"Jesus," came an annoyed grumble when Steve neared the entrance to the fort.
He turned and was not altogether surprised to find the Wheeler family carriage prepared and waiting elegantly. Mike Wheeler stood petulantly, well away from the party, with hands jammed into the pockets of his coat, a finer one than Steve usually saw him wear, given the special occasion. He'd gotten taller in the years since they sailed across the Atlantic on the Tigress, nearly reaching Steve's height, though the lankiness in his limbs hinted at another growth spurt in his future.
Now, Mike's eyebrows were high on his forehead, and he surveyed Steve with a judgmental curl to his lip.
Steve refused to let this moody teen make him feel self-conscious of his oddly dried hair and lack of hat, coat, and wig. Instead, he smiled and held his shoulders straight. "Mike."
Mike rolled his eyes at the familiarity of his greeting. They'd shared something that morning on the Tigress with Jane, but the kid never liked bestowing kindness when it came to Steve, for some reason.
"Commodore," Mike drawled back. "Heard you saved my sister's life. That was good of you."
"She's okay then?" Steve asked, stepping close to Mike in his eagerness to hear his response.
"Yes, I suppose," Mike said, wrinkling his nose. "Are you?"
"Yes, I suppose," Steve echoed, feeling primarily a wave of dizzying relief. Though he spared a brief thought to the throbbing at the back of his head where he struck it against a rock, the burn in his throat from inhaled salt water, the sharp ache in his legs that bore the brunt of his fall, and the ever-present chill coursing through his veins.
Mike scowled. "You're bleeding."
Steve blinked, and Mike gestured to the back of his neck. Steve swiped a hand across the clammy skin there, and his fingers came away bright red.
"So I am," Steve declared drily.
"Commodore!"
Steve hastily wiped the mess on his hand on the back of his trousers and turned in time to see a striking, middle-aged woman striding toward him, eyes wide with concern. They were a familiar shade of blue, and she moved with a purpose that mirrored her eldest daughter's. She was not at all slowed down by the toddler perched on her hip. Steve ducked into a bow, but Mrs. Karen Wheeler tutted sternly.
"Do get up, please, don't strain yourself," Mrs. Wheeler said. A young woman with short sandy hair materialized, and Mrs. Wheeler handed off her youngest child Holly to her without looking away from Steve. The governess accepted the kid somewhat awkwardly, aiming a judgemental squint toward Steve before disappearing into the carriage.
"Our family can never thank you enough for saving Nancy like that," Mrs. Wheeler continued in a strained voice. "We will never forget this."
"No, we will not," said Governor Wheeler, appearing at his wife's side. His tone was far less grave than Mrs. Wheeler's, he and had time to sniff in disapproval as he surveyed Steve's disheveled appearance.
But Steve's attention was fixed on the slim figure behind him. "Nancy," he breathed, drawing close to her.
At his approach, Nancy winced, a blush touching her cheeks. But she stood as straight as she normally did with no sign of her earlier respiratory difficulty. She wore a naval coat over her shoulders – borrowed from someone at the reception no doubt. It all but swallowed her thin frame, and Steve had a sudden, aching pang that it was not his own coat draped around her. But he wouldn't dream of subjecting Nancy to the wretched beast he'd worn that morning that now called the bottom of the harbor its home.
"Steve," Nancy greeted, and it was all Steve could do to remember his propriety and resist taking hold of her hand in clear view of her parents.
"You're all right?" Steve had to check.
"I am," Nancy frowned. "My dress was ill-fitting. With the wardrobe concern sorted, I'm very well now. But you, Steve, are you all right? With the rocks, well… I'm beyond relieved to see you on your feet."
"We were both lucky today," Steve responded, not about to dredge up his pirate rescuer or the resulting ongoing manhunt. "About, uh, about our conversation—"
"I know what you intended to propose," Nancy interrupted. There was a small smile on her face, but it didn't reach her eyes. "And I know you desire a response. But I must beg some time to… recover from today's events. I will give you an answer soon, I swear it."
"I completely understand," Steve told her. But there was sharp sting in his chest that she was not accepting his marriage proposal straight away. "Please take all the time you need. I meant what I said. And I'd cede every recess you ask of me if it meant we may share a lifetime together."
Nancy's smile remained unchanged. "Thank you. For this, for my life, for everything."
"Any time," Steve said.
