Source: Diabolik Lovers More, More Blood Vol. 12 Mukami Ruki [CD not owned by me]
Audio: Here & here
Seiyuu: Takahiro Sakurai
Translator’s note: God this CD was so mentally draining. > < This final track in particular, Ruki is just so...evil. I feel like this has surpassed the level of ‘sadism’ and he really just wants to make the MC’s life a living hell. :’’) He even literally says it a few times. I honestly can’t help but feel like this Ruki was kind of OOC and I know at least one Ruki stan who would agree with me. xD
“...You’re late! How long did you intend to keep me waiting?”
You apologize.
“Oh well. I shall give you credit for coming here running at least. Hurry up and get inside.”
You enter the room.
“You seem cautious. Shouldn’t it be obvious why I called you to the library? I helped you look for resources the other day, and today I’ll have you return the favor. Search for the book with this title.”
Ruki hands you a piece of paper.
*Flip*
“Someone borrowed it for an extended period of time. I heard it had been returned to the library but I can’t find it anywhere. Even the librarian was left puzzled. You shall help me find it as well. Please look through the book shelves in this row. I’ll be looking over on this side.”
You nod.
“A clever response. Bring it to me as soon as you find it. It is a very valuable book. Do not damage it by mistake.”
You start looking around for the book.
*Rustle rustle*
“I heard there’s a seal imprinted on the spine of the book, so you should be able to tell which one is the right one as soon as you spot it. “
*Rustle*
You find the book.
“You’ve already found it? I’m impressed. Treat it with care. I won’t go easy on you if you were to fold one of the pages.”
You grab hold of the book, accidentally dropping all the pages.
“Oi...!? What are you doing...!?”
Ruki stomps over to you.
“The pages are all over the place...What did you do to it!?”
You try and explain.
“Are you trying to make up excuses? Seems like you don’t feel any guilt towards the blunder you just committed. In that case, it cannot be helped. I shall teach it to your body directly.”
You pull out the hourglass.
*Cling*
*Tick tock - Tick tock - Tick tock - Tick tock*
ーーー
...
“I heard there’s a seal imprinted on the spine of the book, so you should be able to tell which one is the right one as soon as you spot it. “
You sigh in relief.
“What’s wrong? Why do you seem so relieved? I don’t remember giving you permission to take a break? ...Huh?”
Ruki walks over to you.
“It’s right in front of you. This is the one. The book I’ve been looking for.”
You try and stop him.
“What’s wrong? Should I not grab it?”
You explain.
“What are you saying? You claim that the pages have become loose and will fall out? That is ridiculous.”
He takes the book off the shelf.
“Just as I thought, they had it amongst their collection. It has been preserved in great condition as well.”
*Flip*
Your eyes widen in surprise.
“What’s wrong? It looks as if your eyes are going to pop out. ...You said the pages would fall out, no? As you can see, as long as you flip them carefully, there’s no risks involved at all.”
*Flip*
“After all...I’m the one who set this all up.
Your heart stops for a second.
“I put an aged book here on purpose; I should be the only one aware though.”
He walks towards you.
“Of the fact that the book’s binder has broken, so the pages will come falling out. ...So how did you know?”
You flinch.
“The reason is easy. You have used the hourglass once already, haven’t you? That is how you rewinded time, and erased your mistake. Judging by your reaction, this has not been the first time you did so either. These past few days, you have been looping time over and over, haven’t you? I thought something was off, but I finally figured you out. ...I assume you did something which upset me? What exactly did you do?”
You hurriedly pull out the hourglass.
*Rustle rustle*
“You really believe I’d let you use it? I will take this back.”
*Cling*
“Such beautiful red sand. Its decorations truly are sublime as well. However, the magic energy has decreased quite a bit. ...How many times did you rewind? How many times were you punished by me, but rendered it void?”
You remain quiet.
“I can make an estimate even if you don’t give me an answer. Enough times for the magic to be this drained at least. It seems like you need to be punished.”
You try and defend yourself.
“Aah. I did say that, did I not? That I was curious how you would use it. However, using it to cover up your own mistakes is simply inexcusable. You concealed your own mishaps, deceiving those around you...As someone who once read the Bible, I am sure you know just how severe of a sin that is. You must atone for your sins. In that case, I shall lend you a helping hand. ...You were aware, weren’t you? Every time you turned back time, you were the only one who retained your memories. To me...This is the first time I’ve disciplined you in quite some time.
*Rustle*
“I shall teach you thoroughly. From head to toe.”
Ruki bites you.
*Sluuuuurp*
*Gulp gulp*
“Haah...What’s wrong? Have you become worked up because it has been a while since I sucked your blood? ...No, that’s wrong. I suppose that isn’t quite correct. You’ve been rewinding time again and again, haven’t you? Going back, doing things over, but those memories are burnt inside your mind. Did you never consider this? If you were to rewind time, the wounds left on your body would heal, but the pain you received from my fangs remains vivid in your memory. Unharmed skin, striking pain...No wonder your brain would become confused. If you were to repeat this process over and over, you might even go crazy.”
Your face goes pale.
“You only just realized? How foolish. You have been using the hourglass only to cover up your mistakes, haven’t you? However, you should have take notice of the weight of your actions. Well then, now that you understand...I shall give you a gift.”
*Cling*
“The red sand is almost like sand. ...This time, I shall use it.”
*Rustle*
“I shall rewind time and give you my fangs. Then repeat the process over and over. Your mind will slowly become numb from the continuous pain and pleasure. I am sure you can imagine what will happen to you if I keep on rewinding time, piling one memory on top of the other? Your disoriented mind will gradually begin to break. The overwhelming pleasure will make you go insane. You will surely...grow mad.”
You look at him in horror.
“What is wrong? You seem rather pale. You don’t mind, do you? You are the one who already used this hourglass plenty of times. I am sure I would have gone mad at some point as well. Well then, it seems like you understand what I have in store for you. I shall rewind time for us. Break for all I care!”
You beg for his mercy.
“Hmph. Now that’s a lovely cry. I can’t deny that seeing you thoroughly terrified like that does something to me. I see. So you want me to stop, huh? Why don’t you get down on your knees and plea? You might just be able to change my mind.”
You grovel in front of him.
*Rustle*
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it...Seems like your own identity as livestock has really sunken in. Although I suppose that only makes sense. I am the one who tamed you after all. However, it seems like you still fail to understand one thing. Have I ever gone easy on you in the middle of a discipline session?”
You flinch.
“Ah, seems like you remembered. You’ve become a little more clever at least. Seeing you tremble in despair is not a bad sight at all. Well then...Have a taste of Hell...”
*Tick tock - Tick tock - Tick tock - Tick tock*
ーーー
...
“I see. So this is how you’ve been rewinding time? Your skin is still untouched. It has indeed returned to its previous state, before I pierced it with my fangs. For the sake of your training, I made sure your memories remain intact. Do you remember what I was doing to you up until just now?”
You look at Ruki in fear.
“That look on your face makes for a fine reply. Furthermore, I can pick up the sweet scent of your blood, even though I have yet to bite you. It must be rather rough to be so worked up, no? No matter where I touch you now, it should make for an overwhelming stimulus.”
He steps closer.
“Shall we put it to the test? Just from running my fingers from your throat to your collarbone...”
*Rustle*
“Just as I thought. Simply carressing your skin makes the strong sensations eat away at you. How does it feel to slowly feel your body erode from the surface of your skin? On top of that...This should be nowhere near satisfying in your current state. The stronger the sensation becomes, the easier it will be to use this as a tool to manipulate you. I suppose I shall toy with you like this a little longer. Your arm or your back...Where else do you want me to touch you?”
Ruki paces around you.
“I have to give you an even stronger stimulus.”
You whimper in distress.
“You seem to be having a hard time. To show me such a shameless side of you, it seems like I have not yet disciplined you enough.”
*Smooch*
You squeak.
“I guess you are nearing your limit? Very well. I’ll suck you from behind this time.”
*Rustle rustle*
He bites you again.
*Sluuuurp*
“Mmh...Nn...”
*Gulp*
“Nn...Haah...Such lovely cries...The taste of your blood isn’t bad either. I can tell that your whole body has become heated. Ah, you are already starting to feel faint? Rest assured. We still have plenty of time...”
*Cling*
*Tick tock - Tick tock - Tick tock - Tick tock*
ーーー
...
“This works.”
You tilt your head to the side.
“Do you not understand? I turned back time. Your body is still unscathed. Like this, you won’t fall unconscious due to blood loss, right? Of course, the pain and pleasure you experienced still remain in your memory.”
You beg for him to stop.
“Not a bad cry at all. However, I shall not stop turning back time until your punishment is over. You are aware, aren’t you? You will only break free from this Hell, the moment you go mad. ...Hurry up and lose your mind already. If you want this suffering to end, that is.”
Ruki bites you again.
“Mmh...Nn...Fufu...Haah...Aah...I suppose I shouldn’t call it ‘suffering’. I suppose pleasure is already the only thing you can feel. Your eyes have lost focus. I doubt you can even still properly pick up my voice...Even your mouth is slacked...Mmh...”
*Smooch*
“What’s wrong? Is this not enough for you? Very well, I shall give it to you. I shall cover you with the marks of my fangs from head to toe. No matter how hard-handedly I treat you, all I need to do is rewind time afterwards. So I can do with this body of yours as I please...Ah, but I suppose it’ll stick in your memories. The intense pain, as well as the pleasure, crystal clear. Seems like you will be in quite the pinch once I rewind. I wonder how long you will be able to remain sane? Please rest assured. I don’t plan on giving you relief any time soon.”
He leans in.
“...I want you to suffer, between sanity and insanity.”
Track 6: Epilogue
*Rustle*
“...So you’ve lost consciousness? Isn’t that a little soon? Your body should still be overflowing with blood. There is just no way you would faint already. Of course, even if you do, I could simply rewind time. However...You better don’t think I will let you go mad so easily. I don’t plan on giving you relief after just one time. Your sin for deceiving me is grave. I shall engrave it deep inside your body, just how foolish and shameless you have been. ...So you can properly atone.”
*Rustle*
“Well then...It is time to wake up. I wonder how I should punish you next? Although, I am sure that whatever I do, it will be like pure torture to you.”
He paces around you.
“I am very much looking forward...to seeing you suffer in Hell.”
*Cling*
*Thud*
ーー THE END ーー
--> PROCEED TO ANOTHER STORY [DELUXE EDITION ONLY]
“The External Source of Energy of the Universe, Origin and Intensity of Cosmic Rays.”
By Nikola Tesla
October 13, 1932, New York:
“A little over one century ago many astronomers, including Laplace still thought that the system of heavenly bodies was unalterable and that they would perform their motions in the same manner through an eternity. But the gradual perfection of instruments and refinement of methods of investigation, achieved since that time, has led to the recognition that there is a continuous change going on in the celestial regions subjecting all bodies to ever varying influence. Where this change is leading to, and what is to be its final phase, have become questions of supreme scientific interest. In a communication to the Royal Society of Edinburgh dated April 19, 1852 and the Philosophical Magazine of October of the same year, Lord Kelvin drew attention to the general tendency in nature towards dissipation of mechanical energy, a fact borne out in daily observation of thermo-dynamic and dynamo-thermic processes and one of ominous significance. It meant that the driving force of the universe was steadily decreasing and that ultimately all of its motive energy will be exhausted none remaining available for mechanical work. In the macro-cosmos, with its countless conception, this process might require billion of years for its consummation; but in the infinitesimal worlds of the micro-cosmos it must have been quickly completed. Such being the case then, according to an experimental findings and deductions of positive science, any material substance (cooled down to the absolute zero of temperature) should be devoid of an internal movement and energy, so to speak, dead.
"This idea of the great philosopher, who later honored me with his friendship, had a fascinating effect on my mind and in meditating over it I was struck by the thought that if there is energy within the substance it can only come from without. This truth was so manifest to me that I expressed it in the following axiom: "There is no energy in matter except that absorbed from the medium.” Lord Kelvin gave us a picture of a dying universe, of a clockwork wound up and running down, inevitably doomed to come to a full stop in the far, far off future. It was a gloomy view incompatible with artistic, scientific and mechanical sense. I asked myself again and again, was there not some force winding up the clock as it runs down? The axiom I had formulated gave me a clue. If all energy is supplied to matter from without then this all important function must be performed by the medium. Yes–but how?
“I pondered over this oldest and greatest of all riddles of physical science a long time in vain, despairingly remind of the words of the poet:
"Wo fass ich dich unendliche Nat—r?
Euch Bruste wo Ihr Quellen alles Lebens
An denen Himmel und Erd— hangt.”
[“Where, boundless nature, can I hold you fast?
And where you breasts? Wells that sustain
All life – the heaven and the earth are nursed. ”]
Goethe. Faust
“What I strove for seemed unattainable, but a kind fate favored me and a few inspired experiments lifted the veil. It was a revelation wonderful and incredible explaining many mysteries of nature and disclosing as in a lightening flash the illusionary character of some modem theories incidentally also bearing out the universal truth of the above axiom.
