Dear Peter,

I should get sick more often.

I feel like crap, but it's sort of worth it. Robin won't let me do anything but blow my nose and use the bathroom.

He's so worried that I have some sort of tropical disease (Which I might -- this isn't some common cold, I can tell you that) and I'm going to die. Well, he hasn't said that, but from the way he's looking at me, I can tell that's what he's thinking.

Poor Heath. She's got the same thing, but Morphie's the only one around to take care of her.

According to Robin, I'm "burning up". I feel cold, though. It's weird. He tried to put an ice pack on my forehead and I was like, "hell no!" I'm in an arctic meat locker right now, I swear.

He's so cute when he's worried though, Peter.

We haven't talked about me running off, yet. We're both thinking about it, though. He asked me if I got any new crew members in Nova Scotia, but that's the extent of our Canada conversation. Ah, well. I'm fine with the way things are right now.

Robin doesn't care if I'm contagious or if there's clumps of snot clogging up my nose. Or if my lips are dry as sandpaper and I have a complexion like Casper the ghost. He'll kiss me anyway, which is more than I can say for most guys.

Speaking of my undead-like complexion, I love his skin. It's this warm caramel color, all shiny and bronze in the light. He looks like he would taste like candy. Toffee, maybe. Salted caramel.

Is that a weird thing to say about someone? Sorry, Peter. This entry has been a load of irrelevant crap.

Forgive me! I think my hormones are feeling just as crappy as the rest of me, and they're all bouncing around trying to find a way out.

Anyways, I do hope I'm not dying of the plague. That would suck.

   Love ya!

               -Aunty Olive xxx

XXX

By the time the man appeared, Peter had become a little pocket of anger.

His blood boiled with it. His body buzzed with it. He wanted to get out, to hurt someone. To kill someone. preferably this far-too-Robin-like man standing in front of him.

He glared at the man, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing Peter struggle against the bonds. Instead, he sat still, eyes following the pacing pirate. The man either didn't know he was awake, or ignored the fact.

Peter's left eye remained swollen shut; the right one would open only a slit. The darkness had become less impenetrable. As well as the pirate, he could see a grimy porthole and another set of chains on the opposite wall. Aside from these, the room was grungy and empty.

He tried to make a defiant sound. Nothing came out.

The man's face looked like an older, sharper Robin. Peter could see a wisp of gray hair sweeping back on his head. The lines in his face were deeper than those in Robin's. But obviously, the two were related. The question remained: how?

"Peter."

He jumped at the sound of his name. Every bone in his body screamed at him, protesting the sudden movement. He closed his eye, taking a deep breath. Damn, he hadn't been ready for that.

He couldn't respond, though, so he sat and waited.

The man turned to face him, the tiniest smile on his face. "Peter," he repeated. "Welcome to The Encantador. I hope you don't enjoy your stay."

Peter blinked (or tried to) at the man. He wanted to say a sarcastic, thanks, but the gag in his mouth insured that he couldn't. So he kept glaring, thinking of all the stars in the sky. Drop dead, he wished. Drop dead, die, get killed.

He wanted to ask -- no, demand -- where Amelia was. If they had her too, he wouldn't rest until she was safe. He'd break out, he'd create a diversion so she could escape, he'd open a wormhole in space and time. He'd do whatever he had to.

He couldn't stand to think of her, broken and hurt like him. Poor Mel -- she didn't deserve this.

"Now Peter," The man continued. He squatted down, looking Peter in the eye. His eyes were the same brown as Robin's, with the same glint of amusement in them. Peter looked down. "I am going to ask you some questions, bien? All you have to do is answer honestly."

Peter looked at the man in a way that said, you idiot. He had no way of motioning to the gag, other than jutting his chin down and shooting his eyes toward it.

The man nodded. "Ah, yes." He reached forward, long bronze fingers working the knot behind Peter's head. He tried not to breathe.

Suddenly, the pressure was relieved. His jaw dropped open, an involuntary whimper rising from his throat. The man seemed satisfied with this. He sat down on the dirty floor, giving Peter a scowly grin.

"Now tell me: where is The Fina?"

Peter sighed. Why, why did he think Peter would know? Wasn't that the question they'd set out to answer in the first place. He hadn't the energy to explain this, so he just shrugged. A mistake, he knew this a second after when the man's hand burned an angry red mark in his cheek. His rings scraped across Peter's skin, drawing blood.

"I said," the man growled. "Where. Is. The. Fina."

Peter drew his eyebrows together, unsure how to get out of this. "I don't know," he tried to say. His voice wasn't much more than a thin wisp of a croak. He cleared his throat, which hurt like hell, and repeated, "I don't know."

The man grimaced. "Shall I remind you of the stakes, niño? You do know that I have your friends as well, don't you? The girl, the one with the red hair? And your Aunt's friend. Heather."

Peter's blood went cold. He'd already suspected that Mel might be aboard The Encantador, but Heather? It wasn't fair. She'd already done her share of time on here. He felt a wave of sadness wash over him, thinking of Oliver and Cae. She'd found her happiness. And Peter had torn her away from it.

"Struck a nerve, eh?" The man said. He reached into his boot, producing a small knife. He proceeded to file his nails on it, smirking at the blade. "Don't worry, they're . . . alive. For now."

His body thrust outward, trying to break the bonds without his brain's permission. "You can't hurt her," he begged, not knowing who exactly he was talking about. "Please. She doesn't deserve this!"

The man made a sound between a laugh and a snort. "Oh, don't worry, chico. Your little girlfriend is fine. In fact, she's being well taken care of. Do you know why?" Peter did not. "In just two days, my son will be fifteen." He grinned at Peter. "I wanted to find him a suitable birthday gift."