Martin was glad to finally get away from the table, even if it was only to fetch the next round of grog. In the presence of the six high-ranking sailors, all talking about their adventures and laughing away their mishaps, he'd never felt more exposed. All of them seemed like giants to him, so confident and self-assured, and though he tried his best to keep out of their eyeline by shrinking into his seat, this did little to dissuade their judgemental gazes at the young man who dared to sit at the captain's table without an adventure of his own to relate to them. That, along with Emily's hard glares at him every time they caught each other's eye, was enough to squeeze the air from his lungs. If anything, it was nice to breathe for a while, even if he was sent away with a tankard hurled at his head. At this point, Leddhart was too drunk to speak, so Martin assumed that was his way of asking for more.

As the barmaid loaded the tray with tankards and stared intently at the Captain's silver coin clutched between Martin's knuckles, a cool breeze slipped in through a crack in the door and nipped at Martin's ankle. Evening had arrived. Had they really been here for that long? Martin wasn't surprised. To him, it had felt like years instead of hours. The waitress thunked down the last of the tankards, then stretched out her hand without a word. Martin dropped the silver coin into her palm and she nodded.

'You don't want change?'

'No, keep it,' Martin said begrudgingly. The barmaid grinned and slipped the coin into her apron.

Martin sighed, bracing himself to dive back in, grabbing the tray of drinks.

'Pardon me, young man?' Martin started at the strange voice in his ear, then cursed at himself when he felt the grog sway in their cups and threaten to topple over. He dropped the tray back down and spun around. A man in a slope-brimmed hat with a gold and blue parrot's feather in its silk band was leaning against the bar, his legs coiled around each other as he bounced the heel of his boot on the toe of the other. He tilted his head up, unveiling the leathery, nut-brown face hidden beneath a shadow. A grin parted his lips, and a gold tooth glinted in the firelight. 'My apologies,' he spoke with a strange accent that Martin was sure was familiar, but he couldn't place it. It was European, certainly, but where? 'I did not mean to startle you.'

'I-It's alright...' Martin stammered, then cleared his throat and took a breath. 'Sorry, sir. Did you want to get to the bar?'

'No, no,' the man grinned again. 'I was actually hoping to talk to you.'

'You were?' Martin cocked his head.

'You are with those sailors over there, are you not?' The man tipped his hat in the direction of the table. Martin followed his gaze. Captain Leddhart was trying to get at the last drop of grog from his empty tankard, which earned him a bed on the floor when the chair suddenly slipped out from under him. The table exploded with laughter; even Emily allowed herself a soft giggle behind her hand.

'Yes, I am,' Martin nodded, then paused. 'Why... do you want to know? Do you know them?'

'No, not all of them,' the man kept staring at the table as the captain to the right of Leddhart kicked him in the shoulder and laughed at the burp it produced. 'But I am very interested in knowing who the girl is.'

At this, Martin's heart leapt. Why would he want to know about Emily? Then he blushed. He can't have been the only one who'd noticed her, but somehow this wasn't the same. The way he asked, the way he drew out each word, it wasn't the way someone spoke when they were curious. In some way, it reminded Martin of the groaning a beartrap makes when a hunter prizes it open.

'I'm sure you are, sir. She's a very interesting person.'

'I'm sure she is.' The man grinned so widely that the corners of his mouth almost touched his eyes. 'What is her name?'

This directness alarmed Martin, and before he knew what he was saying, he blurted out. 'That's none of your business.' His hands began to tingle and the blood drained away from his face. The grin faded from the man's face and he slowly turned to face Martin.

'I beg your pardon?'

'W-what I meant,' Martin stammered. He instinctively scanned the room for the exit, then scolded himself for doing so. Like he could just bolt from the tavern and expect that to make things better. No, he had to think his way to get out of this; get out of his eyeline. 'What I meant, sir... is that... I don't even know your name. How can you expect me to introduce you without a name?'

'Mhm,' the man nodded and his gaze softened. 'You make a good point. Very well, you may introduce me as...' The long breath he took before answering made Martin's neck twitch. 'Van den Berg of the Haarlem; merchant by trade.'

'You're Dutch?' Martin said, grabbing at the first thing to fill the silence. But the next thought that pressed itself to the front of his mind was: funny, he doesn't sound Dutch.

'I am,' Van den Berg nodded.

'Which part of Holland are you from?' Martin asked with suspicion.

Van den Berg grinned. 'Does it matter?'

Martin paused. 'I... suppose not... But, I-.'