"When radio-active rays were discovered their investigators believed them to be due to liberation of atomic energy in the form of waves. This being impossible in the light of the preceding I concluded that they were produced by some external disturbance and composed of electrified particles. My theory was not seriously taken although it appeared simple and plausible. Suppose that bullets are fired against a wall. Where a missile strikes the material is crushed and spatters in all directions radial from the place of impact. In this example it is perfectly clear that the energy of the flying pieces can only be derived from that of the bullets. But in manifestation of radio-activity no such proof could be advanced and it was, therefore, of the first importance to demonstrate experimentally the existence of this miraculous disturbance in the medium. I was rewarded in these efforts with quick success largely because of the efficient method I adopted which consisted in deriving from a great mass of air, ionized by the disturbance, a current, storing its energy in a condenser and discharging the same through an indicating device. This plan did away with the limitations and incertitude of the electroscope first employed and was described by me in articles and patents from 1900 to 1905. It was logical to expect, judging from the behavior of known radiations, that the chief source of the new rays would be the sun, but this supposition was contradicted by observations and theoretical considerations which disclosed some surprising facts in this connection.
"Light and heat rays are absorbed in their passage through a medium in a certain proportion to its density. The ether, although the most tenuous of all substances, is no exception to this rule. Its density has been first estimated by Lord Kelvin and conformably to his finding a column of one square centimeter cross section and of a length such that light, traveling at a rate of three hundred thousands kilometers per second, would require one year to traverse it, should weigh 4.8 grams. This is just about the weigh of a prism of ordinary glass of the same cross section and two centimeters length which, therefore, may be assumed as the equivalent of the ether column in absorption. A column of the ether one thousand times longer would thus absorb as much light as twenty meters of glass. However, there are suns at distances of many thousands of light years and it is evident that virtually no light from them can reach the earth. But if these suns emit rays immensely more penetrative than those of light they will be slightly dimmed and so the aggregate amount of radiations pouring upon the earth from all sides will be overwhelmingly greater than that supplied to it by our luminary. If light and heat rays would be as penetrative as the cosmic, so fierce would be the perpetual glare and so scorching the heat that life on this and other planets could not exist.
"Rays in every respect similar to the cosmic are produced by my vacuum tubes when operated at pressures of ten millions of volts or more, but even if it were not confirmed by experiment, the theory I advanced in 1897 would afford the simplest and most probable explanation of the phenomena. Is not the universe with its infinite and impenetrable boundary a perfect vacuum tube of dimensions and power inconceivable? Are not its fiery suns electrodes at temperatures far beyond any we can apply in the puny and crude contrivances of our making? Is it not a fact that the suns and stars are under immense electrical pressures transcending any that man can ever produce and is this not equally true of the vacuum in celestial space? Finally, can there be any doubt that cosmic dust and meteoric matter present an infinitude of targets acting as reflectors and transformers of energy? If under ideal working conditions, and with apparatus on a scale beyond the grasp of the human mind, rays of surpassing intensity and penetrative power would not be generated, then, indeed, nature has made an unique exception to its laws.
"It has been suggested that the cosmic rays are electrons or that they are the result of creation of new matter in the interstellar deserts. These views are too fantastic to be even for a moment seriously considered. They are natural outcroppings of this age of deep but unrational thinking, of impossible theories, the latest of which might, perhaps, deal with the curvature of time. What this world of ours would be if time were curved:
"As there exists considerable doubt in regard to the manner in which the intensity of the cosmic rays varies with altitude the following simple formula derived from my early experimental data may be welcome to those who are interested in the subject.
I = (W+P) / (W+p)
"In this expression W is the weight in kilograms of a column of lead of one square centimeter cross section and one hundred and eighty centimeters length, P the normal pressure of the atmosphere at sea level in kilograms per square centimeter, p the atmospheric pressure at the altitude under consideration and in like measure and I the intensity of the radiation in terms of that at sea level which is taken as unit. Substituting the actual values for W and P, respectively 1.9809 and 1.0133 kilograms, the formula reduces to
I = 2.99421 / (1.9809 + p)
"Obviously, at sea level p = P hence the intensity is equal to 1, this being the unit of measurement. On the other hand, at the extreme limit of the atmosphere p = 0 and the intensity I = 1.5115.
"The maximum increase with height is, consequently, a little over fifty-one percent. This formula, based on my finding that the absorption is proportionate to the density of the medium whatever it be, is fairly accurate. Other investigators might find different values for W but they will undoubtedly observe the same character of dependence, namely, that the intensity increases proportionately to the height for a few kilometers and then at a gradually lessening rate.”
Referred Species: P. chilensis, P. longirostris, P. mauretanicus, P. miocaenus, P. orri, P. sandersi, P. stirtoni, P. tenuirostris, P. wetmorei
Status: Extinct
Time and Place: Between 30 and 2.5 million years ago, from the Rupelian of the Oligocene through the beginning of the Pleistocene (in the Gelasian age)
Pelagornis, being an extremely common seabird, is known from nearly everywhere around the world, usually associated with the coast.
Physical Description: Despite the incredibly generic name, Pelagornis was quite an interesting bird. Like other pseudotooth birds, both its upper and lower beak bore toothlike spikes, in an alternating small/big/small/big pattern. Its beak was robust and fairly long compared to the back of the skull. These pseudoteeth appear to have grown in relatively late in Pelagornis’s growth, implying the keratin covering the beak may not have been fully hardened until close to adulthood. Interestingly enough, fossil evidence indicates that Pelagornis probably held its head upright at a vertical angle.
By José Carlos Cortés
Pelagornis was fucking huge, m’kay. P. sandersi has an estimated wingspan between 6.1 and 7.4 meters! This makes Pelagornis the bird with the largest wingspan (but not the heaviest flying bird - that record belongs to Argentavis). Its wings were even more proportionally long and narrow than those of the largest flying birds alive today, the albatrosses. In comparison, its body was fairly small. There were, of course, some species of Pelagornis that were smaller than this, reaching only 4 meters long in terms of wingspan. Still, this large wingspan size is really only characteristic of these birds in flight - compressed, they would have looked much smaller, especially given that they were very light weight. They had stout legs and shorter tails, which indicates that they weren’t very good walkers, and spent most of their time in the air or sitting on the land.
By Jack Wood
Diet: Probably fish. The pseudoteeth are likely an adaptation to grab and hold onto large fish. Similar toothlike serrations are seen, albeit much less exaggerated, in modern mergansers, which also eat fish. In addition, the vertical position of the head would have allowed Pelagornis to skim-feed, grabbing fish and other aquatic organisms from the top layer of the ocean and scooping them into their mouths. Thus, the fake-teeth would have allowed Pelagornis to grab onto fish better than non-toothed skim feeding birds. It may have also used these sharp fake teeth in order to grab onto the slipperiest fish and cephalopods - rather than harder shelly animals.
By Scott Reid
Behavior: As with modern seabirds, Pelagornis likely spent most of its time out at sea. Gliding on oceanic thermals would have helped to support its huge body in the air without wasting energy just to stay aloft - which was important, since it wasn’t very good at flapping its wings and would have had trouble staying aloft long enough to get food if it had to flap too frequently. Think an albatross, but a giant, evil albatross. Landing and taking off would have been more awkward, though. It probably needed to take advantage of headwinds, drops in elevation and/or air gusts to get into the air at all. Albatrosses also kinda have this problem, but nowhere near to the same extent. The late appearance of the pseudoteeth implies that Pelagornis may have fed its young back on land like many modern seabirds before they could feed themselves out at sea. As such, they would have sought out good nesting sites, which may correspond to where fossils of Pelagornis are found - indicating that their spread around the world was greater than that we know of. Since it was a sea bird, it probably would have been very social, living in large colonies - and it would have cared for its young in similar social groups. In fact, it seems more likely than not that it would have laid its nests on cliffs and in rocky areas and plateaus, where being able to take off would have been easier than flatter, sandier beaches. Whether or not these animals were as noisy as modern seabirds is really another question altogether.
By Jack Wood
Interestingly enough, Pelagornis had a salt gland in the eye that would have allowed it to excrete excess salt, which was an extremely helpful trait when Pelagornis ate almost entirely seafood. That seafood diet didn’t meant it wasn’t a danger, however - today, seabirds will venture away from the coasts in order to scavenge food on the beach, and they are certainly defensive of their nests, young, and territory. Also fascinatingly, it had a very very very long skull - with all of those pseudoteeth packed in - which had similar shapes and organization as to the extinct really toothed birds of the Mesozoic. This implies that there was a certain amount of evolutionary regression in Pelagornis, allowing it to better support its teeth and chomping ability than it would otherwise. There is also an interesting furrow in the skull, which allowed it to be better support the head and possibly to better grab prey in the ocean.
By Scott Reid
Ecosystem: Pelagornis lived around coastlines worldwide. Because of this, it is difficult to pinpoint with certainty the types of animals it lived with. In fact, it was so long-lived and widespread it is more likely than not that Pelgaornis interacted with any ocean-going creature or animal found along the coast. It doesn’t seem to have a preference in the fossil record between rocky coasts or beaches, though it did seem to stay in at least somewhat warmer ecosystems and where cliffs would have been present for easier take-offs (and it is reasonable to suppose that cliff areas would have been its preferred place for nesting). Some notable animals it would have interacted with include extinct penguins, cetaceans, the famed giant shark Megalodon and… humans. Yup, Pelagornis is known from locations where early members of genus Homo ventured to. So, if you can imagine being afraid of a giant bird with fake teeth a little too well, that would be the instincts of your ancestors talking.
By Scott Reid
Other: Pelagornis is a fun time, classification wise, for multiple reasons: one, a whole bunch of different types of Pseudotoothed birds are actually, apparently, species of Pelagornis; and two, we don’t really know what Pseudotoothed birds really are. So, let’s break this down into those two parts. What’s going on with the species? Well, in the 2010s, a lot of research has been made that shows a bunch of the Neogene Pseudotoothed birds that we’ve counted as different genera are actually… just… part of Pelagornis. Why Wikipedia has not chosen to update their information as to this effect is beyond me, but the fact remains is that a lot of Pseudotoothed birds are just different shades of Pelagornis, primarily due to the fact that they really… aren’t different. In fact, a lot of the differences were just based on time and place, and the fact that Pseudotoothed birds weren’t really well known at all. The loss of Osteodontornis is a bit of a bummer, but there aren’t any major differences between this genus and Pelagornis, so it’s gone. We’ve also lost Pseudodontornis, you know, the name that actually means “fake toothed bird”, unlike the crappy name for Pelagornis, which just means Sea Bird. Like, come on people. Why are we here. Just to suffer. We’ve also lost Palaeochenoides, Neodontornis, and Tympanonesiotes. Hence the extreme amount of art in this article - the last time I covered Pseudotoothed birds, these were separate. So we have an abundance of terrifying tooth art.
By José Carlos Cortés
Finally - what the heck are Pseudotoothed birds? We don’t know. We really don’t know where they go. Are they related to the sea birds we have today (the Aequorlitornithes)? Are they related to ducks? Are they something else entirely? We have no idea, because, frankly, they seem to just appear in the fossil record without any sort of origin whatsoever. Like magic. Suddenly, toothed birds were back like the asteroid never hit. Honestly if I were to hazard a guess, based on the fossil characteristics, they’re probably none of the above - but an early branching group of Neognathous (aka, all birds that aren’t ratites and their cousins) birds that evolved from a non-easily fossilized ancestor. Whether that ancestor had weak bones or just lived in places where fossils don’t happen is a different question entirely, but either way, so far we have nothing. They just appear, in the Paleocene, out of nowhere. And, eventually, Pelagornis also disappeared.
By Jack Wood
Why did Pelagornis, the latest surviving species disappear? The most likely answer is climate change. The onset of the ice age would have caused extreme changes to the water patterns, currents, and air flow. Since Pelagornis didn’t flap its wings much, and relied almost entirely on soaring and thermals, it probably would have been greatly affected by changes in these weather patterns. So, changes in the ocean and the air by the ice age would have decreased its ability to reach food, and then the dramatic changes in its home climate would have been a further death knell. Interestingly enough, they only began to become uncommon right before they became extinct - indicating that Pelagornis really was finished off by this change in climate. Which is sad, because that’s right around when humans were becoming more of a thing, and it would have been nice to see one of these things in life. Except it wouldn’t have been. Because they’re terrifying. But I laugh in the face of danger. I think. I dunno I just think they’re neat.
