"Let this shanty of mine be known as the Shanty of Enthral."
Saint LeFay's Journal, 2 P.C.
Camila didn't have a death wish, so she waited for the captain to show herself in public before making any move. With nothing else to do, she slipped back home after her aimless walk through town.
Her mother didn't stop her this time. Maybe she finally saw how much Francis's disappearance was dragging her down. Maybe she knew there was nothing left to say.
Camila went straight to her room. She shut the door, crawled under the blanket, and let herself cry—quiet tears, the kind no one else should ever see.
Her betrothed had lied to her, over and over. The thought alone cracked the composure she'd been holding together these last few days. She told herself he must have had his reasons. He wasn't the kind of man who hid things without cause. But why had he jumped so quickly to the idea that she couldn't be trusted? She could keep a secret. It wouldn't have been the first, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
What stung wasn't the lie itself. It was the feeling that she'd been made a fool of. For days. And the humiliation settled in her chest like a stone.
That hardly matters right now, does it?
She forced the thought through the mess of her emotions, reminding herself she might be angry at a dead man. A dead man who, for all his flaws, had cared about her more than most ever had. That didn't make the lie hurt any less.
But he would come back. She held on to that. And when he did, he was going to hear a mouthful.
By sunrise, Camila forced herself out of bed and into motion. Routine was easier than thinking. She washed, braided her hair, and slipped into the red dress—his favorite—then her sandals, and stepped out before her courage had time to falter. The chapel bells were already calling.
Mass was the same as always, except for the eyes. The townsfolk tried to hide their pity behind nods and soft smiles, but it only made it worse. Every glance felt like a hand on her shoulder she hadn't asked for. Every whispered prayer sounded like it had her name tucked inside it.
She kept her gaze fixed on the altar. She sang when she was expected to sing, knelt when she was expected to kneel, and did her best to ignore the murmur of sympathy pressing in from every pew. They meant well, she knew that, but it still didn't make the sting any duller.
By the time the final blessing came, she was already halfway to the door, hoping the morning sun could at least help.
What met her outside wasn't fresh air but an old man—fifty or seventy, she couldn't tell. The sun had a way of dragging the years out of people here. He stepped into her path with a solemn nod.
"Camila. My condolences," he said.
Her shoulders tensed. She began calculating the quickest polite escape—down the steps, around the corner, home before the next person tried to console her.
"I didn't expect the paper to cause this much trouble."
Huh?
She blinked at him. "Paper?" she asked, genuinely confused.
"He told me not to tell anyone, so I didn't," the old man said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But now that he's… anyway." He sighed, folding in on himself a little. "About a week ago, I gave him a paper I inherited from my father. At first I thought it was just some pretty writing, but as the years passed, I realized my father wouldn't pass down something like that just because it looked good."
Camila listened, every word landing heavier than the last. Why was this the first she'd heard of any of it?
Because Francis is a liar.
"What did the paper contain?" she asked, hating how much she suddenly sounded like him—prying calmly, pretending not to care too much.
"I don't… I feel like I should—"
"He was my betrothed," Camila cut in, the words stinging as they came out. "I deserve to at least know what killed him."
That stopped the old man cold. His expression shifted—guilt, maybe shame, maybe both—before he finally nodded.
"The paper talked about hidden treasure."
Camila raised a brow. "Treasure," she said flatly.
"Not long after I gave him the paper, he met me at the bar he used to work at and gave me ten gold coins, saying that's what he found there."
Ten gold coins. Ten. Gold. Enough to feed a family for years, and he just… handed it over. She knew her betrothed was kindhearted, even if he didn't much care for the Commandments, but ten gold? That was absurdly generous for a bartender who earned little.
Unless… the treasure contained something that made ten gold meaningless.
"Did he tell you anything else?" Camila asked, her voice calm despite it all.
"He said he'd let me know if he found anything else. And… we haven't talked since."
Multiple treasure troves… Oh, Francis, why are you doing this to me?
"Thank you," Camila said softly. "And don't worry, I'll keep your secret." She let her words trail off, allowing herself a moment of quiet. If only Francis knew she could keep a secret.
As she walked toward the bar where Francis had worked, the old man's words began to settle in her mind, connecting a few elusive dots. Her suspicions about him and the pirate captain seemed far off now. It had never been about her—not truly. The treasure he sought had always been the center of it, and the fact that he had used her as a cover, even if only subconsciously, added another weight to the ache she was already carrying.
***
Valeria dealt the next hand lazily, the cards sliding across the wooden table as if it were coated in grease. Playing cards at this hour wasn't productive—not even close—but what else was she supposed to do? Sailing was still a distant dream, repairs were slow, and entertainment on land was just as imaginary. So she played, and she played well.
"Where did you learn to play like that!" one of the locals groaned after losing his third round in a row.
"The sea doesn't leave you with much else to do, I guess."
Spending time with locals had never been high on her list of joys. They were smelly, half-toothless, and a touch too dense to hold a real conversation. But here in Saint Agnes, it felt necessary. The last thing she needed during an extended stay was for the townsfolk to get restless—or worse, brave. So she humored them. Cards. Shared supplies. A few small "events" to keep spirits high.
Eh. At least I'm having fun while at it.
Some still didn't buy it, of course. Only a fool would underestimate a whole town.
The clergy, for instance, watched her with thinly veiled suspicion. A woman like her—commanding two dozen gruff pirates with unbending discipline—was all the proof they needed that she was Submerged. They couldn't prove it, naturally, and they definitely couldn't challenge her. Her men alone could burn this place to ash. She could do it herself, then kill her own crew out of boredom.
Huh. Maybe that's why they're so wary.
Either way, if her dear bartender survived his Descension, he'd be in for a lovely round of persecution. Assuming he bothered to tolerate it. That kind of scenario was the equivalent of a rat persecuting a lion. And besides, his little birdie seemed loyal enough.
As if on cue, the loyal lass appeared near her table. Valeria had sensed her approach long before she arrived, naturally, but there was no reason to acknowledge it. That would only feed the girl's silly preconceptions.
"Hey, captain. I'd like to speak to you in private," the girl said, her tone unusually respectful.
Huh. She's scared of me.
"Sure," Valeria replied, not bothering to finish her current hand. Her opponent didn't protest and simply wandered off, leaving the two alone.
"Sorry if I'm being rude, but… do you know if Francis was hiding anything before… you know," the girl asked, hesitant.
Scared indeed.
"Hmm, let me think," Valeria said, feigning thoughtfulness. The girl immediately caught on, hanging on her every word.
"Is there… anything you want for the information? I'll do anything," the girl added, her worry evident.
"Oh, lighten up! I could never take advantage of a widow," Valeria replied, cementing their roles in a single sentence. "As for Francis… yes. He was hiding quite a lot." Her words made the girl's pupils dilate.
"What kind of secrets?" the girl asked, her voice steady now, having shaken off the initial shock.
Valeria didn't know where to start. The sneaking around, the abnormal reflexes, the constant caution he carried—it all screamed danger. But at the same time, she knew the poor lad was already in deep trouble with his betrothed. Perfect. A perfect opportunity to help a friend in need, out of the kindness of her heart, of course.
"Let's just say," she finally replied, a faint smirk tugging at her lips, "he got entangled in something that would put you in danger if you found out."