'Good,' Van den Berg interrupted. He smiled again, then tousled Martin's hair, which made him feel childlike. 'Then we understand each other? So, why don't I help you carry that tray over to the table and you can introduce me?'

Martin could sense that something wasn't right. There was something in Van den Berg's manner - his quiet confidence, his almost perfect posture, his semi-permanent smile - that sent a chill across the nape of Martin's neck. What if he challenged or denied Van den Berg's request, or even warned Captain Percival that there was someone who wished to join them then report back with his response to their prospective guest? Perhaps he could pretend to have misheard Van den Berg and hope against hope that he would drop the subject. All of these options, Martin realised, would be met with resistance from some quarter. He didn't have the energy to argue with anyone else, especially not after Emily. So, to his shame, he nodded, picked up his tray of grog, and wordlessly lead Van den Berg over to the table.

'About time, Hamish. You'll have a man die of thirst in the time it's taken you to return.' Captain Percival smiled and raised his tankard, then his eye fell upon the stranger and his face dropped in confusion. 'Who's this?' Everyone around the table turned to look up at Van den Berg. Emily wore a curious expression as she stared the newcomer up and down. Martin peered closely at her as he set the tray of grog down. There was something uneasy in the way she sat, not nearly as relaxed as she had been a moment ago.

'I'm glad you asked, my dear sir,' Van den Berg announced, his thick accent rolling off his tongue like silk. He took off his hat and gave a short bow. 'Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Van den Berg, merchant captain of the Haarlem. I was just getting acquainted with your young friend at the bar.' Van den Berg gestured with his hat towards Martin as he passed a tankard to each of the waiting captains. 'He invited me over for a chat.'

'Did he now?' Captain Percival raised an eyebrow. Martin froze in place just as he was about to put the penultimate tankard down on the table. He stole a glance at the Captain, trying to gauge in whose direction the hidden slight was aimed, but by the time he had mustered the courage to look, Captain Percival had leaned forward with interest, drumming his fingers against the side of his cup. 'Well, if Mister Hamish was kind enough to invite you over, who are we to refuse you our hospitality? Afterall, it's quite a trek from the bar, and I'd hate to think you'd come all this way for nothing.' The Captain smirked with self-satisfaction as his peers enjoyed a quiet snigger to themselves. Emily, however, hadn't joined in this time. Where she had been jolly and relaxed before – probably helped in part by the wine – she now sat stiffly, staring at her knees. Her hand was clenched so tight around the neck of her bottle that her knuckles turned white, sweat poured down her forehead and she struggled to maintain an even breath, clearly fighting the urge to hyperventilate.

'Thank you,' Van den Berg set his hat down and dragged over a chair from a neighbouring table, nudging Leddhart's legs out of the way so that he could take his place. 'It's a pleasure to be with you, though I must confess that my interests mainly lie in uncovering the identity of this charming young lady.' He turned to Emily. She kept her eyes fixed down at her knees, but now her grip around the neck of her bottle was so tight that her whole arm began to tremble. 'May I ask your name, Madame?'

'E-E-Emily,' she stammered, still not looking up to meet Van den Berg's gaze.

'My dear, you do me an injustice,' Van den Berg chuckled. 'That is only half a name. What would be your full name?'

Emily swallowed and her eyes widened. Martin heard the wine in her bottle slosh from side-to-side as her trembling worsened. 'Em- Emily M-Morton.'

'Are you alright, miss?' the captain to her left asked. 'You don't seem quite yourself.'

'I'm sure she's just shy.' Van den Berg grinned. 'I am a stranger after all. Here.' The Dutch captain thrust his hand out in front of Emily. 'It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, madame.'

Emily hesitated. Her discomfort was obvious to Martin. He'd felt that way a thousand times before, but this was something different; something more intense. It was almost like she was afraid of him. But how could she be? She's only just met him. Unless...

Emily's arm moved to take Van den Berg. Before she had fully lifted it from her lap, the Dutch captain had closed the distance and snatched it up. She winced as his fingers coiled around her bandaged hand.

'You see? Now, we are no longer strangers. But, dear me!' Van den Berg kept hold Emily's hand as he turned it to examine the bandages. 'What's this? You poor child. How did this happen?'

Martin's heart dropped through the floor. At first, he didn't know what to think, or even where to start to think. The only thing he thought to do was to keep still like there was a snake in the room, except, the snake wasn't looking at him; it was looking at Emily.