By Scott Reid
Species Differences: The different species of Pelagornis differ primarily due to location and time, though there are some differences in shape and size - those fossils that were once assigned to Tympanonesiotes, for example, were on average smaller than other members of this genus. The largest known species was decidedly Pelagornis sandersi, though the best known species is Pelagornis chilensis. For now, however, Pelagornis is kind of a mess, since so much research is needed on this species complex to make sure things are where they belong and one genus is enough, so species differences are difficult to parse out until more research has been published on the subject. Just know that there were a lot of Pelagornis - and they came in all kinds of different shapes and sizes all over the place.
~ By Meig Dickson and Henry Thomas
Sources Under the Cut
Becker, J.J. (1987): Neogene avian localities of North America. Smithsonian Research Monographs 1. Prentice Hall & IBD.
Bourdon, Estelle (2005): Osteological evidence for sister group relationship between pseudo-toothed birds (Aves: Odontopterygiformes) and waterfowls (Anseriformes). Naturwissenschaften 92(12): 586–591.
Brodkorb, Pierce (1963): Catalogue of fossil birds. Part 1 (Archaeopterygiformes through Ardeiformes). Bulletin of the Florida State Museum, Biological Sciences 7(4): 179–293.
Cenizo, M., C. Acosta Hospitaleche, and M. Reguero. 2016. Diversity of pseudo-toothed birds (Pelagornithidae) from the Eocene of Antarctica. Journal of Paleontology 89 (5): 870 - 881.
Hastings, A. K., and A. C. Dooley. 2017. Fossil-collecting from the middle Miocene Carmel Church Quarry marine ecosystem in Caroline County, Virginia. The Geological Society of America Field Guide 47:77-88
Hopson, James A. (1964): Pseudodontornis and other large marine birds from the Miocene of South Carolina. Postilla 83: 1–19.
Ksepka, D.T. 2014. Flight performance of the largest volant bird. PNAS 111: 10624-10629.
Louchart, A., Sire, J.-Y., Mourer-Chauvire, C., Geraads, d., viriot, L., de Buffrenil, V. 2013. Structure and Growth Pattern of Pseudoteeth in Pelagornis mauretanicus (Aves, Odontopterygiformes, Pelagornithidae). PLoS One 8(11): e80372.
Mayr, G. 2009. Paleogene Fossil Birds. Springer-Verlag Berlin Heidelberg.
Mayr, G., D. Rubilar-Rogers. 2010. Osteology of a new giant bony-toothed bird from the Miocene of Chile, with a revision of the taxonomy of Neogene Pelagornithidae. Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology 30 (5): 1313-1330.
Mayr, G., J. L. Goedert, S. A. McLeod. 2013. Partial Skeleton of a Bony-Toothed Bird from the Late Oligocene/Early Miocene of Oregon (USA) and the Systematics of Neogene Pelagornithidae. Journal of Paleontology 87 (5): 922 - 929.
Mayr, G. 2017. Avian Evolution: The Fossil Record of Birds and its Paleobiological Significance. Topics in Paleobiology, Wiley Blackwell. West Sussex.
McKee, Joseph W.A. (1985). "A pseudodontorn (Pelecaniformes: Pelagornithidae) from the middle Pliocene of Hawera, Taranaki, New Zealand". New Zealand Journal of Zoology. 12 (2): 181–184.
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Zouhri, S., P. Gingerich, S. Adnet, E. Bourdon, S. Jouve, B. Khalloufi, A. Amane, N. Elboudali, J.-C. Rage, F. Lapparent De Broin, A. Kaoukaya and S. Sebti. 2018. Middle Eocene vertebrates from the sabkha of Gueran, Atlantic coastal basin, Saharan Morocco, and their peri-African correlations. Comptes Rendus Geoscience 350(6):310-318
The Iowa caucuses are now just five days away, so pollsters are busy trying to give us their final looks at where the candidates are heading into Iowa. But for those of you hoping for a clearer picture of where things stand, I’m afraid there’s no such luck.
Three new Iowa polls dropped today pointing to a still very close race between Sen. Bernie Sanders and former Vice President Joe Biden (though former South Bend, Indiana, Mayor Pete Buttigieg and Sen. Elizabeth Warren shouldn’t be written off). And topline numbers in our primary forecast show that Biden is still in the lead with roughly a 1 in 2 (45 percent) shot at winning a majority of pledged delegates, while Sanders has about a 3 in 10 (29 percent) chance of doing so.1 Buttigieg and Warren each have about a 1 in 20 (5 percent) shot.
Compared to yesterday’s election update, these figures represent a 4-point improvement for Biden and a 2-point decrease for Sanders. A fair bit of this has to do with fixing a bug in the model’s code — the model was giving candidates extra credit for wins in their home states and regions when it was supposed to be deducting credit instead (editor-in-chief Nate Silver has an explanation here). But it’s also because Biden led in two of the three new Iowa surveys whereas Sanders led in both Iowa polls we talked about yesterday.
In our Iowa forecast, Sanders still leads slightly (37 percent versus Biden’s 35 percent). This is unchanged from yesterday and is probably better thought of as a tie. Buttigieg and Warren’s chances haven’t really shifted in the last 24 hours. Although Sen. Amy Klobuchar did tick up a little today thanks to some double-digit showings in today’s batch of polls, though she remains a decided underdog with only a 3 percent shot at winning Iowa. On balance, though, the newest Iowa surveys held some good news for Biden compared to some other recent surveys where Sanders did better, though the Vermont senator did still manage to make gains in two of today’s polls:
First, Monmouth University found Biden in the lead with 23 percent, followed by Sanders at 21 percent, Buttigieg at 16 percent, Warren at 15 percent and Klobuchar at 10 percent. And even though Biden was the poll’s leader, he was actually down a point from where he was in Monmouth’s last Iowa poll from early January. Buttigieg also fell a point, while Warren’s numbers were unchanged. Sanders, on the other hand, ticked up three points from 18 percent to 21 percent, and Klobuchar two points (though both gains were within the poll’s margin of error).
Next, Morningside College made their 2020 debut this week with an Iowa poll that found Biden very slightly ahead of the field with 19 percent. (Buttigieg came in second at 18 percent.) Meanwhile, Sanders and Warren were tied with 15 percent support while Klobuchar had 12 percent.
Finally, contrary to what Monmouth and Morningside found, Iowa State University/Civiqs’s new poll found Sanders leading the field by 5 percentage points with 24 percent support. Warren came next at 19 percent, followed by Buttigieg at 17 percent, Biden at 15 percent and Klobuchar at 11 percent. But keep in mind that Iowa State/Civiqs has found strong numbers for Buttigieg and Warren in the past, so once we account for house effects, the model treats their results as 15 and 14 percent, respectively. At the same time, this pollster has generally had Biden polling worse than other pollsters, so his number bumps up to 18 percent. There’s less of a known house effect for Sanders, though, so our model keeps his support at 24 percent, up 3 points from the pollster’s December survey. (Buttigieg fell 7 points from December and Klobuchar gained 7 points. Biden and Warren’s numbers were roughly the same.)
Of course, we’re not just interested in the topline results in these polls either. We’re also keeping an eye on questions regarding Iowa voters’ second-choice preferences, as voters No. 2 could be important on caucus night because voters have to shift support to a new candidate if their initial choice doesn’t meet a certain level of support at their caucus site (usually 15 percent).
So if there’s one reason not to write Warren off, it’s that she was the top second-choice pick in both the Monmouth (19 percent) and Iowa State/Civiqs (16 percent) polls. In other words, if she can remain viable at most caucus sites, she could still benefit when some voters have to realign. At the same time, though, Monmouth found that if the field was limited only to the top-four candidates, Biden would lead with 29 percent, followed by Sanders at 25 percent, Buttigieg at 20 percent, Warren at 19 percent, so it’s unclear just how much room Warren has to gain as a popular second-choice pick.
One other thing to keep in mind that is going on under the hood with these polls is that pollsters are trying to gauge who is actually going to show up and caucus, a process that’s much, much more involved than simply casting a ballot like in a primary. University of Delaware political scientist David Redlawsk recently pointed out that some Iowa polls have small but meaningful differences in the age makeup of their likely caucus-goers, which may play some role in who’s doing better in a given poll. For example, the Iowa State/Civiqs poll found Sanders leading among 18-to-34 year olds with 33 percent while Biden got just 1 percent! But that survey estimated that 47 percent of likely caucus-goers will be under 50 years old, a boon for Sanders’s topline number, whereas the 2016 entrance poll found that just 42 percent of caucus-goers were under the age of 50. Of course, it’s difficult to say who is right when it comes to trying to figure out who is going to show up on Monday — will more young people caucus in 2020 than in 2016? The answer is we won’t really know until caucus night, but it’s just another thing to consider when looking at the topline numbers in these polls.
And while Wednesday was an Iowa-heavy polling day, there was one new national poll from The Economist/YouGov that found the race between Biden and Sanders tightening. In their survey, Biden led Sanders by just 2 points, 26 percent to 24 percent, with Warren in third at 20 percent. This was a strong poll for Sanders, who was at 18 percent in last week’s Economist/YouGov national survey and 28 percent for Biden. There isn’t a sizable house effect for either Biden or Sanders, though Warren tends to do well in Economist/YouGov surveys.
Bottom line: The clock is ticking for Democrats in Iowa. Candidates don’t have much time left to make last-minute appeals and undecided voters can’t vacillate between candidates for much longer either. As recent polls and our forecast show, it’s shaping up to be a very competitive and potentially unpredictable contest — quite possibly the most competitive Iowa caucuses ever.
I’ve been wondering for a long time how much fanfic is on Wattpad, how fast it’s growing, and how it compares to other major platforms. Especially after @fffinnagain did some analysis showing that posting rate on AO3 has surpassed posting on Fanfiction.net (FFN), and @fansplaining suggested in a recent episode that they thought maybe Wattpad has been turning away from fanfic, I was curious how Wattpad compared.
Only AO3 reports the exact number of fanworks on its site. To estimate the number of works on FFN and Wattpad, I wrote a script to sample random works from each site. (See details below).
You can see all the images in higher resolution on imgur.
So which site has the most fanfic?
It turns out that it depends how you count. See the first figure above.
As of late October/early November, when I was grabbing these numbers, AO3 has ~4.2M fanworks. AO3 additionally has ~50K works in the Original Work category.
All works on FFN are supposed to be fanfic, so I took the estimated total number of works to be the total amount of fanfic. (A fraction of the works in the Misc category appear to actually be original work, but I think generously that number could be estimated as 20K original works, which doesn’t substantially change my estimate that FFN has ~7.7M fanworks.
Unlike AO3 and FFN, Wattpad is a general self-publishing platform, and “Fanfiction” is only one genre that authors can choose. When you do a search on Wattpad, the site says there are 4.1M fanworks matching the term “Fanfiction.” Based on sampling, I estimate that there are may be more like 5.1M works in the “Fanfiction” genre. And then when I hand categorized 100 of them (based on title, summary, tags, and sometimes the first page of the fic), I realized that there are a whole lot of pieces of fanfic that the authors have placed in other genres (e.g., “Romance” or “Random”). Including works in other categories, I estimate closer to 8.0M fanworks.
Thus, Wattpad has either the lowest amount or highest amount of fanworks of all the platforms. ;P But it seems reasonable to think it probably has the most fanworks, or close to it. This also means that when they say they’ve had “over 400 million story uploads,” they are presumably counting individual chapters.
I’ll also get to this more in future posts, but according to both my sample and the site’s (confusing, opaque) search results, Fanfiction is the biggest genre on Wattpad.
If you’re like, Um, okay, so if it’s so big, why don’t I know anyone who uses Wattpad? well, that’s a reasonable question. I'm hoping to explore a number of differences between Wattpad and the other platforms in future posts. But partial spoiler alert -- Wattpad seems to most often be used for RPF, especially K-pop and other bandom fic. It also looks like the users skew more international than on the other sites (based on the distribution of languages -- e.g., Wattpad has lots of Spanish, Filipino, and other languages from across Asia, Europe, and Latin & South America). It possibly skews younger as well. And listen to/read @fansplaining‘s recent episode on monetization of fanfic for some great discussion of other platform differences.
Keep reading for more about site growth and missing works.
Update:
A clarifying note from @elizabethminkel about @fansplaining‘s comments:
“When we discussed Wattpad turning away from fanfiction, we were specifically talking about the platform, not its users. (I don’t think you made that assumption having listened, but I don’t know if it’s super clear from your description.) Wattpad has said things along the lines of, ‘Fanfiction has only ever been about 20% of our platform”—which it looks like it continues to be! So the interesting question here is how a platform continues to scale with user-generated content when a solid portion of that content has kind of maxed out monetarily. Like, more and more fic will be published on the site, but that doesn’t mean more and more profit for Wattpad or its users—which is a problem within the tech industry’s current models.“
She also has some excellent observations about a bunch of Wattpad content not being very fic-like, which I’ll hopefully dive into more soon -- thanks, Elizabeth! :)
/Update
Which site is growing fastest?
