Before he ever stepped foot aboard a ship, Watkins had heard stories about the sea. He  had crowded in with the other tavern-goers, listening eagerly as the old sea dogs spun their tales.  They spoke of the backbreaking work in the rigging, the endless horizons, the feeling of freedom  on the waves. And in hushed tones, they described the moonless nights when the wind would  wail an unearthly chorus through the sails. On those nights, they said, when the sharp wind  blows and the sea’s all dark, you could almost believe you’ve sailed into purgatory. 

As Watkins later found out, those stories were no exaggeration. Many long hours he  spent, first in the dank lower decks of the naval ship, then in the hammocks of The Marauder,  listening to the wind’s eerie howls.  

But on this particular night, it was not the ghostly keening of the wind that was keeping  Wat awake. It was the horrific screeching of Jerry’s bagpipes.  

Wat threw a spiteful glare toward the prow. There Jerry perched, armed with his vile  contraption of sheepskin, wood, and misery. He blew his shrill tunes—if one were generous  enough to call them that—out at the sea as though his entire family had drowned and this was his  only form of vengeance.  

The worst part, Watkins thought as he stalked away toward the ship’s stern, was that no  one else seemed to mind. When he suggested that perhaps Jerry could pause his discordant  shrieking during their precious few hours of rest, the other crewmates laughed him off. And after  only a few months aboard, Wat didn’t feel well enough established among the crew to press the  issue.  

In the lamplight’s long shadows, Watkins could faintly see the outline of the rigging, a  spiderweb of ropes tied taut between the deck and the masts. Since leaving the naval ship, he had eagerly set out to learn the names of each of those lines. He paced toward the back of the ship,  listing off each of the ropes as he went. Occasionally, he took a moment to glare back at Jerry  and the other night watchmen.  

Wat ascended the steps by the captain’s cabin, up to the quarterdeck. Hearing a strange  creaking, he slowed. The main boom was loose. The thick wooden beam hung beneath the aft  sail, able to move back and forth match the wind. But during the night, when their heading was  straight, it should have been tied down. It shouldn’t have been swinging loose across the  quarterdeck, the mooring ropes dangling beneath.  

Distracted by the mast, Wat didn’t notice Lewin until he nearly tripped over him.  The old man was crumpled next to the wheel, outlined in scarlet. His neck contorted at an  odd angle. Damp, stringy hair matted over his uneven skull, like a cracked eggshell. With an  expression of curious bemusement, Lewin gazed up at the boom as though he couldn’t quite  puzzle out what had happened.  

Watkins stared at the broken body, unable to tear his eyes away. The deck swayed in the  wrong direction. The air felt cold and thick against his skin, penning him in.  Lewin’s chest rose and fell with a wet crunch. The noise pulled Watkins out of his  paralysis. He heard his voice scream for help.  

Lewin’s eyes focused on him. The man’s hand scrabbled at Wat’s boot, sleeve dragging  over the wet wood planks. Watkins knelt, reached out to touch him, and recoiled. And as a faint  alarm bell began to ring and footsteps pounded toward them, Lewin breathed his last.

* * * 

They buried Lewin the next morning. The first mate, Peg-Leg Parker, said a few words, talking  about the old man’s years of hard work before the mast. 

From the crowd, Wat caught a few glimpses of Captain Marie up on the quarterdeck. She  was tall, her weathered skin hidden under men’s clothing. Two of her teeth were capped in gold,  glinting when she talked. Her bearing made Watkins suspect she’d been a noblewoman once. But  she was fast as a flintlock when challenged, and just as deadly.  

The ceremony was quick. They always were. On The Marauder, death was a reef shark,  always circling nearby. No sense wasting time with lengthy speeches when it inevitably came  hunting.  

Despite this brevity, Wat knew his crewmates mourned Lewin in their own way.  Constant ship raids had bonded them all like brothers. Not like the city slums, where death lay in  every gutter, or aboard the naval ship. This crew was different.  

He felt a nudge. Davey, an older deckhand with a fuzzy halo of black curls, raised an  eyebrow at him and mouthed, “You alright?” 

Wat nodded. 

Davey flashed him a quick, wily grin. “Looking a little gloomy there, mate.”  Wat heard a splash as Lewin’s body hit the water. He lowered his head with the others,  trying to will the old man’s spirit to a peaceful place. A moan arose from among the crew. It was  a mournful sound, a wail of grief.  

