Bronte lay on her pallet in the loft she'd shared with Sam for the last few months. She absently pulled at a lock of hair with the hand once helplessly bound to her side, fully appreciating having the use of both arms again. A knothole at eye level provided a view of the shoreline and the dark waves glistening with starlight. Sam lay in the other corner, his familiar breathing not yet settled into the soft snores of sleep she'd become accustomed to.

"Can't sleep?" asked Bronte.

"Naw. You?"

Bronte shifted on her thin straw mattress.

"You ever slept on a feather bed, Sam?"

"No. I don't even think Blackwater has one. I might be able to find a hammock if ya want."

"I've spent enough time in hammocks."

The time she'd spent ashore had given her some perspective. She'd nearly left the shipyard to join the first pirate crew she found. What stopped her was the realization that though she'd been plundering for years, she'd little to show for it. A good take could be comfortably spent within a few days ashore. Sometimes you'd get nothing more than a refill of supplies. Huge hauls—legendary mountains of gold—were mostly that: legends. But, they weren't impossible. And she knew just what she could do with that gold.

In order to accumulate this fortune Bronte decided she needed to control where and what they plundered. And captains got the biggest share. In fact, she decided she'd like the title, Captain Farrow. A bigger share, and a bigger bed too. This idea kept her around and making plans for months now.

Her plans would undoubtedly cause Blackwater a fair share of trouble, but this didn't make her feel guilty in the least. The man's only concern was lining his pockets.

That night, as she lay listening to the ocean lullaby, she was thinking about how to convince Sam to join in the course she was pursuing. She'd gotten the idea of bring him along on the second day of her life on this island. She smiled as she thought back to the morning she'd been marooned and the following day that tied her fate with Sam's.

Bronte watched her former captain walk away from the shipyard without backward glance and resigned herself to her unknown fate.

The stout man at the cabin called to Sam, "Bring your new young friend here, boy."

Sam sprung easily to his feet and offered his hand. Bronte ignored it. Sam smiled and shrugged, seeming not to take any offense, and began the short walk up the beach.

Bronte hurried to catch up to him.

Together they reached the doorstep where the man waited. He looked her over small squinty eyes that contrasted with full round cheeks. "You'll be a big one. Younger than our Sam and got him beat by a foot at least!"

Bronte felt heat rise to her face. True, she was taller than Sam, but probably older. Her baby smooth face caused the confusion.

But then, surely Capt. Bertrand explained the truth of the matter?

"Come in. I'll show ya around as you'll be staying awhile. Name's Blackwater. Captain assured me yer as hard a worker as they come and I'll be lookin' forward to seeing it for myself.

Still, he paid a good price for your apprenticeship." He patted a bulging pocket that clinked softly.

This was a turn Bronte never thought her life would take. Apprenticeship: A time honored custom in which a craftsman took a young man any time after the age of about nine or so into his care, until the youth reached the age of twenty-one. The master would teach them his trade, school him and when released, could call themselves masters in whatever craft they'd studied.

Bronte wondered how much the captain had given the shipwright for her keep, and then realized how wrong the whole idea was at all. Women didn't become apprentices.

Puzzled, Bronte followed him into an all-purpose room furnished only with a table and two chairs, a few cupboards and a hearth. A door on one side opened to a small bedroom with one bed. At the far end of the main room was a ladder that presumably led to a loft.

"That there's my room," he pointed to the bedroom. "You'll be sleepin' in the loft with Sam. He'll make you a chair so's you can sit at the table."

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand," Bronte said. Even though he'd mentioned an apprenticeship, she couldn't quite make sense of what arrangement the two men made. Bronte half expected to be shown the broom cupboard and larder.

"Nothing to understand. You're to learn the shipwright business. The captain explained you'd no taste for the sea, but that doesn't mean you can't build ships for those who do. It was mighty fine of him to give you to me. I can always use a hard worker and Sam here will be leaving me before too long eh, boy?" He clapped Sam on the back. "Make room in the loft for young—say what is your name, boy? Capt. Bertrand captain failed to mention it."

That's not all he failed to mention, Bronte observed, now understanding why he was in such a hurry to be off. Why had he kept her secret? As a final thank you?

"This here's Bron Farrow," Sam offered. "He was shot by a pirate."