FFN is the oldest site, but growth on the platform slowed and then started decreasing somewhere around 2012 (based on my samples and Finn’s work). I.e., there are still works being posted each year, but at a decreasing rate.
Meanwhile, both AO3 (founded 2007) and the “Fanfiction” genre on Wattpad (founded 2006) are growing fast; posting rates surpassed that of FFN in 2015 and 2014, respectively. Wattpad appears to be growing fastest. As of November:
Wattpad’s “Fanfiction” genre received at estimated 1.6M new works so far in 2018, which means I’d estimate (very) roughly that there could be more like 2.5M new fanworks total, including ones in other genres. But that’s based on my hand labeling a sample of 100 works from various years, and it assumes that the ratio of unlabeled:labeled fanfic on the site has stayed roughly the same over the years. That assumption may not be right.
AO3 has 0.9M new works so far in 2018.
FFN has 0.3M new works so far in 2018.
Based on past patterns, I predict there will be big surges in production rate in AO3 December due to annual holiday breaks and gift exchanges -- it looks like this seasonal surge occurs more dramatically on AO3 than on FFN, though it happens on both. I don’t know about seasonal production patterns on Wattpad.
Which site ends up with the most deleted or unpublished works?
Update: With huge thanks to @zz9pzza for clarifications about AO3 and examples -- I’ve rephrased most of the following from them: As of a system update around 4 years ago, AO3 only assigns 1/3 of possible story IDs to actual stories (to avoid numbering collisions), which means that most of the “missing” story IDs were never actually assigned. For instance, the following sequence of story IDs would be assigned: [16686808, 16686811, 16686814, 16686817, 16686820, 16686823]. Some quick estimates lead to thinking AO3 may have more like a 14% deletion rate -- far lower than what I show in terms of missing story IDs.
Do the other platforms also have similar explanations for their large missing ID rates? Not necessarily -- FFN does not appear to be doing a similar thing currently (Nov 2018); there are recent sequences of several ID numbers in a row corresponding to actual stories (e.g.: 3119884, 3119885, 3119886, 3119887). Wattpad also does not appear to be skipping IDs, as I found some pairs of IDs in a row, and recent sequences of story IDs with very few missing (e.g., 159620101, 159620102, 159620104, 159620108, 159620110). So while these platforms may not have assigned all possible IDs, but I can’t detect any regular pattern to what’s missing, as is the case for AO3.
I updated the slide up at the top, but in case you clicked through from an older reblog, here it is again:
/Update
AO3 and Wattpad both assign a new story ID to each new draft of a work, meaning that all unpublished works have URLs that don’t correspond to stories (edit: but as mentioned in the update above, AO3 doesn’t assign all possible IDs to stories). FFN only assigns a new story ID at the time that a new work is published. All platforms also end up with some published works being deleted, either by the author or the platform (works can be deleted for being spam or violating TOS -- e.g., being explicit on FFN). Thanks to Finn for this info -- see their post for more details.
As expected from the fact that it doesn’t assign story IDs for unpublished works, FFN has the lowest missing work rate fewer missing story IDs than Wattpad -- but it’s all due to deletions of previously published works (some done by FFN, which has done a number of mass deletions due to TOS changes, and some presumably by the works’ authors) Wattpad has the highest missing story ID rate, but it’s unclear what that indicates. Many of these Wattpad works could be drafts that haven’t made it out of draft form yet. And some (maybe a lot) of the IDs may never have been assigned to a story in the first place; that is a side effect of some methods of database construction. It also seems (based on notes in the summaries and titles) that on Wattpad it’s very common for authors to revise works that have already been published, and it’s possible that many authors use Wattpad’s “Unpublish” option to temporarily revert existing works to drafts. I also found a few cases of spam/advertisements in the sample of 100 fanworks I hand classified, so possibly Wattpad has such a high missing works rate in part due to spam takedowns.
Detailed methods
I used AO3 Work Search to determine the exact numbers for AO3.
All sites assign higher story IDs (the numbers found in URLs) to more recent works, so on the remaining two sites, I found the highest newly published work ID I could and used it as a maximum. For Wattpad, the max story ID was about 160M. For FFN, it was about 13M. I sampled 9000 URLs on Wattpad, of which 1176 had stories. I sampled 3500 URLs on Fanfiction.net, of which 2048 had stories. (Feel free to use the data for your own analyses.)
(Aside: more recently, I’ve seen a few MUCH higher story IDs on Wattpad -- closer to 650M. So I did several samples of 1000-2000 URLs using that higher number, and I couldn’t find any stories with IDs over 167M; it seems like there are very few with the much higher numbers. I also double checked my belief that story IDs were assigned in order that drafts were created by graphing date published against story ID and found it to be accurate -- there were a few stories published long after their story IDs were assigned, but generally there was an increase in story ID by date published.)
In both cases, I drew the samples in batches of 500-2000 fanworks at a time, and I averaged the estimates I got from each subsample. For Wattpad, I got a mean estimate of 20.83M fanworks overall (stdev = 1.42M; stderr = 0.50M) and 5.11M works in the “Fanfiction” genre (stdev = 0.60M; stderr = 0.19M). For FFN, I got a mean estimate of 7.65M fanworks (stdev = 0.19M; stderr = 0.08M).
I found a kludgey way to search FFN that I *think* returned most/all of the works on the site. The results contained 7.60M works (close to my estimate of 7.65M), so that also strengthens my confidence in my estimates.
Despite being one of the most famous and well-known of all cetaceans, the killer whale has no listing on IUCN. Or rather, they have the listing "data deficient", because despite being one of the most well-studied marine animals in the world, we don't even know the survival status of the species as a whole.
We do know the status of several subpopulations, however.
As famous as the vaquita's plight is probably the poor state of the Southern resident population that lives in the Northeastern Pacific, off Washington and British Columbia. Supposed to number in the many hundreds, they now number only around 77. A rough 30 individuals were live-captured in the late 1960s-early 1970s, but they were threatened and diminished even before then, which no one knew at the time since there was no killer whale research.
They rose to their highest recorded point in the mid-1990s to about 90 whales, then began to sink again, having a clear hit in their numbers after 2011 with the Fukushima disaster on the other side of the Pacific. Infant mortality rates are extremely poor (at least 50% are estimated to die before six months of age, and the vast majority that survive still die before reaching maturity), and in the period of 2011-2014, not a single calf survived.
They are among the most contaminated animals anywhere in the ocean, and they are starving to death due to a lack of their main prey fish, Chinook salmon, which are decreasing because (the fish was listed as endangered in the area in 1999). The whale above (J34 Doublestuf, 2016) was a Southern resident male in his prime, who was killed by a boat strike.
Others in recent years have been killed by navy sonar blasts (L112 Sooke above, 2012), propeller strike (L98 Luna, 2006) and by clumsy researchers (L96 Nigel, 2016, died from poor tagging leading to infection and death).
Less known than the Southern residents, are the killer whales of the Strait of Gibraltar, which are listed as critically endangered. They as well are mainly dying off from starvation, as their almost exclusive prey fish, the bluefin tuna, is endangered because of overfishing. In essence, the whales are going extinct because we humans are eating all their food.
In the seven-year period of 1999-2005, only one calf survived, and in the five-year period of 2006-2010, not one calf survived.
I can only find varying numbers of the total population, from 12 in 2006 to 39 in 2011, which obviously can’t both be true.
Even worse off than either of these populations are the Scottish residents. They are already functionally extinct, as not a single calf has been born after they began being studied over thirty years ago, and only eight whales remain alive. The most recent whale to die, Lulu (above, 2016), was found with the among highest levels of toxic pollution ever found. This pollution makes the whales sterile.
In New Zealand, there are 150-200 killer whales, and they are extremely prone to boat strikes, leading to mutilation and death. The main researcher in these waters in NZ is Dr. Ingrid Visser, who is well-known for swimming with, petting from boats, and playing with the whales, essentially training them to approach humans and boats.
We can't know yet how many other populations may be threatened, and may be fooled by the species' overall abudance. But because killer whales don't traverse the great oceans but stay in the same areas all their lives, if individual populations go extinct, that will mean disaster for the species as a whole.
summary: Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails.
rating: M
status: WIP
available: FF.net and AO3
previous: chapter IV
The water was a color Geneva had never seen before: the rich, unearthly green of deep open ocean far from any land to interrupt its endless, slow-motion tumbles, with waves that reminded her of slumbering giants stirring and rolling in their sleep, rather than the sharp and vigorous crash of shore waves or reef breakers. She had been on and around the sea as long as she could remember, but even she had felt a brief stab of apprehension when the distant shadow of Eleuthera – the last island between them and three thousand miles of the Atlantic – had fallen permanently astern. They were bound north by northeast, would stop over in Bermuda in about a week, and then, assuming good weather, strike out on the major leg to London. It was mid-July now, and the very best estimate put them there no earlier than Daddy’s birthday, on Saint Bartholomew’s day in the last week of August. Add in any storms or delays, and that could easily become the first fortnight of September. Then add in whatever the blazes Silver wanted to do once there, how long it took them to track down Billy Bones, the fact that setting back across to the Americas any later than October at the tail end was regarded as too dangerous for most shipping assurance agents to underwrite, and it looked quite likely that they would be spending the winter in England. Where this would be, or who was going to provide for this, or if they would be reduced to begging door to door for ha’pennies, Geneva had no notion. Considering who she had aboard, she didn’t think so, but still.
It was almost dusk, the red-gold orb of the sun spilling into the waves behind them as the Rose pointed her bow into the deepening night, and Geneva pulled her shawl tighter as she stood at the rail, the ship’s lanterns flickering to life as the crew lit them. It would be time for supper soon, but she would eat later in her quarters with Madi. At least nobody had killed anyone else yet, although the arrangement could not be said to have been rigorously tested when it was only three days old. And that was also not to say that Geneva did not expect –
“Captain Jones?”
Geneva grimaced, managed to control the expression, and turned instead with a pleasant smile. “Good evening, Mr. Silver. Did you require something?”
His own smile was wry, as if acknowledging that she had likely been enjoying said evening more before he appeared to further darken its doorstep. He moved up next to her, gazing out at the distant, cloud-veiled horizon, grey-black curls whipping loose from their thick ponytail. At last he said, “I did not need something, per se. I was only hoping that you and I could establish ourselves on more cordial terms. After all, we have a good deal of time to spend together, and it is always easier to do so in amicability. As well, I realize – understandably, of course – that you do not trust me, and I thought that too should be addressed. There is a great deal of indirect history between us, and. . . well.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I too am curious.”
Geneva regarded him coolly. “Trying to befriend me so as to decrease the chances of Madi and myself continuing to remain allied together against you? Is that it? You never do anything or approach anyone without half a dozen ulterior motives.”
“I deserve that,” Silver acknowledged. “And it was quite clever of you to bring her, I was impressed. And not ungrateful. Madi and I have had our differences, but I. . .” He paused, almost open and sincere for the first time. “I have always hoped that one day we could reconcile. I have only ever wanted what was best for her, though perhaps at times I have lacked something in carrying it out. But you know about doing what you must to protect your loved ones without asking their permission, don’t you, Geneva? You’re doing it right now.”
“To speak of permission, I don’t recall giving it to you to use my first name, Mr. Silver.”
“Captain Jones, then,” he corrected deferentially. “But you came to Nassau in search of your family’s past, didn’t you? I can help. I was there. I can tell you.”
“And can I trust whatever you would tell me?”
Silver’s shrewd blue eyes studied her face. After a long moment he said, most unexpectedly, “I knew your father, and your uncle Liam, briefly, when we were all boys. They were indentured servants on my father’s ship – also John Silver, a grain merchant out of Bristol. That particular association ended. . . tragically, though not undeservedly, for him. So now we once more have a Jones and a Silver aboard the same ship, and with questions of our survival at stake. I ran away before your uncle Liam did what he did, but your father long held a grudge against me for it. Felt as if we might be friends, that I could help free them as well, and then I didn’t.”
Geneva wasn’t sure what to say. She knew that her father and uncle had been sold into servitude at a tender age, and remained in such state until they were young men, and that Liam had done something drastic to break their bonds and enable them to join the Royal Navy. She had not known what, nor that Silver was involved – though this did make his comment about indirect history take on a new and slightly sinister dimension. “What happened with that? Exactly?”
“I’m none so sure you want to know.”
“I do. Am I supposed to trust you? Prove it.”
“You’ll think that I’m lying, to cast your family in a bad light.”
“My family were pirates, I know they weren’t angels. Tell me.”
Silver paused, then shrugged again. With that, he informed Geneva briefly and efficiently of the particulars, that her uncle Liam had made a devil’s deal with a Mr. Plouton to sabotage Captain Silver senior’s ship, thus ensuring that it sank and he and his crew all drowned, in exchange for the Jones brothers’ freedom, money to pay off their indentures and buy their commissions, and smoothing everything over with the local Admiralty board to get them assigned to HMS Imperator. Geneva had suspected it was something bad, but hearing it confirmed rocked her onto her heels. She did indeed have an urge to accuse Silver of lying, as he otherwise did so habitually, but knew that this time at least he wasn’t. At last she said, rather faintly, “Oh.”