“Jerry!” snapped Captain Marie. “Not the time.” 

Jerry lowered his bagpipes.  

After a long moment, amen was called, concluding the service. The crew shifted. An  awkward thrum of anticipation buzzed through them as they began to file belowdecks for the  second part of the ceremony. 

A hand clapped over Wat’s shoulder, and he turned expecting to see Davey. Instead, he  found the first mate grinning down at him. “Hey, kid.” 

From experience, Watkins had learned to be wary of a ship officer’s attention. As much  as the congeniality of The Marauder’s crew had softened this outlook, Peg-Leg Parker still put  him on guard. The man’s eyes never matched his smile.  

“Wanted to ask, as you found his body and all—did the old scab say anything before he  died?” 

Wat shook his head. A few of the first mate’s cronies gathered around. 

“Nothing at all? Nothing that could tell us,” Parker lowered his voice in sly conspiracy, “who killed him?” 

Wat started to shake his head before the full import the sentence sunk in. He looked at the  others. They had to be fooling around. But their keen stares betrayed no signs of mirth. Even  Davey, standing behind the first mate, seemed to be waiting on his response.  

“No. But it was an accident, wasn’t it?” he said. The sun burned hot against his face. A  set of dice, coated crimson, clattered through his mind. “No one would kill him. The boom got  loose.” 

“Oh, I’d love to believe that. But something feels wrong about it all, don’t you think?”  Parker stepped closer, fingers picking at his wiry stubble. “Are you sure he didn’t say anything?” Davey put a hand between them. “Lay off. He said no.” 

Wat expected his friend to be reprimanded, but the first mate just shrugged. “Something  to mull over,” he said with a wink before making his way below.  

In the hold, the crew gathered expectantly before a row of rusted lockers. Watkins  glanced at his, pressed up against the hull. Inside, a meager set of clothes and a few coins. He knew the others wouldn’t have much more. His shipmates spent gold as quick as they stole it,  buying ale and nights of pleasure.  

The quartermaster drew out his key ring as he lumbered up to Lewin’s locker. The crew  shuffled, curious but not particularly eager.  

With a click, the locker opened.  

The crew gaped. A few gasped. One began to drool. A shrill whine went up from among  them, a cry of longing.  

“Seriously, Jerry,” muttered Marie. “Cut it out.” 

But even she couldn’t suppress a grin at the heaping, decadent piles of gold now  glimmering up at them. Stacks of coins rose enticingly, nearly to the top of the locker. Heaped  beneath were chunks of metal, glinting in the lamplight. 

The crew surged forward. It took every drop of the captain’s will to stop them from  overrunning the locker in their fervor. Wat saw a few icy looks aimed her way. But as the  quartermaster began counting the gold, the tension dissipated. 

Before joining The Marauder, Wat had believed the rumors in London: ships like these  were manned by greedy cut-throats who would fight and kill each other over the smallest scrap  of treasure. He had assumed the captain, or whoever was most ruthless, would take most of the  loot for themselves. His new crewmates had been quick to dispel that myth. Like most ships in  their profession, they followed a code: every member got an even share, to prevent infighting.  

The crew grew drunk on gold-lust, laughing and dancing around the hold. Even Watkins  felt it, his eyes repeatedly pulled to the alluring pile. He joked with Davey and the other  deckhands, making grand plans of how they would spend it once the ship made port. “First round’s on me, lads!” crowed Peg-Leg Parker. “The finest ale Nassau has to offer.”

The first mate’s name was a misnomer, as he actually had both of his legs. He had earned  his moniker during a ship raid, when he had violently beaten three navy officers with another  man’s wooden leg.  

“What was he gonna do with it all?” wondered Wat. “Why save it?” 

“Retirement, maybe,” said Felton Two-Fingers. That was another misnomer. Felton  possessed a full set of fingers and had gotten his nickname from the peculiar way he held a fork.  “Who knows? He was a limey old coot, that one,” said No-Willie Wilfred.  Unfortunately, not a misnomer.  

“What’s it matter?” said Davey, rolling a coin over his knuckles. “All ours now.” As he stepped over to collect his share, Watkins saw two deckhands emptying the rest of  the locker. Lumps of gold, some as large as his fist, were carefully placed into a wooden crate.  Captain Marie looked on, eyes unfocused, tapping an iron padlock against her leg. “What about all that?” asked Wat. 