'I...' Emily licked her lip and dropped her gaze to her shoes, and away from Van den Berg. 'I, um... scratched it on a loose nail. This island is littered with them. It's nothing, really.' Her shoulder jolted backwards as she tried to take her arm back, but Van den Berg refused by tightening his grip.

'Strange,' Van den Berg drew out the word, giving himself enough time to turn over Emily's arm to examine it once more. She hissed, the bandages chaffing her half-healed burns as she tried to resist his grip.

At the sound of her pain, Martin felt the sudden urge to leap forward and defend her. Cowardice, however, got the better of him. For all he knew, he hadn't meant to hurt her. It could have been an honest mistake, but it was a mistake that was going on for far too long. Instinctively, Martin turned to Captain Percival, silently urging that the fearless buccaneer to step in and save her. To his relief, Captain Percival's hand was already hovering over one of his pistols, but to his equal confusion, the Captain didn't move to draw it or even speak a warning. He just kept staring. Captain Percival must have felt eyes on him, for he stole a glance in Martin's direction and for a moment their eyes met. With a wordless stare, Martin pleaded for the Captain to do something, but the Captain only gave a gentle, almost imperceptible shake of the head before returning his attention to Van den Berg, one hand still clutching his gun.

'Such large bandage for a scratch,' Van den Berg continued. 'How did you not see the nail and pull away?'

'I was running,' Emily blurted out, finally wrenching her hand free and cradling it to her chest. She still refused to meet Van den Berg's eye. 'I-I didn't see it coming.'

Van den Berg nodded, but Martin couldn't help but notice the corner of his mouth twitch, the tell-tale sign of a barely suppressed grin. 'I'm sure you didn't.'

Emily cleared her throat, thumped the bottle of wine down on the table and shot to her feet so fast that she almost blew the hearth fire out in her wake. 'I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I'm afraid I've grown tired all of a sudden. I must retire. Goodnight to you all.' They all nodded their replies. Then, she turned to Martin. 'Mister Hamish,' she raised her voice and hoisted her nose up in the air, 'can I trust you to be in our room at a sensible time? A lady needs her beauty sleep, you know, and I will not be impressed if you disturb me.' She stole a sidewards glance at Van den Berg, whose black eyes were still fixed unwaveringly on her.

'Of course,' Martin nodded, trying his hardest to not let his voice quaver. 'I'll try not to turn in too late.'

'You have my thanks. Good night,' she curtsied stiffly, then made her way towards the stairs. Van den Berg's head stayed still, but his eyes followed her as she disappeared upstairs, glistening like dark pearls in the firelight.

'What was all that about?' one of the captains chuckled.

'I don't know,' Captain Percival squinted at Van den Berg.

'Isn't it obvious?' Van den Berg chuckled, turning back towards the table and reaching over to commandeer Leddhart's tankard of rum. 'The lady is tired. She wanted to retire. Where's the mystery?'

'Where, indeed,' Captain Percival leaned forward. 'Where did you say you were from?'

'I didn't,' Van den Berg slurped down a generous helping of rum, then smacked his lips and smiled at Captain Percival. 'I'm from Holland. Can't you tell?'

'Would it surprise you if I said I couldn't? Your accent is hard to place.' Captain Percival narrowed his eyes. Van den Berg's smile didn't waver.

'It wouldn't. It's something I hear a lot.'

Martin watched the pair with interest. Somehow, since Van den Berg had sat down, the table had shrunk and the gap between the two captains had closed until they were almost face-to-face.

Van den Berg smirked again, then reached for his tankard and cocked his head towards the stairs. 'Where did you pick Miss Morton up?'

'How do you know she's not from here?' Captain Percival asked.

'You think I'm an idiot?' Van den Berg laughed. 'What Nassau native wears fineries like that?'

'Strange; for a merchant, you seem to know Nassau and her people like the back of your hand. Not finding enough business in civilization these days?'

'It's hard when civilization seems to be in short supply these days.' The silence that fell between them was deafening. Martin begged for someone, anyone, to make a noise or speak, but for what seemed like hours, no one did. Van den Berg relented and sighed. He sat back in his chair and raising his cup to his lips before murmuring: 'These are dangerous waters, captain. All sorts of buccaneers sail here, but the especially bloodthirsty ones hunt in the Windward Passage.'

The realisation struck Martin like a rogue wave, and all of a sudden he found it difficult to breathe. He knows, Martin thought. He knows about the Saint George. Furthermore, he knows where it is, where it crashed. But that can only mean-.

Martin looked over at Captain Percival. His face was unwavering, mostly. A slight softening of the skin around his eyes and corners of his mouth was enough for any perceptive man to see that what Van den Berg said, it had an effect. Martin didn't doubt that Van den Berg was that perceptive.