"So the captain said. Lucky your ship got away. No matter, he assured me you'll soon be fit for work. Show him where he can put his things, Sam. Take the rest of the day off and show our young man around. I'm feeling in a generous mood today," he smiled. "But tomorrow I'll expect ya up extra early, eh?" He grabbed them each on a shoulder, hers being the injured one, and squeezed. Bronte winced loudly and shirked out of his grasp, giving him an incredulous look.

"Oh, sorry son," he said, not looking very sorry. "Off ya go then. I've my own work to do." He wobbled out toward some buildings nearby.

Sam looked at her and offered a half-smile. There was a touch of sympathy in his eyes. "He's not bad to work for. I actually kind of like him. He took me as apprentice eight years ago. Can't see too well these days and won't be buildin' ships much longer, far as I can tell. Locals provide the labor. We build the finest ships ever to sail. Nothin' can match 'em for speed!" He grabbed her satchel without being asked and started up the ladder to the loft. He turned his head and looked back at her. "He talks a lot though." Sam grinned widely.

Bronte stared up after him and then began the arduous one-handed climb up the ladder.

The following morning a warm ray of sun pierced the cracks in the wall of the loft, shinning directly on Bronte face. She took a deep breath as she sat up from her pallet, squinting against its brilliant contrast to the surrounding grayness. The pool of light reminded her of the ocean she'd left behind only yesterday, with thousands of dust motes swimming around like a great school of ballyhoo. She sighed as she looked again at the unfurnished space that was her new home. It hadn't been a dream after all.

The pile of blankets and straw that made up Sam's pallet lay empty in the opposite corner.

"Halloo up there! You awake?" called a voice she recognized as Sam's.

It was quickly followed by the soft scrapes and taps of someone climbing the ladder. Sam's curly topped head popped up through the floor. He was wearing that seemingly everlasting grin.

"You'll hav'ta come down, I can't make any more excuses to ol' Blackwater. Why, he's 'just missed you' all morning long." Sam winked as he stepped into the loft.

"Just missed me?" Bronte quirked a brow as she used her good arm to push herself up from the floor, straightening out her clothes as she stood.

"Sure. When you were in the storage shed, then again when you went to fetch water, and now you're in the privy." He winked again. "I thought you might appreciate sleeping in a bit."

She did appreciate it. "Listen, don't be doing me any favors. I can look after myself." She brushed by him to begin the tortuous one armed decent to ground level. At least it would be easier going down. Yesterday she'd only barely made it up, and scowled at Sam when he apologized for not helping. Somehow, he'd managed to make her feel guilty for it with just a smile.

Sam quickly followed her down and landed neatly on the floor beside her, having skipped the last few rungs. "I saved you some breakfast," he said as he moved to a cupboard and procured a chunk of bread and a piece of cheese. "Not an easy thing to do around here. Blackwater may not be able to see well, but he can smell food from three leagues!"

Bronte took the food quietly. It'd been so long since she'd seen courtesy of any kind she didn't know how to respond to it. After an awkward silence she remembered manners long ago discarded. "Thank you," she mumbled.

Sam beamed. "No sweat. Better come along though, you've been an awful long time in that privy."

The pair stepped out onto the beach. It was already muggy and the air was filled with the sounds of men sawing, grunting and swearing as they labored on the ship, now just a skeleton of a thing resting on keel blocks.

They headed toward it, Sam describing the job as Bronte munched on her breakfast. Bronte had never seen the birth of a ship and found the process interesting.

"Someday I'll have my own ship. Just like this one." Sam ran his hands slowly over the wood and gazed off into the distance.

Bronte smiled. She understood the longing in his eyes.

"How long 'til she's finished?" Bronte asked.

"A few more months. These things take time: usually more than a year. A lot of the time is spent just in the planning. But Bermudans know how to build 'em right. The local cedar is as good as it gets. Dense—but light." Sam placed his hands on his hips as his eyes wandered over the ribs of the sloop.

Sam then looked down at a bench full of tools and, picking up a knife lying there, winked at her. Scanning the workers he settled on a man not too distant, sitting in the dirt leaning against a cart. The man raised a prickly pear fruit to his lips.

Sam pulled his arm behind his head and then forward again in one quick motion. The knife zinged through the air toward the man; it pierced the fruit and stuck into the cart with a twang, vibrating against the sudden stop.