“It’s raw metal,” said the quartermaster, clearly not for the first time. “Can’t divide it  evenly. Going to sell it in Nassau and split the profits.” 

Wat took his coins, shuffling them reverently into a worn leather pouch. He turned, only  to find Peg-Leg Parker behind him again.  

“And what’s to be done with it in the meanwhile?” Parker asked.  

Marie’s face was caged in iron as she stared him down. “It’ll be locked away in my  cabin.”  

“That’s a mighty temptation. People would kill for that gold.” By coincidence or design,  the first mate caught Wat’s eye as he said it. “You sure it’ll be safe?” 

Marie didn’t respond, a storm’s wrath in the slant of her eyebrows. There was a biting  edge to their voices, like swords fresh from the whetstone. The men around them floated between ambivalence and cold skepticism, questioning the captain’s decision.  

The coins clinked seductively as Wat hurried off towards his locker. It was more than  he’d ever held at once. He didn’t like to think about the squalor of the London slums, before the  press-gang had forced him aboard the naval ship. And once aboard, he’d have been lucky to see  a proper day’s worth of rations. He had celebrated his seventeenth birthday with wormy  hardtack, which was at least an improvement over the previous day’s lashings.  

Watkins stared into his pouch. Truly incredible, he thought, how many different colors  gold could be. The polished allure of new coins, the burnished wear of old, each beautiful in their  own way. They gleamed up at him, far prettier than hardtack.  

* * * 

Time passed quickly on the open sea. Wat barely noticed Jerry’s bagpipes anymore. He still lay  awake at night, but now a new sound drowned out those distant trills: the heavy clink of coin  against coin. And just beneath, like a cold current waiting to tow him under, were the clattering  of dice and the blood-choked gasps of a dying man.  

Lewin’s death gnawed at him. The thought that it could have been murder felt jarring.  He’d seen this crew kill before on raids. He’d even seen them fight among themselves, coming to  blows over petty squabbles. But he’d also seen them weather storms with shanties, every man  singing in tandem, united against the wind. Wat didn’t believe they could sail together for  months on end and then kill one of their own.  

But the idea had taken hold of him. It seeped into his mind like ink on wet parchment. He  found himself watching the others, studying their demeanors, looking for any hints of guilt. Wat couldn’t focus on his duties. Many times, when the other deckhands tried to talk to him, their  words entered his head, skillfully dodged any attempt at comprehension, and jumped ship  without a trace.  

He knew it couldn’t have been Davey or Felton Two-Fingers; their hammocks were right  by his own. And though he hated to admit it, Jerry was likely innocent too. Watkins doubted a  man could commit murder while playing those blasted bagpipes, and he would have noticed a  pause in the shrieking. Of course, Jerry could have conspired with the other night watchmen.  

“Do you really think someone killed Lewin?” he asked Davey. They lounged on benches  belowdecks with the remnants of their breakfast: dry bread and salted meat. Wat fumbled with  his friend’s coin, trying to get it to roll across his knuckles.  

Davey shrugged. “Not sure how the boom could have come loose.” 

Stretching, Wat felt his wool shirt pull tight against his back. His clothes had been made  for a wiry frame, and he’d put on his fair share of lean muscle since joining the crew. “Maybe  there’s a stowaway,” he suggested. A look from Davey told him exactly how likely that was.  “But one of the crew?”  

“Sometimes people’s self-interest takes over. Makes them steal, kill. Anything.” Wat was disconcerted at how casually his friend talked about their crewmates backstabbing one another. He was no stranger to the world; he knew what people could do to  each other. But this crew was different. He’d known that from the moment they’d taken the naval  ship, dancing and hooting, the old sea dogs’ stories personified. The coin slipped from his hand,  clunking onto the table.  

Davey picked it up, making it glide over his fingers. “You’ve got the movements down.  You just need more practice.” 

After a moment, Wat spoke again: “You think they were after his gold then?” “It makes sense. Crazy old scab. All that gold, and he was still working night shifts at the  helm.” Davey’s eyes were unfocused, his hand clenched around the coin. “That’s not gonna be  me.” 

The seriousness in his tone made Wat look up. 

“Soon as I get enough, I’m off this damn deck crew,” Davey continued. “I’m getting my  own ship. Something small, fast. Good for raids.” 