“Aye.” Silver’s hands tightened on the rail. “Your father’s freedom, for my father’s life.”
“And. . . did you. . .”
“Did I seek revenge? Or want it? No. I’d run away already, as I said, and my father was. . . not a good man. I did not feel his death to be any particular tragedy.”
“What happened? To you?”
“It’s not important.” Silver’s voice was very quiet, almost faltering, and he did not look at her. Despite herself, Geneva had the sense that sharing even this much information about his past was unprecedented, and that while her grandfather wore his tragedies on his sleeve and freely used them to fuel his rage, there were similar heartbreaks somewhere inside Silver that he kept utterly shut up in a small box somewhere far from the light of day, training himself to become as glossy and valuable and impenetrable as his surname, that he transformed into his manipulations as Flint had fed his war. There was no sound for a long moment but the wind keening through the shrouds and sails – if this kept up, they could make it to Bermuda in record time. As long as it got no stronger, as the waves were likewise blowing white. Then Silver said, “I did suppose you deserved to know that much at least.”
“Thank you.” Geneva meant it, though her feelings on him had not otherwise changed. “And is that all you wanted? To fill me in on some sordid family history?”
“No.” Silver turned from his intent contemplation of the twilight. “I did want to ask you how your grandfather is.”
“You’ve shared a cabin with Uncle Thomas for three days.”
“Thomas is. . . being very careful about what pieces of Flint he parcels out to me. I daresay he feels quite protective of him, and wary of what my curiosity could mean, though I promise it is nothing untoward on any account. It is like standing at a well, trying again and again to draw up a bucket of water to drink, and yet every time you pull it out, a hole has been staved in the bottom, and it is empty.”
Geneva glanced at him with an arched eyebrow. “Isn’t that what it’s like dealing with you?”
Caught by surprise, Silver laughed. “I suppose that could be truthfully said, yes. Yet as you are curious about what you missed, about what has changed, so am I. I like your great-uncle, for the record. I’m not entirely certain I expected to, but I do. Yet he is a man accustomed to keeping his mouth shut both as an experienced politician, and in regard to all the secrets he has lived with the cost of bearing. Even I could not wear him down or break through his armor, at least not quickly, and frankly, I have no wish to do so. The man has suffered enough for who he chose to be, and I am not a monster. Sometimes I ponder what he and Flint could possibly have had in common. Thomas is ever-gracious, gentle, courtly, kind, idealistic and eloquently spoken, and he even does not seem to hold much of a grudge for the bitter ordeal that he too must have been through. And then I run up, again and again, against that immovable wall of granite, and I understand precisely.”
Geneva could not argue with this observation, nor with Silver’s acumen in reading people, though this was doubtless the reason that he then knew where to find each and every one of their weak spots. “So all you want is to know about Flint?”
“Am I not allowed to miss him too?” Silver’s face was half in shadow, the wind blowing his hair into his eyes, so she could not make out his expression. “I used to have a pet bird, several years ago. A macaw, with red feathers, rather like your grandfather. To be sure, it was not my pet at first. I’ve rarely seen a living creature more determined to hate me. Scratched me, squawked at me, ruffled its wings whenever I came near, tried on multiple occasions to shit on me. Yet – I doubt either of us were quite sure how – I began to leave food for it, and it would come to take it, however grudgingly at first. When it broke its wing, I mended it back to health, as much as it would allow me. After that, it ceased being quite so cantankerous when it saw me, though it would still cluck disapprovingly, and finally consented to come and sit on my shoulder. It learned to speak a few phrases, as parrots do. Its favorite word was ‘No.’ So I ended up, therefore, calling it Captain Flint, as there truly seemed no other more fitting name.”
Despite herself, Geneva snorted. “And so what happened to him?”
Silver paused fractionally. “He died. I suppose he did, at any rate. He would come at a certain time every evening to be fed, and one day he simply no longer did. I called for him, left out some of his favorite treats, asked around the marketplace if they’d seen him – he was rather infamous there, always tried to steal their wares or their food. Someone would have shot him long since, if I had not made it clear that there would be consequences. Possibly someone did exactly that. Found him alone in the jungle, and solved the problem quietly. At any rate – much like your grandfather – I never saw him again.”
Geneva glanced at him sidelong. Finally she said, “Grandpa is. . . he’s fine. Good, even. He has Granny and Uncle Thomas, and they’re happy.”
“Not haunted, then? By the man he left in the sea?”
“I suppose he is. In his way. Though it’s not something he would speak about with me. But for better or worse, he’s managed to let Flint lie, however unquietly at times, in his grave. He loved someone more than this life. I’m not sure you did.”
Silver flinched. “I did not want the war to go on forever,” he said at last. “I wanted peace, however it could be found, for all of us. What passed between Captain Flint and myself, at our last meeting on Skeleton Island – ”
He stopped.
“Yes?” Geneva tried not to be too obvious about prodding, as this was the one great mystery which her family still knew nothing about. “What was that?”
Having caught himself at the brink of a considerable slip, even if he might want desperately to finally speak of these things again, Silver smiled, politely and utterly unrevealingly. “It will be time for mess,” he said. “I’m quite certain I just heard the bell. Good night, Captain Jones.”
And with that, and Geneva quite certain she had not, he went.
The wind stayed good, and they reached port on Bermuda by the end of the week – St. George’s Town, on the northeastern tip of the island, which had been an English territory since a shipload of settlers bound for Jamestown in 1612 had wrecked there, washed up, founded a new colony while they were at it, and then (mostly, at least) continued on their way. Bermuda was now a vital shipbuilding yard and halfway point for voyages between the Americas and England, and a great deal of the reason for their visit, aside from topping up on fresh water, was to see if Billy Bones had also passed through here en route, and if it could be tangibly confirmed that they were doing anything more than chasing smoke and shadows. So Geneva, Thomas, Madi, and Silver went ashore, more or less a united cohort for the moment, to make enquiries.
St. George’s was a pretty, hilly seaport with striking pink-sand beaches, not terribly different from Nassau, and indeed, given Bermuda’s reputation as a hotbed of privateering, it had plenty of its own less-than-legal history. As they climbed the steep street, stopping periodically to account for Silver’s slower time on his crutch, Geneva glanced at her great-uncle. “How has it been?” she asked in an undertone. “The two of you haven’t strangled each other yet, at the least.”
“No.” Thomas chuckled wryly. “I will say that the man is not completely unlikable when he puts his mind to it, though that is so clearly what he is doing that it leaves me to conclude that there is another purpose to it. I sense that he might have some genuine regard for me, despite himself. But it is not easy to come across someone who has shared a loved one, yet on precisely the opposite side of things. I know about Silver and he knows about me, but only in what James has told both of us individually and in drastically differing circumstances. No wonder that that fails to fit easily or comfortably into a flesh-and-blood reality.”
“Aye, I can see that.” Geneva did not want to pry into private business, but as Silver had raised it, and it could potentially be relevant to their enterprise, she had to ask. “Did Grandpa ever tell you and Granny what happened on Skeleton Island? How long he was there, how he got off?”
Thomas hesitated. “He was there for nearly a year,” he said at last. “Rather, that is the version which I believe most likely to be true. Other times he has claimed it was closer to two years, or three. It cannot have been any longer than that, as he and Miranda were reunited in 1720, and they found me about six months later.”
“Other times?” Geneva repeated, surprised. “He hasn’t given you one story?”
“James rarely does. Even to those closest to him.” Thomas smiled, softly and sadly. “And as well, we were apart for many years, and suffered many tribulations. Secrets become part and parcel of the life we share now. Not due to any lack of trust, or diminishment of affection, but merely because there is little point in digging up an old wound to be chewed over, when hearing of the pain would cause all of us more, and we wish to think instead of the future. So no, James has never told myself or Miranda the full, unabridged, completely truthful account of his last confrontation with Silver, or his sojourn in the wilderness, or how he returned from it to a world he but dimly recognized. I have not told either of them everything that happened to me in the asylum in England or the work plantation in Georgia, and I do not doubt that Miranda has not told us everything she underwent after she and James were ripped apart in Charlestown, her long convalescence in Paris, and all that she did to return to the Americas in such slender hopes of finding us. We share parts and pieces, my dear. Enough to ask for help when needed, and that in itself is miraculous. But the full burden and tragedy of it is best left elsewhere than our home and our bed. We have suffered enough.”
Geneva opened, and then shut, her mouth. She could tell that, gently and patiently as this was phrased, it was nonetheless a quiet rebuke, a reminder that if Thomas had known he felt might be useful and able to be divulged, he would have told her already, and he was not keeping vital information back on a whimsy. It was also a reminder that while the McGraw-Hamiltons loved their family and their granddaughter very much, some things remained beyond the remit of what they were willing to discuss with her, and this, for its part, seemed to be one. Sensing this, and as if to soften the blow, Thomas said, “His account of how he got off the island is likewise that he bartered passage on a trader. Went to Philadelphia first, then made his way back south.”
“A trader? So there must be ships that pass at least somewhat close to the island?”
“He said that he built a small ketch and sailed some way out to sea, so I don’t think it was near the island, no. As for the ship, she was a repurposed Indiaman, the Nautilus, and her master was a man known as Nemo. I am not sure, however, that this was not some sort of jest, either on the part of James or of his supposed rescuer.”
“Why is that?”
“Nemo means no one in Latin,” Thomas explained. “As indeed James was then, no one, a man without a name or a past, returning from months or years of exile on a remote island. At any rate, that is all I know. I admit that at times my curiosity has driven me mad wanting to ask Silver, but I do not want his side of the story first, or to betray James’ confidence in what he chooses to tell me. He may do so one day, and he may not, but it remains his story and his right to tell.”
Geneva could not think of anything to say to this, and Thomas likewise seemed to want to be done talking for the moment, so they made their way up the rest of the street and into the public house at the top. The proprietor, taking Geneva, Thomas, and Silver for the traveling party, and Madi for their slave, had to be curtly corrected of that mistake, and explained that they did not often see free Negresses on the same standing as well-to-do white gentry (this comprising Geneva and Thomas, at least, as Silver did not look terribly reputable either). Madi continued to stare daggers into his head as Geneva purchased two rooms and supper for the night – and then, as the proprietor counted her change back to her, something caught her eye among the coins. When they had taken a seat in the common room, she pushed it forward and said, “Isn’t this a Spanish piece of eight? D.G. Hispan et Ind., Rex Philip V. . .” She flipped it. “1713.”
Looks were exchanged. Philip V of Spain was still on the throne, having abdicated for eight months in 1724 to let his son take over and then forced to return to the job when said son died, and thus it was not impossible for older coinage of his to be in circulation, especially with Bermuda’s status as a center of English privateering activity, sending out sloops and crews to prey on and disrupt Spanish shipping to support the war effort in Florida. It was curious, however, that this coin did not look at all as it should, if it had been struck twenty-seven years ago and in regular usage since. It should be clipped, tarnished, worn smooth, even split into bits, but it remained intact, shining, and silver as if it had just come hot from the mint. As if, say, it had lain unused and hidden for a long time, was retrieved, then spent, which meant –
“Excuse me.” Geneva got up and wove her way back toward the front of the tavern, waited until the proprietor had attended another customer, then turned to her with a look clearly expecting more chastisement. “Did you give lodging recently – within, say, the last month or two – to a man named Bones? A man who paid for his bed and board with older Spanish currency?”
The proprietor blinked at her, baffled. “Mistress?”
“This coin,” Geneva said impatiently. “Are there more like it?”
“Are you asking to inspect my purse and takings, mistress?”
“Not at the moment. Just this.” Geneva put the coin on the counter. “Are there others?”
“Is it. . . entirely your business, mistress?”
“Yes, it presently is. Other coins. Like this. Spanish pieces of eight minted before 1715, possibly even a golden escudo or two. Spark your memory?”
The proprietor’s gaze flickered to Silver. “Mistress, your companion has one leg.”
“And what in damnation does that have to do with anything? It’s not his leg that causes the most trouble, believe me.”
“Is there some difficulty?” Thomas had come up behind her, light blue eyes pleasant but sharp. “Are you refusing service to my niece, sir?”
“I’m – ” The proprietor looked cornered. “I was instructed not to – ”
Thomas reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a golden guinea, which he slid deftly under the proprietor’s account book so not as to attract the notice of any passersby; it was more than many of them would earn in months. “Has your memory improved now, perhaps?”
Geneva watched this exchange in some admiration, even as the proprietor wavered a moment longer, then gave in. “Fine. Yes. A man named Bones passed through here, about on six weeks ago, and paid in older Spanish coins from a locked chest he had. Tall fellow, maybe five-and-fifty, sort as has had a hard life. Insisted that if for any reason a one-legged man was to come asking for him, I was to say nothing about it.”
