Dear James,

Oi, you just may see Liv soon.

That girl, she's done it again. Not dead yet, but it's just a matter of time. She has a knack for making enemies, you know that? Like, why would the Swedes attack us? We're a Swedish ship, for hell's sake!

Oh, right. They hate us because Olivia is our captain and everybody hates Olivia.

Anyway, she's got a nasty wound. It's infected. Red, pus-filled, all that fun stuff. And she's running a crazy fever. I'm not too worried, though, to be honest. Olivia's too stubborn to go out lying in bed.

I think she's mad. At who, I couldn't say. But she's not talking, and she's got this real serious frown on her face. Maybe she's mad at Morphie. I would be, too, if I was the one he was sticking needles in twice an hour.

His idea, he told me, was to make sure she was comfortable. According to him, this way she would be more likely to recover, and if she didn't, she'd at least leave feeling fine.

Whatever. Give her a week and Liv'll be on her feet again.

She's kinda creepy in this state, I must say. She won't sleep or eat so she looks kinda ghoulish . . . and she's staring at me while I write this. In a room lit by a single candle. In the dead of night. Tell me that's not freaky.

If Liv died, I think I might miss her for a couple days, then I'd be like, "Hey! I have my room back."

Just kidding, just kidding. Jesus, James. I'd forgotten how humorless you are.

Anywho, I'm gonna blow out this candle so she'll stop looking at me. It's giving me the heeby-jeebies.

       Say hi to Jesse for me,

                -Heather

XXX

Peter wondered how Heather did it. She sat still, her face portraying only menace, no fear. Meanwhile, he whimpered at her side, grasping her hand for dear life while he cried.

His body worked on its own accord. No matter how many times he told himself to stop sobbing, his body continued to disobey.

The candle flickered in front of him, hypnotizing him into silence. Mateo held the hatchet below his chin, eyes shifting from Heather to Peter and back again. Heather glared at him, eyes hard and cold. She seemed impenetrable. Nothing he did could hurt her.

Suddenly, the hatchet jumped from Mateo's hand into the table.

A second later, Heather let loose a bloodcurdling scream, her face contorted into a twist of pain. Peter glanced down and instantly regretted it. He felt nauseous.

On the table, the severed half of Heather's ring finger laid still and dormant, the hatchet sticking straight up out of the table between her hand and the dismembered piece. Blood covered the blade, seeping into the table.

What amazed him even more was the quickness of her recovery. Not a tear did she shed; rather, Heath disentangled her hand from his and yanked the hatchet out of the table, her pain only signified by her grimace and the twitching of her left hand.

"What the hell!" she shouted, waving the hatchet in a dangerous arc. "Why would you do that?"

Mateo eyed her severed finger, frowning. "I didn't want to, chiquita. But I will do what I must to get what I want."

"Well, you're not going to get anything out of me," she told him, "because I don't know anything. You're just torturing innocent -- agh!" She cried out in pain, dropping the hatchet. Peter watched in horror as she lifted her hand, a torrent of blood racing down her palm. Heather stared for a moment and then sprang into action. She ripped the sleeve off her shirt in one clean tear, unfurling it into a long, black bandage which she twisted around her hand, all the while hissing in pain.

The man slid his hand across the table, first taking the hatchet, then Heather's uninjured hand. Heather froze, face flushed red with anger. "You know something, Heather," Mateo said. "I can see it in your eyes."

To his surprise, Heather did not instantly rebuke this claim. She looked down, watching her shaking hand close around his. "I --" She hesitated, meeting the man's eye. Then suddenly, the old invincible Heather was back. "I know nothing."

The blood dripping through the makeshift bandage drew his eyes, forbidding him to look away. Heather clenched and unclenched her fist, hand trembling violently.

Mateo retracted his hand, again lifting his hatchet. Heather didn't flinch. "Look here," he said, addressing Peter. "Do you believe in ghosts, chiquito?"

He glanced at Heather, unsure what to say. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, filling his head with the steady pulse. "I . . . m-maybe? I d-don't know."

"We both know that isn't true," Mateo said. "You mean to say your aunt never visits you? That you have never seen her? Do you know how I know you lie, Peter?" Peter shook his head. "Because my father has visited me."

The blood drained from Heather's faces. She picked up her left hand, cradling it in her lap. "Araya?"

"The very one," he told her. "And you know know what he told me?" Mateo swung the hatchet in a little bow, making Peter lean back. "Do you?"

"No!" he cried, voice laced with fright and panic.

"He says that you know," said Mateo, a sneer painting his face, "because Olivia told you."

Peter felt his body begin to shake with fear. "I don't! I swear!"

"Aha, but you do." Mateo pushed the candle closer to Peter, brown eyes looking into the boys. "All you must do is ask."