A distant bell clanged, signaling a deck-shift change.  

“Look,” Davey said as they stood, slipping his coin into an inside pocket, close to his  chest. “Try to forget all this. Focus on Nassau.” He hopped up the stairs, his smile returning.  “And the bath you can take when we’re there.” 

Wat ran a hand through his long, tangled locks. They felt greasy. He nodded  emphatically.  

But despite his friend’s advice, Wat continued to dwell on that night. In the quiet  moments between waking and dreams, perhaps conjured by his paranoia, Wat’s mind drifted home to the filthy gutters and crooked alleys. The terraced houses loomed above, dripping rain  and fouler substances. Shapes moved in the shadows between the streetlamps, cripples holding  out empty cups.  

Not long before Wat was taken by the press-gang, he passed two men sprawled at a table  outside an inn, playing dice. One was tall and stocky, the other balding. Rum bottles were  scattered on the ground by their feet. They were longtime friends, he’d heard later. But at the  time, he had just seen them shouting at each other, a dispute over a questionable die roll. Watkins  didn’t pay them much mind at first. 

Just as he passed them by, he saw the tall man grab for the small pile of coins on the  table. The other struck at his arm. For a moment they grappled, straining and shouting, the gold  between them. Then the bald one got a hand free. Cold steel slashed in a vicious arc.  

The tall man stumbled back. One hand clasped his throat, helpless to stop the blood gushing forth. For a moment, the two figures held there. Then the tall man collapsed against the  table. The dagger dropped from the other’s hand as he rushed to his friend’s side. “Wait, wait!  No!” he shouted, as though it would do any good.  

In the chaos, one of the men must have hit the wooden dice, sending them spinning off  the table toward Watkins, who stood frozen. The dice clattered against the wet cobblestones,  coated crimson.  

* * * 

The night before they reached Nassau, Wat’s restless thoughts pulled him from his hammock, up  onto the deck. He stepped quietly between barrels and coils of rope, hearing the distant whispers  of the night crew at the prow. No bagpipes tonight: Jerry wasn’t on duty. Wat found himself  missing those tuneless wails and the levity they provided. He hadn’t been on deck this late since  he’d found Lewin.  

The wind did little to sooth his unease. It whipped around him, keening through the  rigging. The ropes went unnoticed as he passed, drifting like a ghost across the planks, trailing  his fingers along the covered longboats.  

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He’d half-convinced himself he wasn’t looking  for anything at all. In the darkness, his thoughts returned to the glittering stacks of coins. He  remembered the hungry looks on the crew’s faces, the same looks they’d get before boarding a  ship. He wanted to dismiss his suspicions, but his curiosity had drawn him here nevertheless. 

Movement caught his eye. The tarp covering the last longboat, closest to the quarterdeck,  flapped loose in the wind. He made his way over and pulled it tight. The ropes felt rough against  his skin as he bent to lash them back down.  

Then, following some deep instinct he couldn’t put to words, he flipped over the tarp,  staring into the longboat.  

His thoughts grew hazy. A moment passed before he realized what he was looking at.  There were only three oars.  

Watkins dropped the tarp, staring out into the ink-black sea. He imagined a hulking  figure, hidden in shadow, taking an oar and creeping up to the quarterdeck. The strike would be  muffled by the wind. Loosening the boom would provide a cover story.  

A set of dice clattered through his mind. He steadied himself against the railing. This was  proof, he was sure of it.  

But who to tell? Davey was asleep belowdecks and wouldn’t wake for anything less than  cannon fire. And even if Wat managed to wake his friend, he risked being overheard by the  others. This wasn’t something he wanted everyone to know, not yet. As he pondered, he saw a  flicker of movement from the captain’s cabin.  

Marie didn’t crack open the door until Wat’s fourth knock. “Not right now,” she said, her  voice sharp.  

“Wait, please,” Wat said. “It’s about Lewin.” 

She stopped. Her eyes flicked up and around the deck, and she nodded, disappearing for a  moment. Wat heard a series of quick, scuffling movements, and she held the door open for him  to enter. 

Watkins had never been in her quarters before. The cabin was fairly small. A set of  windows looked out over the ship’s wake. Charts and maps covered one table, books another.  The wooden crate with the raw gold sat in one corner. The room had a mask of neatness and  order, but Wat spotted old clothes spilling untidily out of a trunk, a half-empty rum bottle near  her cot. 

