Dear Peter,

It feels good to be back on the sea.

I went to your house yesterday, but your mom's pissed at me, so she wouldn't let me see you. You two were asleep, anyway. She didn't want to wake you, even though I might not be back for a full month.

Robin and I went out to get provisions for the journey after that. Then, we went to celebrate with the rest of the crew.

Poor Heath, she's still sick. That woman gets so cranky when she's stuck in bed. She keeps criticizing everything I do and making racist comments at Robin. He doesn't really care, but she's starting to piss me off, just a little.

Here's some good news: I'm letting go of James.

I have a bunch of his stuff in a basket I found in Fergie's room. Poor Ferg, he's gone too. Anyway, I put all his clothes in there, and his pillow and his comb and a bunch of other crap that used to be in his room. I'm going to throw it into the sea when we reach Sweden.

It seems appropriate. The Fina is a Swedish ship, after all. I wonder if he had any Swedish blood in him. It's a shame I never got to ask. I'll ask Heather, when she's in a better mood.

Apparently I'm writing too loudly, now. Sorry, Heath.

I might just sleep down in the pipe room with Robin. Heath's all congested so her snoring is a thousand times worse. 'S not her fault or anything, I just can't get any sleep in this room. Plus, Robin's like a warm, fluffy puppy. I just wanna curl up on the floor with him . . . oh god, what's happened to me?

So, what's Sweden known for anyway? It's not cheese, is it? I think that's Switzerland. So what the hell is the deal with Sweden?

Oh, right! IKEA!

Sorry, that was uncalled for. I think I need to relax. I might go find Morphie's secret stash of liquor (He actually has some pretty nice stuff in there, everything from rum to wine) and grab a bottle. Maybe I'll share with Robin, if I'm feeling generous. Or particularly cuddly, which for some reason, I am.

I'd rather cuddle with you, though. See you when I get back from the land of meatballs and furniture.

    Love ya,

                  Aunty Olive xx

XXX

Heather's presence comforted Peter for about five seconds. Then he realized, this only made everything a thousand time worse.

Poor Ollie, poor Caelum, out who-knows-where, worrying for someone who might never come home.

He wondered if Aiden was worried about him. Surely, his brother cared. Mrs. Barnes was probably tearing her hair out, looking for him. And knowing Amelia's parents, they probably were, too. If they were found, the Dawits would never let him see Amelia again. But that would be okay, as long as she survived.

His next thought when the man chained Heather to the wall beside him was, Where is Amelia? If she wasn't here, in the Torture Chamber Of Nightmares, was she . . . ?

Peter scolded himself for jumping to the worst case scenario as he so often did. No, she wasn't on the ship. She'd gone home. She was looking for him, with Robin.

He heard the voice again, his aunt's. Die young, she said. It's easier.

He'd heard her say this before.

But today, right now, it felt different. The very real possibility of death looked him in the face, taking the form of a skull on a pirate's waving flag. Oh, the darkness, the dampness, the scent of blood. Would this be the end?

He'd thought about death in great depth, not only for himself. He'd decided how everyone he knew would die.

Aiden, his started with him coming out and then meeting a very nice boy. He and the very nice boy would fall in love. One day, they would go out for a picnic together. The boy would forget about Aiden's allergy and eat a peanut butter sandwich. They would be kissing in the spring-scented wind, laughing into each other's lips, and suddenly, Peter's brother would go into anaphylactic shock. Peter allowed himself to believe it would be over quick, and he would die in his lover's arms. Either this, or a bee would swoop in from the tree above and end Aiden with its lethal sting.

Mrs. Barnes was easy. Heart attack, definitely. Stress induced, at her desk in her office on the second floor. They'd find her face-down on the articles she was editing, hair still pulled into a tight bun and face still covered with makeup.

His mother, she had one, too. Suicide, yes, but not by drowning. Heroine overdose, probably, or morphine. Something numbing. That didn't sound too bad to him, if he was honest with himself.

Amelia was more difficult. So young, so tough she seemed invincible. He'd come up with one for her, though. A pleasant exit. He thought she deserved that much.

It would be winter, her favorite season. Snow would be falling, the trees shivering. But they would be safe and warm inside, wrapped together in a fluffy blanket, drinking hot chocolate. Amelia would fall asleep to the sound of snowflakes settling and the flames crackling in the fireplace. Her breathing would calm and her body would slacken. Then there would be a beautiful, glowing light and she would be gone.

No one would ever know what happened.

Amelia deserved the unknown.

Heather looked at him with a mixture of despair and disdain. She had no gag on her mouth, but didn't speak to him. His throat felt scraped raw, so he didn't speak to her either. But he hoped she could read his eyes. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I should have left you be.

She looked away. Peter shifted his gaze to the man, scowling. In his mind, this sorry sack of flesh and bones in front of him was the source of all evil.

"Glare at me all you like, chico," he said, turning with a smirk. "It will not change the fact that you are the prisoner and I am the captain."

He thought about his sixth grade English teacher. She had been strange, as teachers go, frizzy brown hair with one streak of white. Thick glasses, fake nails. Peter hadn't liked her much. But on the last day of school, he remembered her calling him into her classroom. She had a paper of his in her hands, a paper in which she'd told them to choose any subject at all to write about. He'd chosen seventeenth century pirates.

Handing the paper back to him, she smiled and said, "You have a talent, Peter. Use it well, and you can create anything. You can change anything. You can be anything."

He'd found it quite profound at the time. Now thinking about it, he rolled his eyes and wished he could be out of here. What use was a "talent" on a pirate ship? He needed what Heather had: fighting skills, deep-seated apathy, and scary, hard eyes.

But no, he had the ability to make words sound pretty together. Great.

The man approached them, a smile playing across his lips. Peter found his expression more amused than menacing. "Now," he said, "I've already spoken to both of you. And neither of you have chosen to save yourselves the pain and tell me where to find the damn ship." He flashed them each a glance before going on. "So now, things may get a bit messy."

Heather made a strange noise. "Mateo, we don't know. We would have told you by now if we did." Mateo. What a short name for a man who caused such lengths of misery.

"I wish I could believe you, chiquita."

"Then believe me."

Mateo kneeled in front of Heather, close enough that the hairs on the back of Peter's neck stood up. Fear coursed through his veins. Don't hurt her, he wished he had the courage to say. Hurt me instead.

But he didn't hit her. Instead, he took a lock of her hair and brushed it out of her face, bringing his lips to hers. Peter closed his eyes, Caelum's face floating into his mind. He heard Mateo pull away and opened his eyes. Heather, still chained to the wall, had turned white as a sheet, her hands shaking despite clenched fists.

"Don't touch me," she snarled. "I don't know where The frickin' Fina is, okay? I'm not even a pirate anymore. Ask the kid! He's the one who wanted to put our lives in danger so bad."

Peter felt like he'd just received a well-deserved slap in the face. "Heather," he managed to croak. He couldn't defend himself any farther than that.

Mateo ignored him. "Oh, Heather," he sighed, clicking his tongue. "One day you will learn, it's easier to accept than to fight."