at the sight of her. She certainly looked quite dead, but on some mad whim, Liam held the buckle of his sword close to her lips, hoping to see a mist. Nothing.

"Come on," he muttered, pushing Miranda's hair aside to inspect the wound. It was serious, but he couldn't conclude decisively that it had been fatal. She hadn't started to rot either, so there had to be some tiny spark left, somewhere. Maybe. Maybe. He found himself whirling on Regina. "Your vodou medicines, your potions. Whatever the Maroons did to me – they saved me, I was as good as dead too, and they did some ritual to bring me back, when Killian went down and pulled me out. You have something, you can do that. Can't you?"

"I don't – " Regina looked shaken. "I'm not sure."

"Miranda survived being shot once before, when it should have killed her. Asleep, but alive, for weeks." Liam was, as well-attested, extremely stubborn. "Didn't she?"

"As far as I know, yes, but – "

"We have to try. We have to try." Liam shouldered aside the wreckage and lifted Miranda carefully in his arms; she was as light and insubstantial as a wraith. "Come on."

They made it back out to the Jolly, whereupon they reconnoitered with Will, who had in fact just returned with a wet nurse. Geneva was suckling vigorously, since the poor child had after all been more or less slowly starving, and with a hearty sigh of relief, Liam kicked open the cabin door and carried Miranda inside. Regina fetched her potions and drugs, which he had been extremely dubious of when she thought she could control Jennings with them, but were the only hope they presently had. She burned something in a bowl, which filled the cabin with soporific, stupefying smoke and made Liam think he heard bells, then muttered something under her breath, concentrating intensely. He wasn't quite sure that this was how Merlin and the Maroons had done it, but then, he had been unconscious for most of that, so he wasn't exactly in a place to judge. And he wouldn't quibble with bloody anything, if it worked.

This went on well into the night. Regina had tried everything she could think of, in some cases twice, and still nothing. At last she sat back on her heels, flushed and upset, hair falling in her face. "I can't do anything else. I – I'm sorry, Liam. I think she's gone."

Liam passed a hand over his face, telling himself that he could at least comfort himself, however coldly, with the knowledge that they had done everything they could. But he still did not want, could not simply take this as an answer. "Killian saved me! It's possible!"

"It might be," Regina said. "But I'm not Merlin. I don't know everything he does. I doubt she's make it on a return voyage to the Maroons' island, or that they would necessarily agree to another full vodou ritual. It's difficult, and it's dangerous. Or – "

At that moment, a slight wind passed through the cabin, though the windows were closed, making the candles flicker and gutter. It was cool and sourceless and strange, and it made Liam think, briefly and incongruously, of drums. He blinked as if only just waking up, had to check to see if he was still standing and not lying down, not sleeping. He glanced at Regina to see if she had felt it, and found her looking just as unsettled. "What was that?"

"I don't know." Regina swept her tangled hair out of her eyes. "I wouldn't be surprised if this place is swarming with ghosts. Or worse things."

Liam wasn't sure how to respond to that, as the practical, logical, rational side of him wanted to insist that there was no such thing as ghosts, but given that he had some experience with vodou magic and indeed owed his life to it, he supposed he shouldn't be too hasty in throwing those particular stones. He opened his mouth, but didn't remember what he was going to say. He was interrupted instead by a harried knock on the door. "Captain. Captain!"

He turned with a start. "Aye?"

One of the crewmen ducked inside. "Captain. We've spotted a ship."

"Flint? Vane?" Liam hoped they weren't returning with the intention of making another pass over the flattened city, though if it was Flint, he could at least – well, he wasn't sure. It didn't seem particularly well-omened in any case. "Or no, not a pirate. Someone sent to examine the damage? See how bad it is, report back?"

"Aye. Imagine so."

"Who?"

Instead of answering, the man simply stared at him, with an utterly foreboding expression.

"Oh," Liam Jones said. "Fucking hell."