Marie closed the door, gesturing for him to speak. With a deep breath, Wat explained  what he had found. When he finished, she watched him for a moment and asked if that was all.  He nodded. 

“Kid, that doesn’t mean anything. The oar could have gone missing at any point.” Wat felt his certainty dripping away like blood from a picked scab. “But it makes sense.” “Maybe.” The captain’s arms were folded tightly around her. “But so does his death 

being an accident, and the missing oar being unrelated. That’s a simpler explanation.” “I guess.” Wat couldn’t hold her gaze, his eyes wandering around the cabin. An iron  padlock sat on a nearby table.  

He tilted his head; he’d seen that before. Marie had used it to lock up the wooden crate,  the one with the gold inside. His eyes flicked over to the corner of the room. Sure enough, it sat  unlatched, contents unguarded. He turned back, a question half-formed on his lips.  

The captain had a thin slant to her mouth. Unconsciously, she shuffled her feet, drawing  his gaze down. In the spot where she stood, a plank was loose, partially hidden. Wat didn’t think  he imagined the raw metal underneath, glinting in the thin sliver of lamplight.  “Is that…” He couldn’t finish the thought.  

Captain Marie stared at him for a few long heartbeats, seeing where his gaze had landed.  A muscle in her jaw ticked. “Yes.” 

Wat’s mouth opened and closed. He glanced at the cabin door.  

With the casualness of a prowling reef shark, Marie stepped in front of the exit. “Don’t be  reckless, now.” 

“You’re stealing?” Wat’s voice came out high and reedy.  

She kicked over the loose plank. Three nuggets of gold lay in the cache beneath. “It’s not  a lot. Just enough to buy me passage somewhere and set me up well. That’s all.” “Why? You’re already captain.” 

“Much good that’s done me.” Marie’s jaw was set and scowling. “A decade and a half of  suffering every bilge-headed swab who thinks he’s smarter than me.” 

“But you’re betraying the crew. Their trust.” 

“Their trust,” she repeated, snorting. “As if every man aboard wouldn’t do the same. If  your half-cracked theory is true, someone even killed for this.” 

Wat shook his head. Nothing about her words matched his old conception of her:  steadfast, stoic, and fair. She was supposed to be different. “No, they wouldn’t.” “Look.” Marie strode over to the crate, jerking it open. There were nearly two dozen  chunks of gold inside. “There’s still enough in here for the lot of them to drink and piss  themselves sick for months.” Her gold teeth glinted as she leaned closer. “But I want something  more. And I’d bet you do too.” 

Wat saw something calculating in the captain’s expression as she pulled out a sizable  nugget. “Just this could buy you a house, a carriage, a new life. Anything.” She pressed it into  his hand. It felt cold. “What do you want?” 

Watkins looked away. In truth, he didn’t know. The allure of gold had never gone deeper  than its simple, unattainable ideal. But her words sparked images he couldn’t ignore. A life free from putrid slums and sadistic naval officers. Maybe even his own ship, like Davey had said.  And there would still be plenty for the others. They wouldn’t even notice. Marie seemed to sense his shift. She took back the nugget, locking it in the crate and sliding the hidden plank back into place. “It’s yours. Just keep quiet for a day or two. That’s all.”

* * * 

By the time Wat awoke the next morning, his friend’s hammock was empty. Wat searched the  hold. He would tell Davey about the oar at least. He was less certain about the hidden gold. The  previous night’s conversation had left an anxious aftertaste. He tried to push it out of his mind. He grabbed the arm of a passing deckhand. “Have you seen Davey?” 

“Not lately,” said No-Willie Wilfred. “Peg-Leg was looking for him earlier. Maybe  they’re together.” 

Wat came up onto the deck to a bustle of commotion. They’d sighted land. In less than an  hour they’d make port. He was dragged into his work, readying the longboats with barely any  time to think. He tried to keep an eye out for Davey, but when his friend finally appeared, he was  swept up into his own duties.  

At last, distant shapes resolved themselves into a shabby collection of structures, snugly  crammed onto a narrow spit of land. Morning sunlight reflected off the buildings, giving the city  a soft, golden glow.  

Nassau. The only port within a hundred leagues that would buy their goods, regardless of  the method of acquisition.  

The Marauder anchored offshore. Wat felt a restless excitement among the crew as they  gathered on deck. They whispered and laughed, paying little attention to the captain as she  outlined the plans for the shore leave. 

