Dear Peter,

Canada ain't so bad.

We're in Nova Scotia at the moment, heading to New Brunswick in the morning. Guess who we picked up here in Nova? Four new crew members.

Two are a pair of street performers. They're pretty cool. Freddy juggles knives and stuff like that, and his friend Costos can sing opera. Costos is pretty funny, but Heath doesn't like him because he winks at her every time she walks by.

Another is this guy named Bill that I found in a pub. You always find the failures in pubs. He's one of the tortured artist types, y'know? He's written three novels, none of which were claimed by a publishing company, so he went ahead and self published one. It bombed. He wants me to read it and tell him what I think. What I think is: hell no, I'm a pirate captain now, screw reading.

Anyways, he's a pirate now too. We're gonna have to whip him into shape, though. I just took him cause I felt bad for him. Truth is, he's seven years older than me and has a bit of a potbelly.

The last new crew member is a girl named Portia who has been fencing since she was seven. She ran away from home (Maine) and ended up penniless in Nova Scotia. She's a quiet one, doesn't talk much, but that's okay. She'll come out of her shell soon. I think she's just a little intimidated, y'know? But who wouldn't be, honestly?

Bill's good for one thing, though: he can cook. He's making pancakes. The guys were teasing him about the whole maple syrup thing and he was like, "We make damn good syrup here so shut your pie hole! I'm makin' pancakes!"

He's gonna be a good pirate.

. . . So, Heath and I talked last night. About the Encantador stuff. It wasn't as bad as I thought it might be, but it was hard to do, definitely. I cried, Heather didn't.

She doesn't cry, I think. She didn't cry on The Encantador, or when she was wounded fighting, or when James died. She didn't cry for any of the crewmen that died of the plague, the ones she'd known for years, she didn't cry at James' funeral, or when I gave her the pictures of him and their daughter.

I wonder if she cried when Jesse died. I bet she did. How could you not cry if you lost your daughter?

Peter, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I have some experience with that myself. It wasn't my daughter, it was my niece.

I don't think your mom is planning to ever tell you about your sister, and I guess she has her reasons for that. But I feel like you guys kind of deserve to know, don't you?

Karie was born a year after Aiden and a year before you. I was thirteen, Bailey was twenty one. Cory and I were at the hospital for hours, waiting. Your dad didn't want to go in cause he's the kind of guy that'll pass out at the sight of blood. So we hung out in the waiting room and I'd go in and check on her from time to time. I didn't want to stay in there, either, cause she was screaming bloody murder, and every time I'd go in she'd start yelling at me.

I was there when the baby was pronounced stillborn. Your mother started wailing, just screaming her guts out. And telling Cory the news? That was the worst feeling ever. He just fell apart.

It didn't really hit me until later. That was back when Brett still lived in Texas, so I stayed with him for the night. We were both crushed, so we didn't talk much. He cried a little, I cried a lot.

Hmm, at least there's you, Peter.

          Love you,

                      -Aunty Olive xoxoxxxxxx(extra love)

XXX

Amelia wondered, at first, then she stopped.

Because wondering led to worrying and worrying led to nausea, and the last thing she wanted to do was throw up on whoever's bedsheets these were.

The sheets, silky and red, felt soft on her aching skin, trying to lull her to sleep. She kept her eyes open, though, for fear that she would pass out again. All she could remember, since that wooden beam knocked her in the head, was a load of darkness and a few loud shouts and hollers.

The room had a rosy glow, dimly lit by a single lamp on the desk in the corner. Amelia's bed took up a forth of it.

Amelia felt like she might be naked, but couldn't tell for sure. The covers draped over her felt light as air, a light layer of snow on her skin.

She could move, but didn't. If she moved, she'd have to explore, and if she explored, she'd know where she was. She prefered to lay still and pretend she was home, back in Santa Fe with her brothers screaming downstairs while the TV blared, another boring day ahead.

She'd wanted adventure, but she hadn't wanted this.

The door opened. Amelia held her breath, clamping her eyes shut. She could hear light footsteps, and breathing. She began to worry that she really was naked.

She opened one eye just a crack, enough to see that the person was a plump woman, dressed in red, advancing toward her. She squeezed her eyes closed again, wishing this room, this week would just disappear.

Amelia felt a hand on her forehead. Snapping into sitting position, she cowered in the corner of the bed, eyes still wrinkled shut. She felt herself shivering. It was only the woman, she knew. Only this mysterious lady in her room, watching her quake in the corner of the bed, possibly naked possibly not. Yet, she couldn't bring herself to open her eyes.

"Abre tus ojos," a voice said.

She'd taken spanish for two years now, but in her panic, Amelia couldn't seem to piece together the sentence. Ojos meant either eyes or ears, she couldn't remember. She shook her head, hiding her face in her hands. Now, she felt sure she was naked. The air felt heavy and thick on her exposed skin.

"Abre," The woman repeated. Amelia felt the hand on her skin again. The woman cupped her face in her hand, lifting her eyelid with her thumb.

Startled, Amelia blinked and scrambled back again, only to find there was no bed left. She hit the floor with a sharp cry, the bruise on her leg throbbing.

The woman hurried around to her side of the bed. "¡Cálmese!" She exclaimed. "No lloras."

Amelia felt tears coming. She didn't know what the woman was saying, or if she was trying to help her or hurt her. She shrank away into the corner of the room, curling into a ball. Until she knew, this woman would not touch her.

"Quiero ayudarte," The woman said. She repeated it twice, slower each time. Amelia wouldn't look at her. She tried to analyze the words in her head. Ayudarte sounded familiar. Like ayudame, that meant help. Quier was the verb for want, right? I want to help.

She couldn't stop shivering. Peeking out from behind her hand, she saw the woman kneeling in front of her, concern painting her face.

"¿Habla español?" She asked.

Amelia cleared her throat. "Um . . ." She rasped. "Poco. Poquito." She made a tiny space between her fingers to show how little Spanish she spoke.

"Bien," the woman said. She held out a hand.

Amelia hesitated. The woman had a genuine smile. Her round face and lined brown eyes made her look trustable. But she didn't know. On The Encantador, the Cuban ship Olivia had written about with such fervent horror, there would be no trustable people.

She remembered Robin. He'd saved Olivia, hadn't he? Maybe this woman would save Amelia.

"Con . . . ¿Confia?" She stuttered, unable to form a full Spanish sentence. Trust?

The woman met her eye nodding. "Sí, niña, puedes confia en mi."