Bronte took in a sharp breath, nearly choking on her bread. Sam pounded her on the back. The man was now staring at his empty hand. He turned to look at the knife skewering the pear, its juice darkening the wood. Slowly, following the trajectory of the knife, his gaze landed on the two young apprentices.

He seemed to swell on the spot, taking in a lungful of air, and then shouted so loud Bronte dropped what remained of her breakfast and used her only available hand to cover one ear, pressing her shoulder against the other.

"SAM—U—AL DA—VIES! I'LL—HAVE—YOUR—HIDE—YOU LOUSY—GOOD FOR NOTHIN'..." His face was red as a steamed lobster and he was headed toward them fast.

"'Scuse me, won't ya, Bron," Sam said in too casual a tone as he moved quickly in the opposite direction. "I need to use the privy."

Bronte looked back at the knife. The lobster-faced man blew by her as she headed toward it. The blade was embedded securely into the cart. Grabbing the handle, she pulled hard and, with difficulty, freed it. Admiration replaced disbelief as she turned and stared at the young man running for his life up the beach.

At that moment, Bronte had known exactly how to put Sam's skill to use and began including him (without his knowledge) in her plans to escape.

The ship was nearly finished. News was the owner recently arrived to overlook the finishing touches. She shifted to see it lying on its keel blocks, awaiting the dawn and another day's labor. A man was walking in the sand, moonlight reflecting off his blond hair. He stopped to pull off his boots and walked in the soft sand, moist from the constant wash of the sea.

"You still awake, Bron?" Sam asked.

She turned her head toward him. "Aye."

"What do you think it'd be like to own a ship like the one we're building?" he said wistfully. "She's the finest I've ever seen."

Only too happy he'd brought up the subject, Bronte asked, "What kind of ship did you say it was?"

"Strictly speaking it's a sloop. I mean, it'll be rigged like one, but of course it has two masts. And there's the gun deck too. Not another like her in all the Caribbean." Sam described the ship like a lover. "I tell you, someday, I'll build another like her."

"What if you could have this one? What if they never took her?"

"What, you think they won't want her? That won't happen," he snorted, sounding supremely confident.

"You're right. Anybody'd be crazy not to take that ship," she confirmed. "She'll all but fly if she's handled right."

"With a good crew—she'll be uncatchable," Sam agreed.

"Do you think four could sail her?" Bronte asked unobtrusively.

"Four? They probably have a whole army ready to crew her. I'd wager that kid can't do a lick of sailing himself. Probably doesn't know his starboard side from his larboard."

"Aye, I'm sure you're right," she said.

"Could probably sail with four, in a pinch. Not under full sail, though. She'd still be fast," he said.

To herself Bronte said, "But where to find two others?"

"Huh?"

"Sam, how long until she sails?"

"In a week or so we'll remove the keel blocks and timber shoring and set her in the cradle."

"Cradle?"

"For launching. It'll hold the weight of the hull until the tide is just right—a few inches too high or too low and it'd wreck the hull—then we hit the sliding triggers, sending her into the surf. Course then she'll have to be fitted out. After all the sails, rigging, gear, and equipment are installed, naturally the owner will test her out and ensure the design and equipment is up to standards before taking her over."

Bronte turned back to the knothole. The stranger walked out of her view. That window, just after it was fitted out, but before the owner took possession, would be the moment.

"Sam, I can't stay here my whole life building ships for other people. I need to feel the sea beneath me and hear the wind blowin' fair across the bow. Living next to the sea—watching ships sail in and out all day—it's driving me mad!"

Sam was silent. Bronte looked his way but could see nothing in the dark. His blankets rustled.

"Just what are you getting at?" he asked, his voice laced heavily with suspicion.

Here goes. Stay direct and to the point. "We should commandeer the ship out there," she answered casually.

Sam got up and walked to her pallet, leaned down and peaked out the knothole. He must've been looking at the water because he said, "There's no ship out there, Bron."

"Oh yes there is, and she's going to be ours!"

"You mean the sloop? You really are going mad! We can't steal that ship!" He sounded borderline hysterical.

"Sam," she said, her voice tingling with excitement, "we could sail her south to the Lesser Antilles, refit her for our needs and then pick up a crew near Tortuga. Once we're fully manned, we can go wherever we want."

"Why would we want to do that? What would we do with a stolen ship?" he asked a little too loudly.