The crew would have free rein of Nassau for two weeks, and possibly longer if selling the  gold took more time than expected. Captain Marie and the first mate would go to find a buyer  that morning. They needed two rowers, and Wat felt only mildly surprised when Marie named  him.  

Parker listed off four names to watch the ship while the rest of the crew went ashore that  day. Davey was among them. Watkins shot him a questioning glance, but his friend just  shrugged and looked away.  

Captain Marie stomped her foot against the planks, summoning the last shreds of the  crew’s attention. “The crate will stay locked in my cabin while we look for a buyer. There are  exactly twenty-one nuggets of gold inside, so don’t get any ideas.” 

Wat heard a few muttered comments resenting the insinuation. Several of Parker’s  cronies exchanged caustic looks. But when the captain dismissed them, the buzz of excitement  returned.  

From the ship’s railing, Watkins watched the first of the longboats go, gliding across the  glittering waters. The noise aboard grew softer as each boat left, until the deck was almost as  empty as it was at night. The last longboat sat on the deck, waiting for their departure. 

He wanted to speak with Davey, but his friend was talking with Peg-Leg Parker again.  They huddled near the mast with the second rower and the men who would be staying aboard, all  close compatriots of the first mate. Besides the captain, they were the only ones left on the ship.  

Marie stepped up to the railing a few meters away. A brace of flintlocks was strapped  around her chest. She didn’t look at him, gazing out at Nassau, at the far-off longboats. They could distantly hear a faint, tuneless squawking.  

“Maybe we can buy Jerry a new instrument,” she said abruptly. “A quieter one.” 

Wat wasn’t sure what to make of that. The joke was out of character for her. Uncertainly,  he played along. “Maybe we could get him some music lessons.” 

“Or hire someone to break his bagpipes.” 

“If they have to listen to his playing before doing it, they’d charge us extra.” Marie laughed. “Well, once we sell that gold, we’ll have more than enough.” She shot  him a sidelong look. There was a moat of seriousness under her humor, a cold expanse beneath the mask of warmth above.  

She looked out at the shore, toward the city glowing softly on the horizon. Shaking her  head, she half turned. “Parker, you ready yet?” 

“Right,” the first mate called back. “See, here’s the thing.” 

With instincts honed by a decade of marauding, Marie moved faster than Wat could  breathe. Flintlocks appeared in both hands. Parker and the other sailors spread out, weapons of  their own cocked and raised.  

“You’re not leaving this ship,” Parker finished. His pistol was aimed straight at the  captain. Marie stared back, unwavering.  

Wat stumbled away. Davey stood with the others, his normally cheerful countenance set  with cold purpose. The flintlock in his hands looked viscerally out of place. Briefly, Davey met  his friend’s eyes. He jerked his head toward a barrel, a few meters to Wat’s left. Then his gaze  returned to his target.  

“You can’t steal from the crew, Marie,” said the first mate.  

“We moved past that,” she spat back. 

“You moved past that. And now this mess with Lewin?” Parker shook his head.  “Something’s off about it. You know we can’t let that stand.” 

Gold glinted in Captain Marie’s snarl. “You think they’ll follow a mutineer?” “I’ll let them decide.” 

Wat’s head jerked unevenly between them. His instincts screamed at him to run or to pick  a side. But at the same time, Parker’s words made him wonder if this wasn’t the first time the  captain had tried something like this.  

The two sides stood like a man in a noose, waiting for the hangman’s lever.  Slowly, Parker reached behind his back, eyes and pistol still trained on the captain. “We  can do this easy.” His hand withdrew, clutching a set of manacles. “You stand trial with the  crew; plead your case to them.”  

Marie didn’t deign to respond.  

Parker quirked his head, a smug grin curling over his lips. “Kid, put these on her.” He  tossed the manacles at Watkins. They clattered against the deck at his feet. Wat stared at them  dumbly. He felt out of sync, ticking slower than everyone else.  

“What?” said Wat. 

“Kid…” said Parker. 

“Crack,” said Marie’s flintlock.  

The ship exploded into violence. Noise and smoke blasted from every direction. Marie  reeled back, struck in the shoulder, then fired off a second shot. One of Parker’s men went down.  She flung the empty guns aside, ducking and spinning as more shots rang out. Another pistol  appeared in her hands, fired and discarded before Wat could properly register it. She fought like  a flag in a hurricane, constant rippling movement and sudden snaps of violence.  