And then Governor Wheeler was shepherding his family into the carriage and shutting them inside. He waved them off and then sauntered over to Steve.
"You're more than amenable as a match for my daughter," Mr. Wheeler said. "I considered it the moment I met you, you know. But today's events prove it beyond measure. You'll make a fine son-in-law, Commodore. Now if you'll just gussy up, we can continue to celebrate your many achievements, eh?"
Steve swallowed, a number of emotions welling around the salty scorching in his throat. He blinked down at his ruined ceremonial clothing. "Yes, sir. I'll stop by my quarters and rejoin you shortly."
"There's a good lad," the governor said, slapping a hand on Steve's shoulder. And even though he withdrew the touch as quickly as it came, clenching his fist like he regretted the contact with such waterlogged filth, Steve could feel the warmth of his palm overriding the icy seawater that still lingered in his core.
Steve navigated the corridors of the fort's interior, avoiding the masses of people gathered for the reception with the expertise garnered from three years of calling those solemn stone walls his home. When he wasn't at sea, anyway. He requested food, water, and a hot bath from the steward and retired to his bedroom. He shut the door behind him and lay gently on his cot. With weight off of his weary limbs, he felt his adrenaline and terror and strain all crash at once, anchoring him heavily to the bed.
There was no way in hell he'd rejoin his party. And he couldn't fathom caring about what his absence would mean to the starchy, prissy prigs he'd left behind. Eventually, the steward dropped off his requested items, and Steve dragged himself toward the steaming tub lugged into the center of his room.
He shed what remained of his attire delicately, hissing at the burn in his thighs as he stepped out of his trouser legs. Reddish splotches marred the back his calves from his heels to the crease of his knee which were certain to purple into bruises soon. And his shirt bore a long scarlet stain down the back from his head wound that thankfully stopped bleeding of its own accord. When the heat of the awaiting tub ghosted over his bare skin, he shivered ceaselessly until he collapsed into the hot water.
Steve sat, absorbing the warmth for a long time before his hands moved to clean himself robotically. He felt marginally less sore by the time he pulled himself out of the water, toweled off, and tugged on his underclothes. And then a messenger brought news of Eddie Munson.
The pirate was apprehended at the blacksmith's shop and taken to the jail at the fort where he awaited sentencing. The messenger applauded the assistance of the blacksmith, a notoriously nocturnal drunk named O'Bannon, but Steve had a feeling the real effort in detaining their man came from Jonathan Byers, the blacksmith's apprentice, considering the daylight streaming into his room and the fact that Jonathan was irritatingly capable of handling himself. For a civilian.
Steve told himself, not for the first time, that the prickle of annoyance in his belly when thinking of the guy had nothing to do with Jonathan's amiable friendship with Nancy. He shook his head to dismiss the sentiment and focused on dressing in more than just his pajamas. There was a prisoner he needed to speak with now.
Steve knew he should leave it alone – Eddie Munson's fate was in the judge's hands now. The navy – the commodore – had done their part in pursuing justice. But the man saved his life. And now Steve cannot return the favor. He tried, sure, but Steve wasn't naïve enough to think that equated to a job well done. He had no idea what he'd say to this man, but still, he checked his reflection in his everyday naval uniform, adjusted his wig, and left his quarters.
Steve didn't encounter anyone on his way to the dungeon since the reception was purposely held far from their detained criminals. From the reduction of the rambunctious sounds of merrymaking, he guessed the party was dwindling down anyway.
He greeted the guard on duty atop the stairwell that descended into the dungeon with a firm nod. The guard startled at his appearance, stumbling to stand at attention, but he didn't ask questions as Steve passed him and descended into the dank and dim space below.
Low voices snapped to silence as Steve's boots clicked against the stone steps to announce his presence. A torch illuminated the bottom of the staircase, but Steve left the sconce alone as he absconded down the corridor. Enough sunlight trickled out of the cells to illuminate his path. An empty stone wall barricaded the right side of the pathway, and the three holding cells with their sturdy cast-iron bars lay along the left.
Three men gazed in wordless surprise as Steve passed the first cell – thieves the civilian law enforcement picked up and handed over to the navy for judgement. The third cell tended to remain open until nightfall, when Constable Hopper collected the town's disorderly drunkards and let them sleep off their intoxication on the stone floor of the prison rather than in a trash heap in Hawkins.