“And compensated you well for the service, I suppose.” Inside, Geneva felt both pleased and unsettled. So Billy Bones was alive, did have a stash of the Skeleton Island treasure with him as proof of his story for whatever skeptics he might have to convince, and furthermore, had known or at least guessed that his old and former friend, John Silver, might catch wind of it all and decide to go after him. “Did he say where he was bound?”
The proprietor hesitated.
“My great-uncle can give you another bribe,” Geneva said, “or I can punch you in the nose. You decide.”
The poor man was so taken aback at the idea of a well-dressed young lady threatening to practice violence upon anyone that it startled him into answering. “He. . . Bristol.”
“Bristol?” Geneva and Thomas glanced at each other in surprise. While this, if true, would shorten their journey slightly – they only had to make it to the west coast of England, rather than through the Channel and up the Thames to London – it meant their working notion of what was going on would have to be completely rejiggered. They had assumed that Bones was traveling to Westminster to sell the intelligence to the English government directly, but his potential aims in Bristol were far less obvious. It was the center of the Crown’s maritime trade, the biggest Royal Navy base in the British Isles after Portsmouth, and Killian and Liam Jones, John Silvers senior and junior, and Woodes Rogers had all lived there at some point (as well as the pirate Blackbeard, in his days as Edward Thatch), so certainly Bones could find somebody or something to his interest. What that was, however, had been rendered once more a total mystery.
Sensing that the man had legitimately told them all he knew, and not wanting to press their luck, Geneva and Thomas nodded, turned on their heels, and went back to their table – where, in the three minutes they had been left alone together, Madi and Silver had managed to get into an argument, from which they desisted only belatedly at the reappearance of their companions. “What?” Madi said, seeing their faces. “What is it?”
“We’ve had an. . . interesting development.” With that, Geneva tersely recounted what they had learned, including the course change for Bristol, at which she eyed Silver pointedly. “You’re the one who conceived and coerced this entire enterprise with the threat that Bones was going to sell all of us out. If he’s not in fact going to Westminster, then what’s he doing?”
“He is alive, isn’t he?” Silver pointed out, obviously choosing to circumvent her question. “And going to England. I would say that substantially vindicates me. It hasn’t been all smoke and mirrors. And as he can cause quite as much trouble in Bristol as in London, if not more, I would say our duty to catch up to him remains acute. If it was six weeks ago he passed through, he will be there by now, and that means we must – ”
“No opinion on returning to Bristol?” Geneva regarded him coolly.
“Should I have one?”
“You’re from there, aren’t you? Your father’s ship was based there. And you ran away.”
Silver’s look said that he clearly did not appreciate her airing whatever he had told her in confidence to the rest of the table, though in practice that only meant Thomas. Madi knew at least that he was from Bristol, though Geneva wondered if she knew anything else. Perhaps Silver’s objection was because he presumed Thomas would use the information as he himself would, to probe it for profitable avenues and potential weaknesses, and did not want to expose himself in such a way, to whatever strange sort of rival he fancied Hamilton to be. In that he was wrong, but Geneva saw no call to tell him just yet. Keeping Silver uncomfortable and off balance factored significantly into her plans, so he was welcome to think that Thomas was Niccolo Machiavelli reincarnated if it caused him a few sleepless nights. At least it might explain, in Silver’s mind, what had attracted Flint to him.
“Yes,” Silver said after a moment, forcing a pleasant smile. “I am, actually. So that gives us some advantage, as while I’ve not been to the place since I was a boy, I still know a thing or two about its underworld. How’s the mercury? Can we be on our way tomorrow?”
“I’ll check it when we return to the ship in the morning.” Geneva caught Madi regarding her approvingly out of the corner of her eye, and could not help a certain small satisfaction. The lot of them remained shackled to each other for the time being, and she was aware that none of them could push hard enough to topple the whole house of cards until Bones’ mysterious motives were in fact divined, but it was still enjoyable to tweak Silver’s nose, pettiness or not. Instead, she raised her glass. “I’d say I’ve done well, gentlemen. Surely we can drink to that.”
They did so, if somewhat reluctantly among certain (Silver) individuals, went upstairs to their rooms, and slept more or less restfully, awaking the next morning to a more-or-less clear sky with wispy contrails of white cloud obscuring the eastern horizon. However, when they packed up and made their way back to the Rose, and Geneva inspected the mercury, she found that it had performed a significant plunge overnight. Not entirely enough to be alarming, but still indicative of some potentially interesting going, and she chewed her lip, mulling her options. The dog days of summer were ripe hurricane season, and she was not so eager as to pull one over on Silver as to willfully sail into a tempest, but she had dealt with some plenty nasty storms in the Indies, and already had a reputation as a solid foul-weather captain. It was true that the hourglass was dangerously running while Billy Bones was larking about in Bristol uncontested, and after her own cogitation failed to reach a firm answer, Geneva went on deck to put it to a vote.
“I’ll trust your choice, my dear,” Thomas said. “If you think it’s something you can manage, then I say we proceed. It won’t do anyone much good for us to idle at anchor in Bermuda.”
“What did you think it was?” Madi asked. “A thunderstorm?”
“Aye,” Geneva reassured her. “Bit of rain, bit of wind, perhaps, but nothing too terrible.”
“Very well,” Madi decided. “I also say we go.”
“And?” Geneva turned with an arched eyebrow to the last member of the group. “Mr. Silver, what do you say?”
“It pains me to have to once more cast the dissenting vote,” Silver said after a moment, “and is not at all what I myself wish to do, but I vote we stay. I’ve weathered a few storms that by rights should have killed me, and I have no wish to tempt fate by discounting this one ahead of time. It is plain, of course, that I would like to get to Bristol as quickly as possible, so I hope my vote can be seen in the appropriately serious light. I’m sure you’ve come through several Caribbean squalls, but an Atlantic gale is different. So yes. I vote we stay put until the mercury rises.”
Geneva had half-wondered if he would swallow his pride and agree with the consensus, as his desire to catch up to Billy seemed genuine enough, but that, of course would be too simple an outcome. It was also to Silver’s benefit to have more time to think of a plan or God knew what else he was up to, as well as subtly getting back at her for challenging him last night, and she could sense the underlying desire to thwart her, ever so slightly. He wanted her to reconsider, to listen to him, to show that she still deferred to his greater experience and his depth of knowledge – in short, that no matter what she liked to think about being able to go toe-to-toe with him, he remained in control of the enterprise. “Is that so, Mr. Silver?”
He shrugged. “You asked me for my opinion. I’ve given it. I believe that in such matters, however, the final call is customarily the captain’s. If you say we go, I can’t stop you.”
Geneva and Silver stared at each other for a long, crackling moment, as Thomas and Madi both took slight, unconscious steps in the former’s direction. Back down now, and she would lose face, as well as some respect on her crew; they were quite used to sailing with a young woman for their captain, and proud of her for fearlessly facing whatever came their way, but might revise their opinion if they saw someone able to back her into a corner. They were all watching now, and she was not about to let Silver publicly defeat her like this. Besides, it was just a bloody thunderstorm. If she was scared of getting a bit wet, she might as well turn around right now and go home. And that, to be sure, Geneva Elizabeth Jones was not.
“Aye,” she said. “We sail.”
--------------------
As they left the governor’s mansion, considerably relieved that things had not gone nearly as pear-shaped as feared, Emma turned to David before he could help her back up into the waiting carriage. “Do you mind if I make my own way home? I have a few old places where I used to trade for information, and much as I appreciate Lord Gideon’s efforts on our behalf, I’d prefer it if we did not have to completely rely on his version of events. I should be back by evening.”
David blinked at her, taken aback. “Are you sure, Emma? Charlestown has changed a great deal since you lived here. I wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble by yourself.”
“I appreciate the concern, but I was a pirate captain,” Emma pointed out. “I handled myself alone in far rougher places than this. Besides, you’re a well-known public figure, pillar of the community. I doubt anyone will think they can pass potentially compromising intelligence if you’re standing there right behind me. Go back and tell the others what we’ve found out. As I said, I won’t be longer than a few hours.”
“Aye, but – ”
“I’m quite sure,” Emma repeated. “Thank you, Captain Nolan.”
The slight curtness of the tone and the formality of his title made David swallow whatever further objection he was about to utter, clearly aware that the conversation was over. He did not look entirely convinced, but he tendered a politely correct bow, nodded to her, and climbed up into the carriage himself, as Emma watched to be sure that it had rolled away down the drive before she took the back route down toward the town and the harbor. She had cultivated a few useful contacts around the merchant locales she had visited both as Leopold White’s maidservant and Patrick Walsh’s wife, and while they were all liable to be dead or retired by now, some of the younger ones might still be around, or have children succeeding them who might be persuaded to do a favor for an old acquaintance of their parents. Murray might indeed be putting a good-faith effort into sorting things out, but Emma was not about to let her guard down. Not here, not in Charlestown, not with this much at stake.
A preliminary canvassing, therefore, yielded mixed results. Most of her old crowd were, unfortunately, long out of business (she tried not to think whether or not they might have perished in the sacking), but the mistress of a notorious local pot shop was still around – it was known as a good place to get a cup of cheap and savory soup, as long as you did not ask what kinds of meat possibly went into the cauldron. If the woman had a Christian name, Emma had never heard it, for everyone had always referred to her as the Blind Witch, and she was older, greyer, and more demented than ever, but still both alive and devoted to collecting all the scurrilous docklands gossip. “Lord Gideon Murray, eh?” she said, picking her snaggle teeth with a dirty fingernail, which she bit off, chewed on experimentally, and then spat out. “Oh, I suppose there’s a thing or two I could tell you about that young rooster, did I have a mind.”
Emma reached into her pocket and removed one of the guineas she had taken from the body of the assassin Killian had shot. She handed it over, let the witch bite it to confirm it was real gold, then pulled it back. “Could be that’s yours, if you did have a mind.”
The witch regarded her shrewdly through cataract-clouded eyes, not that she could actually see her, and stirred her bubbling pot. Evidently, she decided that the opportunity to turn this much of a profit did not come along every day, so she relented. “Arrived from London a few months ago. He’s the son – adopted, at any rate, of Herself. And folk call me a witch.”
“Herself?” Emma repeated, frowning. “Herself who?”
“Oh, her ladyship. Fiona Murray. You’ll know all about that one, I’m sure.” The witch turned to feel her way for a cracked brown-glass bottle containing some glutinous dark liquid, which she upended merrily into the stew. “Just like her brother, isn’t she?”
“Her brother?”
“Well, her maiden name was Gold, wasn’t it?” The witch kept stirring, inhaling the slightly mangy fumes with apparent relish, as Emma choked for more than one reason. “Married a Lord Malcolm Murray, a good deal older than her, then kept his name, his title, and his fortune when he conveniently keeled over a few months later. Think there’ve been a few more husbands after that, but they don’t tend to last long. Runs in the family, then. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Wait, her brother – ” Emma felt a large chunk of ice run down her back. “Lord Gideon’s adoptive mother’s brother was. . . Lord Robert? Lord Robert Gold?”
“Oh, he was. Nobody knows what’s become of him, though, once he had his hide tanned by the Nassau pirates those years ago.” Apparently – or rather hopefully – not knowing that she was speaking to one in the flesh, the witch sampled her cooking on the spoon and offered some to Emma, which she hastily refused. “Dead, could be, but I doubt that old lizard died easily.”
Emma opened and shut her mouth, suddenly feeling considerably less sanguine about Lord Gideon Murray’s good nature than she had that morning. If he was Gold’s adopted nephew, raised as the son of his evidently just as notorious sister, that allowed for any number of hidden motives to be pursued beneath the friendly and affable exterior. Indeed, if Gold had had any weakness, it was that it was so plainly a foolish idea to ever trust him that it at least put you on guard to always expect the worst from him. If Gideon had been instilled with his own healthy share of the family’s manipulation and danger, while managing to cloak it beneath the appearance of a decent and caring man, that made him a formidable opponent indeed. Everything he had said about forgiving old grudges, about not unduly persecuting the pirates. . . had that been true, or just a clever front to get Emma to freely confess all that sensitive information to him, thinking herself protected from reprisal? Shit. Shit.
“That’s worth a guinea, I’d say,” the witch prodded, when Emma remained silent. “You going to hand it over, pretty, or no?”
“Are you sure about this? That Fiona Murray is Robert Gold’s sister, and it. . . is as you say?”
“Sure as sunrise. It mean something to you if she was?”
“No,” Emma lied reflexively. Rattled, she distractedly gave the witch the guinea, made a mental note to never eat anywhere even near here in future, and headed out of the cluttered dockyards. It was getting on in the day, and she had, to say the least, plenty to report. Not wanting to trudge all the way back to the Nolans on foot, she hailed one of the public fiacres and climbed in.
