Twelve hauled their boat down the cobbled path towards the water.

"Hang on," said Erin, scratching her chin thoughtfully. "We cannot launch until we've given her a name."

"A name?"

"Yes. It's tradition."

Twelve stopped abruptly, tilting her gargantuan head.

"How about-" she said, then paused, her fingers twitching. "Dragon? Or Drago?"

Erin took a short inhale of breath.

"Your brother loves dragons," the scarecrow went on, pointing towards the little plastic figurine that nestled beside the graves of her parents. "Perhaps it will bring us luck in our quest to find him!"

"Wait here," Erin said, running up the hill to the farmhouse.

She returned several minutes later with a carved Chinese dragons head, painted red and gold, that she'd liberated from the top shelf of her brother's book cabinet.

"It was Clyde's- is Clyde's," she explained, her voice catching on his name. "Father said he got it in the Far East, but I think it was from a gift shop in Chinatown. Nevertheless, my brother loved it very much."

"Loved?"

Erin bit her bottom lip. "Here," she said, passing the head to Twelve.

Twelve ran her eyes over the wooden head. The mouth was flung open, nostrils flaring as tendrils of smoke and fire etched its cheeks. Dark eyes resonated with a foreboding, ancient knowledge.

"He's called Lazarus."

Nodding, Twelve strapped it to the front of the boat.

"I'll find some paint," Erin told her.

After a quick tour of the barn, she returned with a pot of white paint and adorned both sides of the ship with its name, before announcing, "I name this vessel Lazarus in the name of the Queen, and the Gods, and the adventurous spirit of every heart that ever took to the Endless Blue!"

"Hooray!" Twelve cheered at the top of her voice. "What are your orders, Captain Erin?"

"I think it's time we set sail, First-Mate Twelve," she replied, saluting.

The scarecrow saluted back.

Raven made a victorious squawk.

Erin dashed back up the hill and filled her rucksack with the last of the tins, an opener, and the remnants of the greenhouse. She swiped her yellow poncho from the understairs cupboard and the thick blanket from the sofa. Stopping in the living room doorway she turned and went to the sideboard where the family photo albums lived. Taking her favourite picture of the entire family at Christmas and Clyde's high school promo shot, she stuffed them into her bag and left.

Returning to the shore, Erin leaped onto the front of the boat. She sat behind the dragon figurehead, stowing her goods under the seat.

Raven gazed down from his position in the Crow's Nest as Twelve heaved Lazarus across the last of the cobbles, down to the muddy shoreline and into the water.

Once they were settled on the waves, and Lazarus showed no sign of leaking, the scarecrow hauled her long legs and heavy boots onboard and took up the oars.

Twelve propelled Lazarus effortlessly across the flat grey ripples, moving slowly towards the small clump of land where Number Eight had once hung.

Erin turned, smiling at the scarecrow. She took the slightest glance towards the two headstones that marked Ma and Pa's graves and uttered a gentle farewell before turning her bright eyes to the adventure that spread before them.

In less than fifteen minutes, Lazarus was drawing up beside Number Eight's island.

Landing expertly on the muddy earth, Erin turned to catch a length of rope, fastening it around a large rock and securing the boat.

The empty cross, that stood at the far end of the island, was eerily silhouetted by the low, pale sun. Erin and Twelve strode towards it.

"Eight's gone," Raven said, landing on the cross.

"I can see that," the scarecrow replied. "I'm not blind."

The blackbird hopped around, taking in the view. "Do you think she's alive?"

Twelve considered this. "What other explanation is there?"

"Well, she could be dead," Raven said, morbidly. "Torn from the cross by the wind and the rain and flung out to sea. Or ripped to smithereens by the giant hailstorm. Or taken by pirates and held to ransom. Or-"

Raven caught Erin's eye and stopped talking.

"She's alive," Twelve said, ignoring the bird. "Same as Clyde."

"What in the name of-?" said Erin, covering her mouth.

Beyond Eight's cross, and dragged clear of the water, was a disfigured body. Erin ran over, her plimsoles squelching into the wet earth, mud flying in all directions.