It was the second cell that commanded Steve's attention, that brought Steve to a halt in front of its solid bullion bars. There was a man lying flat on his back on the hard ground, legs sprawled idly, hands folded across his stomach, thick silver rings on display on his interlocking fingers. A halo of long black hair fanned around his head, and a weathered tricorn hat covered his face.
As if feeling the weight of Steve's stare, the man pushed himself partially upright with his forearms, flicked the point of his hat back into a proper position over his hair, and peered through the bars. Steve stepped forward to ensure he wasn't shrouded in shadow, and Eddie Munson's face tightened in displeased recognition.
"A visit from the commodore," Eddie said, tilting his head. "To what do I owe the privilege?"
"I've heard of you, you know," Steve said, apropos of nothing.
Eddie sat up fully, smiling wryly. "Have you now?"
"Eddie Munson, formerly employed with the East India Trading Company, took over a ship on his own, absconded with the entirety of the cargo aboard, and embarked on years of uninterrupted, greed-driven piracy across the Caribbean, only to vanish, never to be heard of until today."
Eddie spread his arms wide, grin broadening, though it more closely resembled a rabid dog baring its teeth in warning. "The one and only."
"The rumors pegged you for a dead man," Steve continued. "Yet here you sit. Why not take your spoils and retire on some remote beach in Indochina, anywhere in the world, and stay missing?"
"I got bored," Eddie replied tersely. He waved a dismissive hand around his cell. "Bit of a moot point now anyway. I'll soon be as dead as everyone hoped."
Steve should say something here. Something that would somehow make them both feel better that Eddie had saved his life, and Steve couldn't do the same in return. Not without committing treason and signing himself up for the gallows, anyway. But the words didn't come, he could only stare at the man through iron bars. There wasn't much daylight left, especially not beyond the east-facing window of the cell, and the engulfing shadows made Eddie's eyes that much darker. Steve couldn't look away.
After a while, Eddie aimed a scowl at the stone floor. "Don't look at me like that. I know what you attempted on my behalf. But you can rest easy. I'm guilty of the crimes they'll hang me with. That relieves you of whatever debate on honor or debt is bouncing around under that wig of yours. You did your job, Harrington."
The absence of his proper title. The touch of venom that shrouded his name as Eddie all but spat it through his teeth. It was insolent. Provocative. Sure, Steve was usually called worse things than his own surname by the pirates he encountered. But Eddie was throwing his sense of self back in Steve's face like he knew the painful family history that came with it and relished in the prickling he wrought.
Eddie didn't know, though – he couldn't – and Steve found himself curiously lacking the anger Eddie was trying to stoke. Or maybe he wasn't trying to rile Steve up after all, because Eddie was looking at him again with a smirk that was more mischief than malice.
"That doesn't mean I'll rest easy, though," Eddie continued. "There's a near certainty my spirit will haunt you for all of eternity, stalking you across all seven seas."
"That'll do little to relieve your boredom, I'm afraid," Steve said. "A commodore generally commands ships from afar, from this very fort. You don't want to be run aground with me."
Eddie collapsed back on the floor with a dramatic groan and proceeded to make a series retching noises to illustrate his disgust on the matter. Steve fought to keep his amusement from showing on his face. Then Eddie sat up again with a heavy sigh and studied Steve for a long moment.
"You don't want to be run aground either," Eddie concluded.
It wasn't a question. Which was a relief because Steve didn't know how to respond. But Steve's comfort wasn't Eddie's priority, because Eddie's face sobered, and he asked a question after all. "What are you doing here, Harrington?"
Steve swallowed, but someone else crooned a response. "Granting pardons, are ye, Commodore? Any way to get one o' them without sucking ye off? Only I amn't a queer like yer man there."
Steve didn't spare a glance toward the jeering thief – all dropped Ts in his rough accent – in the next cell or his snickering comrades. He'd forgotten he and Eddie had an audience, honestly. But he watched a minute twitch in Eddie's jaw at the jab and wondered if it struck home for the man.
"Were I a governor, we would be having a different conversation," Steve admitted in a low voice meant for only Eddie's ears. His new position came with a great deal of power, but not to pardon crimes. And even if Governor Wheeler was amenable to negotiating the freedom of a pirate, those deals came with conditions that few pirates deigned to agree to.
Eddie's eyes widened in surprise, but they narrowed only a beat later. His voice was hard when he answered. "No, we wouldn't."