It turned out, of course, that it would have been faster to walk. There was congestion caused by a runaway cow bottling up the main thoroughfare, they had to interminably sit and wait while the various carriages were cleared out by a bailiff with a large stick and a loud voice, and by the time they were finally rolling up to the estate, it was nearly dusk. When she got out, Emma found her highly agitated husband in his jacket and sword, a lantern on his hook, on the brink of setting out to look for her. When he saw her, he stared, briefly overcome with relief, and then gripped her arm hard with his good hand. “Bloody hell, Swan! I’ve been worried sick! Where on earth have you been?”
“I know, I’m sorry.” Emma took the lantern off his hook and set it on the ground, but he did not look at all mollified. “I was just out asking questions.”
“Asking questions?” Killian nodded up to Flint, who was also dressed as if he was about to join the search, telling him it wasn’t needed. “All day?”
“Aye, I’m sorry I worried you. I thought – ”
“David came back and said you’d insisted on going off by yourself, visiting your old haunts.” Killian loosened his grip somewhat, though he didn’t let go. “You just disappeared by yourself in Charlestown for the whole day, and thought we wouldn’t worry?”
“I – I just. . .” Emma trailed off. “I didn’t want any of you exposed to the danger, I wanted to handle it without risking you. I thought if I could just – ”
“Seeing as both of us were about to go out looking for you, we would have been on the streets, at night, anyway.” Killian finally relinquished her arm, blowing out the lantern as they started up the walk toward the house. “I know it’s been hard for you being here, Swan. That it’s flaring up all your old instincts to go it alone. But that’s not true, and it’s no excuse for shutting us out and foraging off by yourself with no word at all. Come inside and at least apologize to Miranda, if not to me. She was more than half convinced you’d already been shot.”
Emma flushed, went to reassure her mother of her still-living status, and once she had the others safely in the parlor, divulged what she had found out. The effect was as drastic as she could have dreaded. Flint bit back a scorching oath, Miranda looked even paler, and Killian turned to stone on the spot. Finally he said, sounding strangled, “Christ. Murray is Gold’s nephew? I knew it! Of course everyone was right when they said we couldn’t trust the bastard!”
“They never said that,” Emma countered. “They only – ”
“They said it clear enough, if we’d been wise enough to listen.” Killian’s nostrils flared. “We’ll have to do something about this, we can’t just let this stand. If Gold’s still alive, if he’s in league with Murray somehow, we’ll have to handle this, we’ll have to – ”
“Are you actually advocating going after the governor of Charlestown in cold blood?” At this, it was Emma’s turn to be angry. “You scold me for investigating him by myself, but if you think he deserves to be killed just because of some tenuous – ”
“I didn’t say he should be killed,” Killian said tightly. “I said he should be handled.”
“And what exactly did you mean, then?”
“Break down the door?” Flint suggested. “Bag over the head? Private chat, somewhere dark and quiet, with plenty of guns at the ready?”
“No, both of you,” Emma snapped. “It would seem I’m not the only one falling back into old habits, if you’re both so ready to grasp for revenge at the thinnest of pretexts! We have no proof that Murray actually believes in anything Gold did, much less is trying to carry it out! I know who Gold was, you know I do, and the danger he posed – but Gideon is innocent until proven guilty. And if you think leading a witch hunt in this city of all places is going to work out well for us, then I’d seriously question what you wanted from it.”
“Robert Gold destroyed my life, and Peter Ashe destroyed Flint and Miranda’s. With those two for predecessors, I’m not sure we can sit around and wait until Murray proves himself to be a treasonous, faithless son of a – ”
Voices were being raised enough to rattle the gilted mantelpiece, and at the sound of a concerned rap on the door, were modulated with an effort. Emma felt even more off balance and unhappy – she rarely argued with Killian, especially not this vehemently, and it was worse since neither of them were entirely wrong. Both had valid grievances about the other’s old self-destructive behavior, but were already so on edge by being here that it was hard to put those passions aside and view the situation clearly and objectively. Emma agreed that it was unwise to naïvely sit and hope for Gideon’s cooperation and good nature, but she was far less sure that that extended to a midnight ambush and kidnapping attempt, or whatever in the blazes else Killian and Flint had in mind. She loved her husband and her foster father very much, but in some dangerous ways, they were alike as two black peas in a pod, feeding into each other’s old tragedies and vengeful impulses. Get that stone rolling, and it would be quite difficult to bring to a halt, especially without any damage to either. She would do much worse to prevent that possibility.
The silence in the drawing room continued to ring, loud as a shout. Then Killian spun brusquely on his heel. “I think I need some air. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“What? You’re angry at me for running off alone, and now you’re going to – ”
“I won’t leave the grounds.” Killian’s voice was very short. “Don’t wait up, Swan.”
“Killian – ”
He gave her a searing blue look as he pointedly unbuckled his sword and dropped it on the davenport, as if to prove that he would confine himself to a few heated circuits around the Nolans’ expansive back lawn. The drawing room door slammed behind him, as did the French doors on the veranda, and Emma caught a glimpse of his dark shadow marking a sharp clip away across the grass. She watched him go, feeling leaden, then turned back to Flint and Miranda. “Tell me you don’t agree with this reckless course of action. We have no proof. If old family connections were enough to convict a man on the spot, all of us would fall under the axe. We’ve fought this long to prove that our past does not define us. It’s hypocritical to then turn around and do it to Gideon Murray, infamous uncle or otherwise. I’m not saying he’s our friend, but if we react in haste to make him our unquestioned foe, we’ll pay for it.”
“Aye,” Miranda said, after a moment. Her voice sounded strange, quiet and raw. “That’s logical, my dear, and compassionately put. You have always wanted to believe the best of people, no matter how few reasons they sometimes give you. Even when you were a pirate, you never quite lost that impulse. It was a gift shared by few in that world, and I always admired it.”
Something about this made Emma uncertain that it was entirely an agreement. “But?”
“But,” Miranda said, still more quietly, “I am not sure that in this place, in this circumstance, we can afford to be quite so munificent. I agree that it’s a fool idea to move against Murray openly, but we cannot sit and wait for solid proof. And if you defend the rights of your enemies against the sensibilities of your family, high-minded and generous as it is. . .well, you may only wish that you had had the opportunity to do differently.”
Sensing Emma’s objection, she put up a hand. “I know Murray is not clearly our enemy, not yet. I think, however, that Killian and James are correct in surmising that he will have to be considered one. Someone here was informing on us to Billy Bones, according to your brother’s letter. Someone with the clout and ability to hire two assassins and send them to Savannah. If Murray’s influence is as strong as it is said, I have great difficulty believing that this transaction could have taken place without his knowing of it. If he had nothing to do with it, I am more than happy to eat my words. But I scarcely need add that Robert Gold’s nephew would have a considerable personal motive to do us ill, over and in addition to whatever Bones told him.”
Emma had been about to say something else, but stopped. Finally she said, “We’ll discuss it when Killian comes back. In the meantime, it’s been a very long day, and I could more than do with some sleep. Good night.”
With that, she made her own exit, angry and worried and feeling more like the frightened, alone seventeen-year-old than ever. She undressed and got into bed, but could not sleep well without Killian, and flopped from side to side on the mattress, doing nothing more than disordering the bedclothes. Where was he, anyway? It was becoming quite a long storm-around to blow off steam – unless he had been so angry that he had simply carried on straight to the ship and –
No, no. Emma shook her head hard. She and Killian had been married for twenty-five years, and had certainly had disagreements and fights before, which they always made up in due course. He was not about to be so petulant as to leave her over one like this, even if it was more serious than their usual. Though considering that he evidently felt that rushing out and hitting Gideon Murray over the head with a candlestick was a bloody brilliant idea, who knew, perhaps he was.
Unhappy and heartsick, Emma dozed uneasily and sporadically for a few hours, before waking up with a jolt in early predawn and realizing that Killian still had not come in. At that, her combination of anger and anxiety finally sharpened into fear. She threw off the covers, pulled on her dressing gown, and went downstairs. Questioning the Nolan servants revealed that Killian was not in the house, nor had they heard him return at any point in the night. They had not heard any disturbance or signs of a struggle in the house or grounds, so they did not think he had been taken anywhere against his will. Either he had become distracted with some vital midnight errand and would return shortly, or. . .well, would Mrs. Jones care for breakfast?
Emma was not at all hungry upon receipt of this news, and went to find Flint and Miranda, who were just coming downstairs, looking as if they too had passed a restless and unpleasant night. “Something’s wrong. Killian never came back.”
Flint opened his mouth, winced as Miranda stepped hard on his foot, and forbore to offer whatever he had been about to. Instead he said, “You’re sure?”
“Aye, quite. I asked the servants, and he. . . he’s gone.”
“That’s not at all like him.” A fine line creased Miranda’s brows. “Even if you had quarreled.”
“I know.” Emma struggled with the words, but forced them out anyway. She had to find some way to defeat the evil thrall this place had on her, the darkness it was creeping into her thoughts, the insinuating whispers that he had just up and gone anyway, that no matter how long or how intimate the connection was, it was still doomed to end in abandonment and heartbreak. “I. . . I know Killian wouldn’t leave willingly and make me worry. But if not. . .”
“But if not,” Miranda completed. The line drew deeper. “Then something has happened to him.”
-----------------
Saint Kitts and Nevis was one of the richest jewels in England’s West Indies crown. The twin islands, part of the Leeward archipelago and barely fifty miles from the Royal Navy and provincial government headquarters on Antigua, were responsible by some reckonings for almost twenty percent of all of the Crown’s lucrative sugar production in the Caribbean. Indeed, it had been the colonial capital until 1698, when the seat was transferred to Antigua, and it was terraced with plantations and sugarcane fields, requiring a slave population nearly as vast as Jamaica’s to keep the wheels turning and the knives threshing. Accordingly, its mountains were likewise rumored to host their own hidden colonies of Maroons, and there remained much public unease about their presence, despite the fact that it was the African slaves who, in 1706, had fought off an attempted French invasion. Sugar production had been somewhat dented by this incident, but remained the place’s chief lifeblood, and as Sam stared at the distant harbor, crowded with ships rocking at anchor, he could not help but think that most, if not all, of them were slavers. This was one of the first ports of call for vessels arriving from the Gold Coast of Africa, laden with their human cargo, who were taken straight out of the hold, sold at market, and sent to work on the plantations. They were here neither for sugar nor for slaves, but it still made him feel sick.
Why they were here, however, and if it would actually work, remained a point of serious question. Sam was not remotely about to sail home with these dangerous lunatics in tow, and considering how delicate the subject of Skeleton Island was, his grandfather – even if he somehow remembered the exact bearings after twenty-five years, which was signally unlikely – was not in the least about to happily yield them up to a Spanish spy. Besides, they could not get so far back into English territory without difficulties, and whatever tenuous protection Sam had bought his family with this entire mad gamble would go up in smoke if Da Souza knew where to find them. He could not, at all costs, go back to Savannah. So instead he would have to – yet again – madly improvise.
The one (hah, one) difficulty in this, however, was that Da Souza and Jack were under the impression that Sam – if not quite certain on the particulars – had at least a middling-to-decent idea of where Skeleton Island was, how to get there, and whether or not the treasure was salvageable. In fact, Sam had absolutely no blinking, bleeding, blue-hell clue where the damn place was, except “well east of Nassau, out in the Atlantic,” and that, to say the least, was something less than a specific direction. If his companions, who clearly had far more in common with each other and did not seem excessively fond of him, cottoned onto that, his use to them was negligible, and in fact his presence became an active liability. It would be easier to just eliminate him, via whatever handy method presented itself, rather than dealing with his entanglements with England and all the other danger he brought with him, just track Skeleton Island down themselves, and return to Güemes as conquering heroes. It was only their belief that he knew something important that was currently saving his neck. If they learned otherwise. . .
Sam had thus concocted this plan in hopes of improving the standing of his various endangered body parts, and he would have to proceed carefully. He remembered his sister saying something about a man on Nevis who sold charts, navigational equipment, and other sailing miscellany, often purchased from scrapped ships for wholesale prices. Geneva had acquired a number of useful items here, and while Sam knew that it was pushing his luck to the utmost to think that the dealer would just happen to have a copy of the incredibly rare chart that Captain Henry Avery had used to select the location of his treasure stashes back in the day, it was also better than nothing. Even if not that exact chart, there might be others, books or documents pointing toward the unmapped parts of the Caribbean, hidden islets that swashbucklers had used for secret bases. Skeleton Island was a real place. Sam’s mother and grandfather had been there. It had to be able to be found again. And after over a week on the voyage from Havana, Sam was more than ready to stretch his legs and get off this smelly, lurching tub. He really was not at all fond of sailing.
“Well,” he announced. “We’re here, so that’s good. I’ll just pop ashore and check that – ”
“You think you’re going by yourself?” Jack cocked an exceedingly skeptical black eyebrow. “Not everyone is as chronically dim-witted as you, you know.”
