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here he can feel the ghost of a hangman's noose around his neck. If they
ever catch him again no one, not even the governor's daughter and son-in-law
will be able to save him. But still, he comes.
He glides in during the dead of night and steals his way through the darkened
streets to the house on the hill. It had to face the ocean, they both
insisted on that. The path is steep and rocky, but he's traveled it so
many times in the dark, his footing is sure. He often wonders if he would
stumble in the daylight. Treading carefully, he avoids Elizabeth's flowers
and makes his way around to the back.
The small shed is filled with tools and supplies. Will has an impressive
array of swords on the walls, things he has made but didn't have the
heart to sell. The centerpiece is a sword with a long, silver blade,
the hilt inlaid with black pearl and a sparrow etched into it. A small
handwritten tag bearing his name hangs on it. He takes it down and slices
through the air experimentally, the hilt fitting his hand like a glove.
He knows what it is, but always hangs it back up before he leaves. Gives
him a reason to come back, he tells himself. Never know when a man will
need a good sword.
He taps on the floor, trying to remember where the hollow spot is. It takes
a minute but he finds it, jeweled fingers prying the board loose. The
steel box is there and he opens it greedily, the pirate in him craving
the treasure inside. There's four letters, two from each of them, tied
with a wide black silk ribbon. He winds the ribbon around his wrist and
slides the letters into his pocket. He'll read them later, when he's
back on the Pearl. On the bottom, wrapped in cotton muslin is a square
canvas. It's a place he remembers well. The island he was marooned on
not once, but twice. The third time he went there, it was voluntary.
He closes his eyes and sees soft, golden limbs wrapped around him and
feels rough hands sliding over him. Those were the best three days he
ever spent on solid ground.
He fills the box back up; a length of red beaded silk, enough to make a
dress that will scandalize polite society, a tin of rum soaked tobacco
and rolling papers liberated from a wealthy Spaniard, and a letter in
his wide, scrawling hand. Fitting the board back, he takes a last look
at the sword before relocking the door behind him.
The moon is bright and when he passes the open windows he sees them. Sprawled
across the sheets, her shift showing just enough skin and his arm draped
over her, snoring softly. He wishes he could stay, wishes they would
come with him. He touches the letters and knows this is enough. For now.
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