He wasn't quite sure what Eddie's exact objection was, but Steve was certain he'd put his foot in it somewhere. He ached to salvage the conversation, what would need to be their final interaction, lest his soldiers render him as lenient when it came to crime. Such a reputation could end his career before it started. But Steve feared any efforts to keep speaking to Eddie would only sour the situation further.
With great reluctance, Steve nodded and prepared to take his leave. "For however long I've left in this life, I'll remember it was you who granted it to me."
That startled a laugh out of the pirate. "Not God and His mercy?"
Steve smiled. "You won't get me locked up beside you for blasphemy today. A valiant effort though, I commend you."
"A man can try," Eddie shrugged with a lazy smirk.
Incorrigible, Steve thought to himself. He hardly noticed the softness in those dark eyes until it faded into something sad. Steve squared his shoulders and took in one last glimpse of Eddie Munson. Nimble, ring-laden fingers tapping idly on his thighs. A pale stretch of neck elongated by his unbuttoned tunic that still teased that black lining of a tattoo below his collarbone. Ebony waves of hair that cascaded past his shoulders. And those eyes – little voids swallowing up the universe. A part of Steve longed to let them happily devour him.
"Goodbye, Munson," Steve said after what might have been an eternity.
"Goodbye, Harrington," Eddie said. And that was it.
Steve left, head held high, feet moving on muscle memory alone. He didn't look back, though the temptation itched in his spine. He half-heartedly returned the salute the guard atop the staircase threw him, and he barely realized he'd returned to his quarters until he'd shut himself inside.
With a series of closed doors and twisting corridors separating him from Eddie, Steve found it easier to blink back into himself. To shake off whatever spell this pirate seemed to hold over him. Eddie Munson was not Steve's problem. Defending Fort Hawkins and the citizens residing in the village was Steve's problem. In the morning, he'd have reports to read, a fleet of ships to examine, letters to respond to. And then there was Nancy Wheeler, occupying a distinct corner of his heart, which bled profusely the longer she delayed her response to his proposal.
But these matters could wait until dawn. He glanced out of his window – not barred like the one in Eddie's cell – and spotted only a stubborn ray or two of sunlight left resisting the night. His body ached for unconsciousness, and Steve deemed it late enough to surrender to that desire.
He'd be grateful for the early retirement when he was roused mere hours later by booming cannon fire.
... ... ...
"This reeks of sexual frustration, mate. Seriously, just man up and court whatever bird's got your brain so twisted. It's embarrassing."
The pirate's taunts from that afternoon echoed in Jonathan's mind as he left O'Bannon's shop. The blacksmith was crankier than usual, since the swordfight Jonathan had started to entrap the pirate that he'd discovered hiding in the shop had woken the old drunk from his blackout slumber.
Jonathan supposed he owed the fool his life, since O'Bannon had smashed his empty whiskey bottle over the pirate's head precisely when Jonathan had been disarmed and refused to move away from the door, and the pirate had aimed his pistol at him.
Jonathan suspected he hadn't intended to shoot him, really. The man had grimaced in annoyance, pleading for Jonathan to step aside, before admitting, "This shot is not meant for you."
Jonathan didn't get clarification on that because O'Bannon had struck at that moment, and then the door burst open to reveal Constable Hopper and a hoard of soldiers. They'd collected the unconscious pirate and marched away, clapping jovial hands on the blacksmith's back as they left. Jonathan had only rolled his eyes and returned to his work.
But he didn't forget the pirate's easy analysis of him. It dimmed the satisfaction that Jonathan had held his own with a real pirate… for a good six minutes. Until the pirate had run out of patience and drawn his gun.
Jonathan had argued against the pirate's assessment at the time by claiming someone needed to test all the swords he made in the shop. But there was a "bird" wrecking his head. One whose hand he'd never win, no matter how many pirates he trounced.
The fact remained: Nancy Wheeler, the governor's daughter, was never going to be allowed to marry a commoner like Jonathan Byers.
Not even if, as Jonathan hoped beyond measure, she wanted to. Ever since she arrived in Hawkins with her family, she was not content to confine herself to the Wheeler mansion. She accompanied the house staff, usually her red-headed attendant Barbara, on errands around town. And he couldn't help but suspect she sought him out purposefully, timed her trips to the general store to ensure she'd arrive at the same time Jonathan was assisting his mother there.