Sadly, for someone of her young years, she'd seen many dead bodies before, but this one was different. Its head was an orb of blood and dirt and teeth. The skin and hair had been cut and peeled away like the rind of a fruit. The eyes were missing too.

A shiver rattled through Erin's bones, her skin cold and damp.

Raven was making all kinds of terrified squawks.

"The- hands," he said, finally. "Look at the hands!"

Erin glanced down and there, where the skin should have been, were blood and bones and dirt. It was as though the skin had been taken straight off.

Removed, like a pair of gloves!

"What is it?" said Twelve, still stood beside the cross.

"Death and disfigurement," Raven croaked. "Horrid barbarism of the worst kind."

Arriving at the Erin's side, Twelve looked down at the mutilated body.

"Oh, Erin. You shouldn't have to look at things like that."

The scarecrow reached forward to turn Erin away.

"It's okay," Erin said. "You don't need to protect me from the horrors of the world. I've dragged the bodies of my parents up the hill and buried them in the ground. I can't imagine there are worse things than that."

"There are always worse things," Raven said, bleakly.

"What happened to you?" asked Twelve rhetorically.

Erin frowned, looking at the body with a mild sense of indifference.

"Dead is dead," she shrugged. "Looks like birds or bugs or the wind have gone to work on her."

"Her?" Twelve said. "How can you tell?"

"She worked on the farm with my father. Her name was Loren," Erin said. "I know that pink belt and neckerchief anywhere."

Erin knelt beside Loren's body, the gruesome red skull staring directly at her.

The neckerchief came away easily, crusted with loose flesh and blackened blood. Erin spread it into a large square, picked off any large chunks of filth, then folded it into a bandana and wrapped it around her head.

"It suits you," Twelve said admiringly. "Very- piratey."

"I liked Loren," she said, nodding slowly and threading the pink belt around her yellow poncho. "She would always stop and talk to me."

They returned to the cross and looked at the bindings. Each one was worn and frayed just like Twelves. At the base of the cross were a chaotic collection of footprints. Some large, some small. They led in every direction, making befuddled patterns in the mud.

Something fluttered at the base of the cross.

Twelve bent down to inspect it.

Amidst all the dirt and filth, the ocean and death and the grey skies above, she found a ripped triangle of soft fabric, predominantly yellow and dotted with blue flowers.

The scarecrow stood, turning the fabric over in her rubber-gloved hands.

Erin gasped.

"What is it?" the scarecrow asked.

"That's from her dress."

"Who's dress?"

"Ma-"

"Oh, yes."

"-but, also, Number Eight."

Twelve's eye darted back to the yellow fabric. "My sister wore this?"

Erin nodded.

"Number Eight," Twelve whispered. "They're real. All of them."

"Of course they are," Erin said.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know why, but my sisters hadn't seemed real until now. Until I was holding something of theirs."

"Take it with you," Erin said, smiling. "Keep it close until the day you get to return it to its rightful owner."

"Do you really think we'll find any of my sisters?"

"I hope we do."

Twelve tucked the yellow fabric into the top pocket of her pirate jacket and secured the metal button.

Erin stared out to sea, her mind reeling. There was no good reason for Loren's injuries. She knew that the trauma, despite being amateur at best, was too precise for birds and insects. She wondered what kind of person would commit such an atrocity.

Twelve had stomped back across the small island.

"Are we leaving?" said Erin, rushing to keep up.

Raven soared past.

"There's nothing more here," Twelve said, her voice edged with sadness.

"We'll find her," Erin said. "Number Eight. She'll be out there somewhere."

Twelve looked up at Raven.

"I haven't said a word," the blackbird protested.

"Good. We've had quite enough of your pessimistic outlook, thank you very much."

"I'm just a realist," he mumbled, before dropping down inside his bucket.

Twelve ignored him.

"Which way now?"

Erin pointed towards the horizon. Even in the grey morning light, the stars glimmered magically across the entire sky.

"The Island of Trees, Twelve. Let's start there."

Raven sighed.

"Which way is it?" Twelve ordered.

"Follow the North Star," murmured Raven, his voice almost bored. "It's the really bright one." The tip of his wing pointed the way. "Over there."

And with that, Twelve dipped the oars into the Endless Blue and pushed away.