Wat dove behind the barrel. He heard more cracks of black powder, a cry of pain.  Peeking over the top, he saw a flash of steel as Marie hacked into Parker, one arm dangling uselessly by her side. Parker’s men were violent blurs of motion, ripping across the deck. Davey  sprinted for the longboat. Another shot rang out, and Wat ducked back down.  He clutched at his head. Every gunshot sounded like cannon fire, blowing apart the world  around him. Wat tried to will himself to stand, to fight. But in the end, it was far easier to just  stay put.  

One last cry of pain, and the noises ceased.  

Watkins heard unsteady footsteps stalking toward him. The captain’s breathing was  ragged, but he recognized it. Wat’s mind felt hollow, like an oyster scraped out by a rough blade.  Clutching at the barrel, he stumbled out into view.  

Captain Marie fell into a low stance, her last flintlock aimed at his skull.  

Neither moved. Crimson stains soaked into her clothes. Wat’s world narrowed to the  captain’s reef shark eyes, the fire and gunpowder burning through his veins, and the shadowy  abyss at the end of her pistol, staring him down.  

For a long moment, they held there.  

The captain’s jaw ticked. She glanced at her cabin. Her expression radiated cold. Not the  icy chill of a winter wind, but the crushing, empty cold of the ocean depths, lifeless and  unfeeling.  

“Kid,” she said, her voice dry. Emotion slivered through her mask. Her fingers tightened  around the trembling pistol. Out of her view, a shape rose up from behind the longboat.  The shot made Wat flinch. He watched Marie crumple.  

Davey stepped across the quiet deck. Splatters of blood congealed into a single smear as  he wiped his face. 

That was his crewmates blood, Wat realized. People he’d sailed with for months, worked  with, laughed with. The stench of smoke and iron washed over him, and his knees buckled. He  could see them, dark shapes strewn across the deck. That’s all they were now, broken shapes on  the ground. Just like Lewin.  

Davey helped him up, muttering words he couldn’t hear. After a moment, his senses  returned.  

“You hurt?” 

Wat shook his head.  

Davey nodded, looking out over the carnage. Wat stepped away from him. His friend had  a hard cut to his expression.  

With an unsettling nonchalance, Davey rifled through Marie’s pockets, coming up with a  small key. It disappeared in his clenched fist as he strode into the captain’s cabin.  Wat followed. By the time he caught up, Davey had opened the wooden crate and was  kneeling next to it. Sunlight slashed through the rear windows. It reflected off of the gold in  whirling patterns on his face, in his eyes. “God Almighty.” 

He ran his hands reverently across the raw metal within. “Why’d she have to tell  everyone how much there was?” he muttered.  

Watkins didn’t move. A chill crawled up his chest.  

Davey was still staring at the crate. His head tilted to the side. “And this is all of it,  right?” 

Gold flashed and glittered in Wat’s mind. More than he’d ever had before. Then another  image appeared: more coins, stocked high and untouched in a dead man’s locker. 

Davey looked over at him; blood was crusted over his cheek. Wat’s mind raced. They  could split the hidden gold, hide it in their lockers.  

And if Wat showed him? 

A dangerous light glinted in Davey’s eyes. Wat saw hunger there, desperation. He  pictured himself lying with the others, apparently collateral damage from the fight. No, he thought, Davey wouldn’t. Not for gold. But the clatter of crimson dice drowned out the thought.  Would he? 

It wasn’t a question he wanted answered.  

“Yeah,” Watkins said. “That’s all of it.” 

His friend’s gaze lingered a moment, then he turned away. “Well, still a fortune.” He  snapped the crate shut. 

Together, they moved the bodies, cleaning the bloody planks as best they could. They  went over what they would tell the rest of the crew until there was nothing else to do but wait.  Wat stared out at Nassau, the details fuzzy at this distance. He tried to plan, to find an  excuse to get into the captain’s cabin, where the secret floorboard lay hidden. But his eyes were  drawn to the crimson-stained deck. He’d seen similar stains on the naval ship, after particularly  brutal punishments. And before that, in the gutters of the city slums. Blood looked the same  wherever it spilled, it seemed.  

Wat turned back toward Nassau, letting its golden light wash his laments away.