Bronte shushed him but said nothing; he'd figure it out shortly.

"Pirates...? You want to become pirates?" he exclaimed.

"I am already a pirate, remember?"

"Oh. Right."

She rolled her eyes, knowing he couldn't see it in the dark.

"I don't know Bron—I—I don't want to kill people," he hesitated.

"What do you mean you don't know? Why'd you ever ask me to teach you to fight if you never wanted to hurt anyone?" she accused.

"I don't know, it seems so harmless when we're practicing. Besides, stealing a ship ... we could hang for that."

She tried a different approach. "First of all, they'd have to catch us to hang us, right?"

"Yeah."

"And you said yourself this ship is uncatchable. And secondly, I'll let you in on a little pirate secret: most of the time you don't really have to hurt anyone, just make them think you will. Actually, many ships surrender without a fight. Most sailors don't think it worth their life to protect another man's gold.

"Think of it, Sam: sailing the open seas, going wherever you want, answering to no one; and with all the treasure we'll get, you could buy any ship you wanted—dozens of ships even. You don't really want to spend your whole life wishing, do you?"

"But stealing from my own countrymen...."

"I'll make a deal with you. We take this one English ship, but afterwards we steal only from the French, Spanish, Dutch, whoever. We could even get a Letter of Marquee if you want, to attack the Spanish. They carry the richest treasures anyway."

"Letter of Marquee. Not from here," Sam said. "Governor Heydon wouldn't overlook the fact we stole a ship off his own island!"

Bronte smiled as she felt his reluctance dissipating. "There are others who give letters. We could go to Jamaica. Modyford commissioned Henry Morgan to sack a whole Spanish port! I bet to get one you only have to promise not to attack the English. And if this merchant kid is as rich as you told me he won't even lose sleep over this little ship. He'll probably have a new one commissioned before we leave the harbor. So is it a deal?"

Sam hesitated. "I've heard about Morgan. I also heard the new governor of Jamaica, Lynch, had Morgan and Modyford hauled back to London and thrown in The Tower!"

"Well, they weren't hung," Bronte said pointedly. "And I'll bet they let Morgan out anyway. He's practically a hero around here. The Spanish hate him, but the English, they all but worship him. He commanded a whole fleet of privateers."

"I know."

"Maybe someday we will too."

"That would be something," Sam said wistfully.

"So what do you say, we have to start with one before we make it a fleet. Is it a deal?"

"Deal," he said at last.

"Huzzah," she said quietly.

"Wait, how do pirates seal an agreement? Should we spit on our hands and shake or something?"

"You want to spit on your hand?"

"Well no, but I thought ... oh never mind!"

Bronte smiled into the darkness. Soon she'd be out on the open ocean where she belonged and, best of all, this time she wouldn't be alone.

***

After his escape from the ostentatious ball Lucien had directed his path toward the sea and his ship, which lay waiting to be finished. The sound of soft waves lapping at the pale sand permeated the night and gradually the slow percussion of the waves soothed his racing mind and washed his emotions to a pleasant dullness, as it always did.

He slipped off his boots and wriggled his toes as his feet sank into the soft wet sand, closing his eyes as he breathed the salt air in deeply. The warm waters stretched up the pallid banks and washed over his feet, embedding them into the bank. Before he sank too deeply he extracted them and walked slowly along the shore. The sand was dotted with flotsam—debris washed ashore.

Unbidden, his thoughts turned toward his mother and twin sister. This same sea had taken them; nevertheless, its endless lapping waves helped soothe the ache time hadn't washed away, like a familiar lullaby played again and again. He never could stay away long. He turned his gaze inland, toward his nearly finished ship.

He could already envision himself standing on deck, the wind tousling his hair as he bellowed commands to the sailors. It spoke of freedom. Freedom from the place he was stuck in now, somewhere between the past and the future. And it couldn't come soon enough. While gazing at his sloop, he felt as if someone was watching. He looked around, but he was alone. Lucien sighed and began the walk to his father's estate.

Turning the key as quietly as he could, Lucien unlocked the door to his father's estate and stepped in softly. He'd expected everyone to be abed and was surprised to see the soft flickering light of a candle burning from the parlor. Following its glow, he entered the room, walking along the plush runner lying over the varnished wood floors, to stand at the back of a velvet-cushioned chair. In it a little man sat, some years passed middle age, leaning forward at a carved desk of deep mahogany.