Sam was insulted. True, this whole secret and subtle politicking bit did not appear to be his bag, but he thought “chronically dim-witted” was going a bit far. “I don’t recall asking for the pleasure of your company, no.”
Da Souza rolled his eyes. He had been subjected to a great deal of chunter in this vein for the past nine days, and could have been second-guessing his decision to be so keen on the whole “lots and lots of money” bit. (Then again, probably not.) “Filho de mil putas, the two of you should just go have a drink and punch each other until you get tired. But yes. You, Jack Bell, you go with him. You are English, you draw less attention.”
“And you?”
Da Souza smiled, revealing that sharp canine that always looked in search of a nearby neck to bite down on. “I am sure I can do some good business of my own, yes?”
“Er, right.” Sam was about to ask, then decided that whatever a Spanish spy would be up to in one of England’s most vital economic centers was a question better left unexplored. They were currently anchored in the Narrows, the thin spit of water that separated Saint Kitts and Nevis; true to its name, it was only a few miles wide, and the steep-sided cliffs of either island rose closely to either side of the Senaita, which was the name of Da Souza’s vessel. It sounded almost pretty, though Sam had quickly learned that it was in fact a vulgar Portuguese term for a woman’s private parts. It was just a bit south down to the coast to Nevis’ capital and largest settlement, which was called (ironically) Charlestown. But as Da Souza could not approach and enter openly, Jack and Sam would have to take the launch and row.
It required more arguing over the logistics, but this finally managed to occur. With a murmured word in low-voiced Spanish exchanged between Jack and Da Souza, which Sam watched with narrowed eyes, they climbed into the small boat, put the oars in the locks, and set off across the tranquil blue water. It was still early, and mist drifted in spiraling, ghostly columns like the Israelites’ pillar of cloud, seabirds soaring and cawing in the updrafts. Sam could feel sweat beading on the back of his neck, shoulders straining as he pulled the oars. “What’d you say to him? Planning to stab me in a dark alley and make it look like an accident?”
“If I stab you, believe me, it will not be an accident.”
“You know, mate.” Sam let go long enough to wipe his forehead with the back of his arm. “You ever considered lightening up?”
Jack glared at him. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with the worst bloody pirate in the history of pirates.”
“Thought you didn’t like pirates.” Sam resumed rowing. “That’s the sense I got, anyway. Though you sometimes don’t sound far off from one yourself, what with English tyrants this, angry at the world that. So why would you care if I was one or not?”
“If you were a pirate, at least you might be useful.” Jack pulled his oars without a pause, probably just to show that he could. Prick. “Instead you’re – I don’t know what you are, but it’s not looking likely to get me out of this alive, and I do happen to care about that.”
“Güemes stuck us together, that’s not my fault. As for getting out of it alive, might be easier if you worked with me a little. I might not be a genius, but I’m also not a terrible bloke. Try it, you might like me.”
Jack snorted. “I don’t think I’m in any danger of that.”
“Why not?” Sam was stung. People often liked him, and he was proud of that. He might not have the same skills as the rest of his family, but then, they weren’t overflowing with friends (especially certain ones of them). “Just going to write me off at the start, for whatever you have against me that isn’t my bloody fault? You chose where you were born and how, eh? Well, neither did I. So find a legitimate reason to dislike me, or sod off to your precious Spaniards, not that they actually trust you or ever will. Your neck’s on the line as much as mine, as you yourself have noted, so all your toadying isn’t going to do you the fat lot of good.”
Jack’s dark eyes flared. “It’s not toadying.”
“Oh yeah? Then what is it?”
“I’ve – ” Jack started to say something else, realized that he had no call to account himself to Sam, and stopped. Tersely he said, “I’ve made choices, just as you have, not that I expect you to understand. You’re fighting for something? Well, so am I. Leave it there.”
Sam regarded the older boy for a moment, as they entered the breakwater of Charlestown harbor, sculled past the anchored slavers, and drew close to the piers. They looked enough alike – both tall and rangy, with long black hair and sun-browned skin – that it was possible to mistake them for brothers, not that he thought Jack would agree to such a demeaning subterfuge. Not if it means pretending to be related to me, anyway. He experienced another unwelcome prickle of insecurity, his ever-present fear that his family was ashamed of him, and did not want to feel it in regard to someone he had just met, who had a stick wedged very far up his arse and a streak of darkness that it would better not to cross. Sam wasn’t afraid of anyone, as noted by his habit of impertinence to very important people, but he was nonetheless a bit apprehensive around Jack. He didn’t even know why. Jack hadn’t done anything, yet, to pose an open threat. It just hung around him somehow, the sense that pissing him off or pushing him too far would have unforeseen and dangerous consequences. Sam was generally adept at that sort of thing, somewhat too much for his own good, but he didn’t want to tiptoe around the bastard, especially when he preferred to be friends with people rather than expend the unnecessary energy to hate them. If Jack was going to make that complicated, well. He’d deal with it later.
They reached the piers, bumped ashore, tied up the boat, and headed up the street, which was just beginning to open its shutters and hang out its shingles for business. Sam attempted to look authoritatively as if he knew where he was going, though all Geneva had said was that the man was on Nevis. He noticed that most of the people going about the morning routine were slaves, and swallowed another pang of anger. Slavery was a subject particularly close to his family’s heart, and Sam’s namesake had been known for his passionate fight against it – the Whydah had been a slaver before he took her, he had a number of free Negroes on his crew, and the slaves of Nassau had risen up against Rogers and Gold in his name and that of the Maroons who had perished with him in the Whydah’s wreck. Sam Bellamy would not have been the slightest bit accepting of this setup, therefore, and Sam Jones could not help but wonder if he was also failing in the honor of the name, especially with Bellamy’s bloody nephew striding alongside him and giving him occasional judgmental looks. Who knows, it might be a good thing if I die. That way at least I can’t cock it up any further.
At the top of the street, they found something that looked vaguely like a bookshop, though the legend painted on the sign was J.A. Hamilton, Scrivener. Sam considered it, decided it was a good place to start as any, then shrugged and pushed through. “Good morning. Anyone here?”
Inside, the property turned out to be a small and narrow clerk’s cupboard, the sort of place where people would go to have legal documents drafted – wills, marriage contracts, property deeds, shipping registers, and doubtless several dozen bills of sale for slaves. Vigorous ringing of the tarnished handbell finally produced the clerk, a rather pale and sneezy-looking young man with red hair and a strong Scottish accent. “Ah, good mornin’ then, can I be helpin’ ye at all?”
“You sell charts? Or know the man who does? Sailing charts.”
J.A. Hamilton blinked. “Er – sailin’ charts? No, I dinna think we have those. If you’re needing a scrip of credit, though, I can – ”
“My sister told me about a man on Nevis who sold them.” Sam wished he had paid more attention, but it had been another one of Geneva’s sailing stories, and he’d heard plenty. Hence his oversight was now biting him in the arse, since of course it was. “Listen, Jimbo, if you can just point us in the right direction, we can – ”
“James,” the clerk said indignantly. “My name’s James, son o’ the laird of Grange, in Ayrshire.”
“The son of a laird’s stuck out here as a clerk in the West Indies?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “What’d you do to cheese him off, mate?”
James Hamilton was clearly not interested in answering questions of this nature, though Sam vaguely recalled that the laird of Grange was one Alexander, some or another of the various Hamilton family cousins – which included Lord Archibald Hamilton, former governor of Jamaica, notorious Jacobite, and first employer of the privateer Henry Jennings, and the late Lord Alfred Hamilton, his uncle Thomas’s father (and equally notorious shitweasel, by the sounds of things). It seemed they fancied names with the letter A, for sure, but in any event, that was beside the point, and James would not be deterred. “D’ye want a legal paper or not?”
“No,” Sam said, exasperated. “Charts. Maps. Sailing bits. Know where the bloke went?”
“Oh, ye mean auld Donald Kerr.” At long last, comprehension lit in Hamilton’s eyes behind the pince-nez. “He died, a few months back. His collection got auctioned off, dinna ken where all the rubbish went. Sorry, hope it wasna important.”
“Hope it wasn’t important?” Sam suppressed a very strong urge to scream. “Well, you’re just brimming with useful information today, aren’t you?”
Hamilton gave him a sniffy look, as if to ask what he was supposed to personally do, which might have been true, but was detrimental to Sam’s aims of being annoyed about it. Seeing as they were not about to get anything else, he turned and marched out the door. “Totally crap excuse for a relative, that one,” he remarked. “Nice change for it not to be me.”
“Relative?” Jack looked at him strangely. “How on earth is he related to you?”
“He’s not, technically speaking. He’s some son of a cousin of my great-uncle’s father. Though I think Grandpa killed him – the father, that is, because he was terrible, but never mind. He made their life hell since Granny and Great-Uncle Thomas were married, and he definitely – ”
“Wait, what?” Jack was even more confused. “Your great-uncle is married to your grandmother? Isn’t she married to, you know, your grandfather? And isn’t that incest?”
“Yes, she is, but she’s also married to Uncle Thomas – he’s not really my uncle, it’s just what me and Geneva and Henry always called him. They were married first, but Grandpa and Granny got married later on, and once they found out Uncle Thomas was still alive, they all got together again – Grandpa and Uncle Thomas are just about married too.” Seeing Jack’s completely blank expression, Sam faltered. “It’s, ah. It’s complicated.”
“Clearly,” Jack muttered. “Well, who is this Kerr fellow and can we find him?”
“According to Cousin Barney in there, he’s dead, so that’s not going to work.” Sam kicked a paving stone in frustration. “Unless we can track down whoever bought his collection, which also isn’t going to work, so – ”
“It could,” Jack pointed out. “Our friend might even have drafted up the bill of sale. We could go over his books, though I’m not clear what exactly we are looking for.”
Sam hesitated. “A map,” he said, which was, after all, not a lie. “There are some copies of Henry Avery’s old charts I’d like to have a peek at.”
“Henry Avery’s charts,” Jack repeated, with unflattering skepticism. “As in the legendary Henry Avery, pirate captain, because those are just lying around.”
“Never know until you ask, do you?” Ignoring the further look of deep dudgeon thrown at him, Sam flung the scrivener’s door open again and ducked inside. “Oy, Brutus, we’re back. Need to have a look at any bills you might have done for Kerr’s collection, and make it snappy.”
“My name is not Brutus, and I dinna recall you have any right to – ”
“Go get the sale books, Bartleby,” Jack ordered. “Hurry up.”
James Hamilton looked deeply miffed, as Sam shot a covert sidelong look at his companion – was that evidence of a sense of humor, lurking somewhere beneath all the gruff? “No. Ye canna compel me to do any such thing. And if ye carry on disturbin’ me like a pair of wastrels, I will fetch the constables directly and – ”
Jack sighed, cracked his knuckles, and with no preliminary whatsoever, just a swift, short, out-of-nowhere movement, punched the scrivener in the face. “Of course we can compel you,” he informed the literally gobsmacked Hamilton. “Go get the fucking books.”
Hamilton’s mouth hung open, he sniffed back a few drops of blood, and seemed to briefly debate whether it was worth it to go mano-a-mano, at which the answer appeared to be no – he was only a year or two older than Sam, and he was considerably shorter than Jack. He shut his mouth with a click and scuttled off, as Sam eyed his companion sidelong again for a rather different reason. He appreciated the efficiency, and it wasn’t as if he thought Hamilton would permanently suffer from a good whack in the nose, but that was exactly the reason why he knew he had to be careful. Jack had already said that if he stabbed him, it wouldn’t be an accident, and seeing that, Sam couldn’t be sure that he would at all hesitate in doing it.
Hamilton returned a few minutes later with a ledger, which he thrust at them with a baleful expression, and Sam, feeling remorseful, pulled some of his hard-stolen silver out of his pocket. Da Souza’s men hadn’t appreciated it, but it was legal tender here, so Hamilton likely would. “Hey. Sorry for the mess. We’ll be on our way.”
They stepped outside, set the ledger on a low brick wall, and paged through it, trying to decipher Hamilton’s cramped and scrawling handwriting. At last, they came to the entries for the late Kerr’s collection, and Sam ran a finger down the list of purchasers, muttering imprecations about the inconvenience of people just up and dying when they shouldn’t. This didn’t look terribly useful anyway. Just a bunch of bored rich twits, probably, decorating their drawing rooms with authentic nautical foofaraw in an attempt to look as if they knew far more about the whole thing than they definitely did not actually –
It was the last name that caught at Sam. Caught at him because as far as he knew, the man it belonged to was dead. Had been dead for a long time, and while he and Mum had been friends once, he had also been – more bitterly and notoriously – ultimately mortal enemies with Grandpa. In fact, Sam blinked once and then again, thinking he might be misreading. It could, of course, be someone else. But it was there. It stayed the same.