My eyelids drag open like sails—fighting my pull, fluttering. Lanterns strung across the cracked clay ceiling cast soft, warm light over the walls. It shifts mesmerizingly in the night, keeping the dark outside the carved-out windows at bay. Long white clouds drift over the glittering lagoon, moving slowly and serenely on the circulating air cast by the pouring falls. Moonlight outlines the clouds with a silver sheen and dances over the ripples of the dark waters. Inside the long, undecorated room, the floor is packed with bodies, lined in neat rows on woven mats. I start, sitting up, blinking quickly. My hands pat frantically around my body, making sure that I have not ascended. At a closer look, all the chests around me move with idle breaths. I sag with relief and search for the faces I know best. Thenshie has her freakish webbed hands on someone's face.

Next to me, Simon sleeps, slumped against the wall without a mat, his arms wrapped around his self. Elian is on the other side of him, running a needle and white thread through his torn purple scarf. He smiles at me, then his eyes fall fondly to Simon. It crosses my mind that I do not know where I am, nor how I arrived here, but grief strikes me with one great blow and those things do not matter. I hug myself, fixing my eyes on the mystical night out the window. He is really gone. Yet, the smallest, youngest part of me—the same childish heart that stole my voice at my mother's death, and allowed me to soak in every word of the captain's when he made me feel important—twitches with a hope that he might surprise me one last time. I imagine his silhouette standing in the doorway, making some grand entrance. I imagine the scent of his spiced tobacco filtering through the window, and the sound of Dorian's lullaby plucked on his banjo strings.

"The celebration," I say, drawing Elian's attention. I frown, sniffing. "The captain said that when we won, there would be a celebration."

Elian puts his fingers to his lips, nodding to our mutual friend between us. A large and thick bandage is taped over one of his ears, partly hidden by his sandy-colored curls. It stretches under his chin and wraps around his skull like a bonnet. "There is a celebration." Despite his indication for me to speak quietly, he speaks oddly loud, unaware of it. "At least, there was. They've grown quieter now. We could hear the music and the applause and so forth before, but I am sure that many have left. It's quite late, Walt." He points past me.

I follow his finger to a different window. Past dark spires of clay poked with empty holes, far along a slithering dirt path and beyond a patch of forest and a curved stone bridge, lively blue and orange lights illuminate a flat hilltop, the highest point of the largest isle. Twisting grey columns stand around the grassy mesa, as off-balanced and unusual as the buildings of the village with wide bases and tapered tips.

My fingers wrap around my blanket. Professor Woods' jacket. Frowning, I look to Elian.

"He looks so calm, don't you think?" the cook's assistant murmurs. His words garble, as if drunk.

I blink at the professor. His hair is a mess, the oil losing its shape, each strand finding its own way. Stubble roughens his jaw, circles ring his closed eyes. His clothing is rumpled, his shoes scuffed, his face dirty. "I guess so," I reply half-heartedly. I fold the jacket over my arm and lay it beside its owner, careful not to accidentally nudge him with the tweed. Why would he have left it with me? His arms cradle himself as though he is cold.

I see my scroll, tucked in the crook of the professor's elbow. I frown and start to reach for it but hesitate. A second scroll lies near my feet. I reach for that one instead and unroll it gingerly. It is mine—it is the one to hang in the captain's cabin when we, or I, build it. I roll it again, my fingers tightening around the sealskin. I will cry, I think. I want to. Not yet. The captain... I would like to dance where he could not. I would like to give him the dance that he imagined at the top of that hill, the way he told it to me. He said he would dance with everyone.

"That's painting number one," Elian remarks loudly. "The decoy."

"It is worth more to me," I answer plainly. This is the painting that will hang in the cabin at the point of the smallest isle, not the other. Perhaps it leads to no treasure, but I have no use for emeralds, other than to remind me of his eyes. I can look into the water, I think, and find them easier. I never came all this way for treasure—I think I came because I had nowhere else to go. I think I came because I wanted to understand this hidden piece of my mother's life. I know I did not come for revenge, though I know I was foolish and thought so once.

My fingers scratch against the bandages wound about my shin. I rub my thumb to them and purse my lips. Was it all the mopping at sea, or the sea itself, or the holding of ropes or the training with swords, or the scraping against tree barks that has changed my hands from childish soft to calloused over the journey? They are no longer delicate boy's hands. Nor is my heart a delicate boy's heart.

I succeeded in carrying an entire ship two-hundred feet downwards from a lethal waterfall.

I took out four cannons that could have taken out all our thirty-odd men!

Could a boy do such things?

I smile, only slightly, to myself. You're no boy, Walter.

"I'm going to go," I say, and I carefully stand. There's a crutch beside my mat—his crutch. I stop and lean against the wall, blinking rapidly down at it.

"Go to the celebration?" Elian asks. "It'll be long over by the time you can hobble there, Walt. I hate to spoil things, but your leg isn't much use tonight. You should rest."

"No, I'm going to go." I stoop to pick up the crutch and see it shaking in my hands. I stick it under my arm and hold it firmly in place. "Do you want to come?"

"Lie back down, Walter," Professor Woods murmurs, half a sneer on his otherwise slack maw.

"You're awake!" Elian exclaims.

The professor lifts his head from his chest and drags open his tired eyes. "You can't hear yourself very well, El, can you? You're very loud."