"Johnstone, what keeps you up at this hour?"

"Your father said you disappeared from the party early, and yet you appear so late."

"My father," he repeated with a sigh. Lucien pulled up a chair opposite Johnstone and fingered a square of the paper stacked on the desktop. "What're you making?" He asked, referring to the partially folded piece the older man was creasing.

Johnstone shrugged. "It has not yet decided."

A typically Johnstone response. The man came to the Bellemare's as an indentured servant, his main occupation to keep a young Lucien out of trouble, but after his seven years were served he stayed on as his former charge's man servant. He seemed to teem with uncommon talents, such as the one he was displaying now; although Lucien asked many times where he'd learned this form of folding paper into animals and objects, an art he called ori kami, he'd only reply cryptically, 'it is surprising what one can learn when you kept your eyes open and your mouth closed'.

Lucien held up a square of the fine paper. He hadn't touched it since he was a child and the squares seemed much smaller in his large hands than he remembered. He quickly folded it into the likeness of a ship.

Johnstone glanced at it and humphed.

"What?" he turned the object around as he inspected it closely. "What's the matter with it?"

"Predictable," Johnstone answered simply.

Lucien tossed the ship on the desk where it slid a few inches on its side. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, dropping his hand heavily atop the polished wood.

"Your father said you met a girl tonight."

"I did."

"A comely girl."

"Exceedingly comely."

"Pleasant?"

"Very pleasant."

"And yet he claims you ran away halfway through the ball. Alone."

"Should I have run off with her?" Lucien teased.

"Predictable."

"Ugh. What?"

"Anytime a lady shows an interest in you, you dash away."

"I do not."

Johnstone looked sideways at him.

"Fine then, maybe I do, but they're never the kind of women I'm interested in."

"How do you know what kind of woman she was? You spent half an evening with her."

Lucien was beginning to wish he'd stayed at the beach.

"She screamed and fainted when she saw a lizard. A lizard, Johnstone!"

Johnstone rolled his eyes. "You will find yourself old and lonely one day if you're going to be so discriminating."

Sighing heavily, Lucien hung his head. Most of the time he got along well with the older man, but other times....

"Is your arthritis keeping you up again? I'll make you a warm ginger compress." He went to retrieve his medical bag, hoping the diversion wasn't too obvious.

"Yes, I'd appreciate it. Very thoughtful." He paused for a moment while Lucien found what he needed from his supplies. "Now about that young lady: What is it you're holding out for? I know you think women grow on trees here but there are infinitely fewer of them the deeper you delve into the West Indies, and almost none of the proper social status."

So much for the diversion. He let the silence hang in the air a minute as he mixed the components of the compress.

"I'm not looking for some woman of 'the proper social status' so delicate I have to fuss and worry over her. I haven't the patience for it."

"The patience. Is that the truth of it then?" When Lucien didn't answer, he continued. "You're still having the nightmares, aren't you?"

Lucien worked his jaw. The man had annoyingly accurate perception sometimes. He always had the nightmares; actually, just one nightmare, over, and over, and over. "I need to heat some water." He quickly left the room before his face gave anything away.

As he rummaged around the kitchen looking for a kettle he considered the suggestion Johnstone was making: Was the reason he always found himself eschewing female attention tied in with the loss of his mother and sister? He'd never thought much about it. Many men his age were unmarried but, he debated with himself, not so many of them tried so hard as he to avoid womanly attentions.

Too quickly, he found his task finished and he reluctantly returned to the parlor, hoping his friend had forgotten the lecture he seemed ready to deliver.

No such luck. Johnstone resumed the topic the moment he reentered the room.

"You know I only want to see you happy and that's your father's wish as well, for that matter. I'm concerned the path you're traveling will end with you being alone, never having let anyone into your heart. You deserve more than that."

"And I'm to cure that by scooping up the first eligible maiden I see?"

"Not at all, but please, for my sake, quit dismissing them with such flimsy excuses. If you're looking for someone you won't worry over, you'll never find them."

Lucien chuckled. "Now, Johnstone, your telling me there's not a single woman out there who can look out for herself?"

The old man smiled. "Not at all, but you'll never find a love you will not worry over, for to love someone is to be afraid that someday, you will lose them."

Yes, the man was much too perceptive.