'It's not safe for a merchant such as myself to take such easy routes with pirates and brigands roaming about,' Van den Berg gestured dismissively as he set down his tankard. A wide grin stretched itself across Van den Berg's face, then in a single motion, without raising his head, his eyes darted up to meet Captain Percival's gaze with inhuman precision. 'You wouldn't have happened to pass through there recently, would you? Seen any ships, perhaps?' He drew out each word like a knife on a whetstone.

Captain Percival leaned forward and lowered his voice to a snarl. 'I think we both know that the answer to that is more than your life is worth, so how about you do me a favour and keep out of my business. And I, in return, will do the same for you.'

'Deal,' Van den Berg nodded, and his grin softened into something a little more friendly, but that didn't mean it was any less insidious to Martin. 'Let us hope that it stays that way.'

After a brief silence, Martin was relieved when one of the captains finally yawned. 'Well, this truly has been a fascinating evening, but I'm afraid, like poor Miss Morton, I too am growing weary.' He rose to his feet and turned to Captain Percival. 'To that end, I think I'll drag myself to the hayshed.'

'Same goes for me,' another announced, draining his tankard and rising as the others followed his lead. As he set down his tankard and turned to leave, he suddenly stopped and looked down. Leddhart groaned beneath his feet. 'Christ's sake, Leddhart, you really are a lost cause. Come on, we'd better get you back to your bunk before Maggie brings the roof down your head. Jarvis, you mind giving me a hand?'

'No need,' Van den Berg stood up and put his hand on the captain's shoulder. 'I will help him.'

'Oh,' the captain said. 'Well, thank you kindly, Dutchman.'

'My pleasure.' Van den Berg bent down and lifted Leddhart to his feet. 'Come now, sir,' he said, slinging Leddhart's arm across his shoulder. 'Let's find you somewhere comfortable to lay your head.'

'Thanks to you, stranger,' Leddhart mumbled and squinted at Van den Berg with an idiotic smile. 'You're both very kind.'

'Good evening, gentlemen,' Van den Berg bowed to the other captains, then turned to Captain Percival. 'And good evening to you. I don't believe I caught your name, friend.'

'Captain Henry Percival of the Scourge.'

'Ah,' Van den Berg said, 'The notorious Black Hal; a feared name among merchants. Yes, I've heard of you.'

'Why am I not surprised?' Captain Percival murmured from behind his tankard as he took a swig. 'Farewell to you, friend. Safe travels.'

Van den Berg tipped his hat, then turned and fixed his dark eyes on Martin. 'It was good to meet you, Mister Hamish. It is a shame Miss Morton had to turn in early. You will give her my regards, won't you?'

Martin swallowed. His eyes were hot with anxiety, and he resisted the urge to wipe away a bead of sweat as it ran down his nose. He saw an opportunity to confirm his suspicions but didn't know if he had the courage to do it. To Hell with it, he thought. To Hell with all of this.

'I'll pass on the message to her, klootzak. It was good meeting you, too.' He paused for a second, terrified that he might have been wrong after all. To his sour relief, Van den Berg smiled his characteristic smile and nodded.

'You're too kind. Good night to you, young man.'

I knew it, Martin thought. If he had been wrong, and Van den Berg did know what klootzak meant, he would have undoubtedly been struck across the face for his impudence. No wonder I couldn't place his accent. It doesn't come from Holland. Martin stole a glance at Captain Percival, who looked back at him, his eyes as cold as cobalt, before turning back to Van den Berg. 'G-good night, sir,' Martin forced himself to smile.

With a smile of his own, Van den Berg tipped his hat again, and made his way out of the tavern door, dragging Leddhart with him as he burbled the chorus of an old shanty. The door closed with a thud that punctuated the silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire, and the Dutch merchant was gone.

Martin hadn't realised how tense he was until now. He could feel his heartbeat behind his eyes, and every muscle in his body went limp until he had no choice but to collapse into a chair. Captain Percival exhaled sharply and set down his tankard.

'Captain,' Martin mumbled. 'That merchant. He-.'

'I know,' the Captain groaned, passing his hand over his hair and down the nape of his neck. 'And he knows that we know, which means this island's no longer as safe as I thought.' The Captain held Martin's gaze. The coldness melted away, replaced by a painful sincerity that filled Martin with more dread than any roar or barked order ever could. 'Keep your pistol close, lad. We've got a long night ahead of us.'