"Oh." Elian winces and puts down his scarf, needle, and thread. "Sorry. Not used to it yet." He gestures shyly to his bandaged ear, a pink flush in his cheeks.

Simon smiles and removes his glasses. He polishes them with his dotted handkerchief. "That's all right."

"Gentlemen," I say. Formal, dignified, as a man should speak. "I am going to the celebration. Would you care to join me?"

"Lie down, Walter," the professor repeats, perching his wire-rims on the end of his nose.

"Walt, you can't walk." Elian nudges Simon, nonetheless. "But it has been a hard day, Simon. Maybe it would be good for us to destress? You and me, a bit of wine... We could try that moonshine that the captain and Leslie raved about."

Simon turns red and looks at his friend sharply. "The both of you are injured, the party is just about over, the captain is dead, and you are both under my care. The answer is no. Just rest." His sharp eye stabs me next. "Lie down."

The captain is dead. My brows draw together. "Why did you have to say that?"

By the paling of his cheeks and the slackening of his jaw, I know that he understands what I mean. He unfolds his arms, taking his painting scroll in one hand and reaching tentatively towards me with the other. I shake my head and swing a step, turning my back. I'm not as tall as he was. The crutch lifts my shoulder painfully, driving too far against my armpit. Teeth clenched, neither the awkwardness nor the pain can stop me. My left foot refuses even a second's contact with the ground, the ankle sorely swollen and ripe as a plum in color. I wear only one shoe and one stocking, and they are all I need.

Out the door-less doorway, I propel myself on my way down the narrow street. The village is dark and empty, but the all-encompassing twinkle from the moon and stars above washes over me with an unexplainable peacefulness in its blue hue. Even alone in an unfamiliar place, I am comforted. My home was destroyed, wasn't it? Maybe this place could become my new one.

I shiver and lower my eyes. "Don't be silly, Walter. Stupid."

There is nothing about this place, of what I have seen, that reminds me of Amity, or even the country it sits in, Praedor. The woods are the most comfort I have, though the slender white pines and eerie pink weeping willows are nothing like the grand redwoods, green pines, and humble ferns of the forest where I grew up.

"Walter!"

My crutch continues to clunk along.

A clopping drums against my ears and I flick my head slightly, twitching at each ring of hooves on the modest clay. My head turns without thought and a tall mare of white color sends me tripping backwards. My spine stings against the wall of a building and I look up. From the back of the proud white horse, Elian grins wholeheartedly and Simon shrugs half-heartedly.

The professor holds the reins, Elian's arms around his waist. He sighs and beckons me with one motion of his head. Good natured, though without a smile or enthusiasm. I think I catch a trace of amusement in the roll of his eyes. "If you must go, it would be poor form to let you go alone in your condition."

I grin and push off the wall, swinging towards the horse. Her long mane flows like cream in smooth waves over her neck. Her steely hooves are almost swallowed by the thick curling hair draping from her hocks like lichen.

"You can ride, Professor?"

"I learned as a boy," he replies dispassionately. "It has been a while, but this mare seems trained."

Her eyes glint in the moonlight, icy blue. I can't help but smile, reaching to lay my hand on her neck. Brittle hairs scratch against my palm. Her hot breath warms my chest, making me giddy. "She's beautiful. Where did you find her?"

"The stables." He taps Elian's elbow impatiently. "Help him up, and let's get on with it."

Elian holds out his hand and I blink at it. I give the mare a scratch behind her ears, then take a hold. Simon pulls my crutch to his lap and Elian grabs my arm tight. I start to make an attempt at mounting but give up at a sore bash of my swollen ankle. Clenching my jaw, I shake it out and haul harder on Elian's arm, giving another shot.

"Wait, wait," says Simon. He dismounts the horse. Without a saddle, his dismount is little more than a slide to the dirt. He straightens out with dignity and points to the mare's side. "Can you get your left knee up there? Elian, give him a pull."

Elian pulls my arm and I scrabble to lift my wounded leg without bashing my injuries against her bones. I feel a lift from below. Simon pushes me the rest of the way up with two hands under my shoe. I smile at him, adjusting my position. Her spine is uncomfortable and regrettably painful on the goods. I grimace.

Simon clambers on with us and reclaims the reigns. He slides my crutch onto my lap. Then, he turns around and twirls his finger. "Now, switch positions."

I frown. "Why?"

He sniffs. "Because I said so."

Elian pats my shoulder and slides off the back of the mare with a chuckle. I'm sure she must be tired of us. She chews her bit and shakes her head. Simon tugs on the reins to keep her from stepping. He flicks his hand back at me. "Scoot."

I shuffle my uncomfortable rear to the back of the mount and Elian climbs between Simon and me.

"Hold on," Simon says.

I wrap my arms around Elian and Elian wraps his arms around Simon and Simon flicks the reins and kicks his heels. Our mare's hips shift between my legs, and even after only moments, I know that I will not finish this ride without bruises.

Her canter echoes in the emptiness, the sound of her shoes in the clay bouncing through the dark buildings and off their bumpy walls.

Elian starts to sing, as loud and off-tune as should be expected from a recently half-deaf young man.

"O, the stars, they guide us!

O, the sea, she swells!

By the crests we rose up,

And down the troughs we fell!"

Simon joins, so softly that he is barely heard, in the second verse.

The bruises on my bum seem to fade away as I, too, join, and we break the silence of the night together on our way to celebration.