Nancy spoke with an unrepentant intelligence that Jonathan didn't always follow, but he adored the voyage of her speech. Her eyes took in everything, and Jonathan felt it for the gift it was when he earned their focus. And her smiles, teasing and sweet and knowing – Jonathan wanted nothing more than to be the reason those lips curved upward. And in increasing frequency, he was.
Then Harrington's promotion was announced, and Jonathan saw the writing on the wall. That pompous prig in a wig – with his effortless stride and the way the world assembled in just the manner he preferred with a snap of his fingers – this entitled asshole was going to be around more. He was going to propose to Nancy. And she was going to accept. That was how the world worked.
Then there'd be no more quickening heartbeats over exchanged pleasantries across the shop counter. No shared laughter over tales of their younger siblings' antics. No lingering touches between palms as she pressed money into his hand and he delivered her change in return. Jonathan would lose her for good.
And if he exorcised that sour feeling in his gut with extra thrashings of his newly crafted swords against a straw dummy, that was for him alone to know. And absolutely no business of some frizzy-haired pirate.
Only yesterday, Jonathan had offered to show Nancy some newly imported spices in the back of his mother's store. She accepted the opportunity to be alone with him gladly, and they both ignored Barbara's disapproving frown as Jonathan led her to the storeroom and shut the door behind them.
"New spices?" Nancy asked wryly, one eyebrow raised.
Jonathan shrugged at that. "It's not a spice. And it's not new. But I do have something to show you."
He could feel Nancy's sharply curious eyes on him as he fetched a small bag the size of his palm and dumped its contents into his waiting hand. He returned to her side, offering out a golden medallion looped on a cheap black cord. It bore a carving of a nightmarish, toothy skull and a large X.
She gasped. "A pirate medallion?" Nancy kept her voice low, knowing the gravity of Jonathan possessing a trinket like this. "Where did this come from?"
"I've had it for years," Jonathan admitted quietly. "It was the last thing my dad ever sent to me. I think his ship met with pirates, and he stole this from them when he escaped. The pirates must have returned for vengeance. This arrived after… well, you know."
Three years after the fact, it was still difficult to discuss the loss of his father and brother. Well, Jonathan had never gotten along well with the fruitless merchant sailor Lonnie Byers. But Will… he was just a kid.
Nancy nodded solemnly, understanding coloring her eyes. She lifted a tentative hand. "May I?"
"Of course," Jonathan agreed. She took the medallion and squinted at it curiously, slender fingers caressing the smooth gold edge with care.
"I want you to have it," Jonathan said.
"What?" Nancy exclaimed. Her grip tightened on the gold as she fought to keep her voice down. "I couldn't, Jon. This was your father's—"
"You know very well how I felt about my father," Jonathan said. "I nearly forgot I had the thing. But I know of your interest in piracy, Nance. I thought you might appreciate it more than I ever would."
He didn't say that he desired to give her something that she could treasure. That she could bring out in private and hold and think of him. It could never be a ring, so why not something for that pretty neck?
Nancy stared at him for a long moment, and Jonathan didn't shy away from her gaze. In their early interactions, he could barely set eyes on her, too overwhelmed to behold her beauty at the same time as her awareness. But years of intimacy had passed, and now they looked at one another plainly.
"You are too generous with me," Nancy said eventually. But she slipped the medallion over her head and tucked it under her dress. The black cord was highly visible against her milky skin, but the gold was hidden beneath her bodice.
Jonathan swallowed as he tried to blink away the fact that the gold was cradled now against her bosom, just a millimeter of fabric away. "I'd be more generous if I could," he said softly.
Nancy's lip trembled at that, and her fingers twitched at her sides, like she yearned to touch in the same way that he did. But then she nodded stiffly. "Thank you, Jonathan."
"You're welcome," he said, and then it was time for her to go.
And one torturous day later, Jonathan skulked down the main street to his family's apartment. It sat nearer to the blacksmith's shop than the general store, so Jonathan wasn't too surprised that he'd arrived home before Joyce Byers.
But the apartment wasn't empty. Jane, his adopted sister, was there, giggling softly into her palm at the kitchen table, and across from her sat Mike Wheeler, Nancy's younger brother and a common fixture in the Byers' household.
The governor's son had arrived in Hawkins on the same ship as Jane, and they befriended one another before she'd even found a home with the Byers. Any chance he could, Mike stole away from his mansion and sought Jane. Now that childhood innocence faded fast from them both, shedding along with the roundness of their cheeks, Jonathan suspected Mike's feeling went beyond platonic when it came to Jane Byers.
"Hello, Jonathan," Jane greeted Jonathan pleasantly when he made his way into the room.
"Jon!" Mike said, slapping a hand on the tabletop jovially. "Heard you and O'Bannon got caught up in the excitement today."
"That's one word for it," Jonathan sighed.
"You met the pirate," Jane said. She had a habit of making statements that begged answers.
"I did," Jonathan confirmed. To save himself from elaborating, he crossed the room to their water barrel and fixed himself a cup, drinking deeply. Mike took the opportunity to fill in the story.
"That pirate saved Steve's life, you know," Mike said, eager to prove he was in the know. And to be fair, Jonathan was not familiar with this part of the story. He didn't hide the frown that Harrington's name conjured to his face. But Mike didn't need encouragement to continue. "Steve was atop the fort battlements with Nancy when she fainted. She nearly tipped over the wall into the harbor, but Steve pushed her to safety in the nick of time. Only, he ended up falling over the edge himself. It had to be a thirty-foot drop at least. The pirate was cornered by guards on the docks and dove in to pull him out of the water. But Steve made him as a pirate straight away. The guy tried to escape, but… oh, you know the rest better than I do, don't you?"
"Is Nancy all right?" Jonathan asked tightly. He swore his heart had stopped beating at the thought of Nancy's peril.
Mike rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair with a dramatic huff. "You and Steve, I swear. Steve fell off a cliff and had to get rescued by a pirate, but Nancy swoons for half a second, and it's all anyone cares about. She's fine, of course. But let me tell you the rest of it."
"Mike," Jane interrupted, shooting the boy a firm look. "Maybe later."
"Oh, it's not as exciting, of course," Mike conceded. "But before the pirate, at the fort, Steve was proposing to Nancy. Marriage, ugh. Can you believe it?"
"Oh," Jonathan coughed.
"He didn't get to finish before the real drama unfolded, but he only went and proposed again as we were heading for the carriage home. I was there – saw the whole thing. Sopping wet, Steve was, and with his wig lost in the harbor somewhere. He saved her life, and Nancy told him she needed to think about it. Jesus H. Christ, I don't even like Steve, but it doesn't get more knight in shining armor than that. Isn't that what every girl wants? What's there to think about?"
"It's forever," Jane said mildly, eyes sliding to gage Jonathan's reaction. "It's a big decision."
"Whatever, we all know she'll say yes eventually," Mike shrugged.
"Don't your parents need you at home?" Jonathan asked stiffly.
"No, Father is still at the reception at the fort," Mike said brightly. "And between Nancy's ordeal and Holly being, you know, four years old, Mother couldn't care less what I do. Our new governess must have lied her way into the job. She hasn't got a clue what to do with Holly, and it's making more work for Mother than if we hadn't hired a governess at all. I'd say we'll be in the market for a new girl by the end of the week. Anyway, Jane invited me to stay for dinner. You know I'm a fan of Mrs. Byers's roast."
"Great," Jonathan grunted.
Mike jabbered on, but fortunately, his attention turned to Jane, and he leaned close as if entrusting a secret to her. Jonathan would scowl more at their proximity if he wasn't drowning in his own fears coming true before his eyes. It was already happening – Nancy was slipping away. And Steve Bloody Harrington would get to touch her, hold her, kiss her, whenever he pleased. Despair and fury roiled in his gut, entrenched in a violent battle in which there would be no victor.
He was saved from his spiraling thoughts by a deafening boom followed by a splintering crash in the distance. Muffled shouts sprung up somewhere in the village, and Mike fell silent before voicing what they were all thinking.
"Was that cannon fire?"
Jonathan's eyes went wide. "Mom."
Mrs. Byers should be home now. She could be caught up in the chaos he could hear brewing on the streets of Hawkins. The image of her getting trampled by a crowd or blown to smithereens from what Jonathan guessed was another blast from a cannon forced him into motion.
"Stay here, both of you," Jonathan commanded the kids as he strode for the door. "I'm going to fetch Mom. Do not leave this apartment."
Mike's brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to argue. But Jane placed a hand over his atop the table to halt his words, and she fixed her grave eyes on Jonathan. "We won't," she assured him. And Jonathan hurried outside, where the screams grew ever louder.