"As the abominations ravaged most of the continent, only a few major islands remained: Great Britain, Ireland, Iceland, Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, and Cyprus."
Archbishop Lorenzo, Date Unknown.
By sunset, Francis found himself half tempted to take a skiff to the second cave. Upon second thought, however, he quickly dismissed the idea—it was the fastest way to a grave. The water was unforgiving; a capsized boat could easily induce hypothermia. And even if he survived, how exactly was he supposed to explain "borrowing" a skiff from the harbor?
Asking Valeria for help crossed his mind, but he knew exactly how that would go. She'd likely monitor him every step of the way, ensuring he did nothing unwise—or nothing without her amusement.
The silver lining came from a more mundane thought: he knew other options. After all, he served the town's fishermen at the bar. They were reliable, and their silence came far cheaper than Valeria's.
Still, there was one problem he couldn't ignore. Camila. He couldn't lie to her—at least, not fully. She would need to know he might be gone for a day or two. How to frame it? What excuse would satisfy her curiosity? That part, he hadn't figured out yet.
"First things first, I have to secure a skiff."
He headed back toward the bar. This time, no one paid him much attention. After the last couple of days, he figured he'd used up his quota of mystery; rejoining the social scene was practically required.
At least the pirates wouldn't be calling me "lord of the mysteries" anytime soon.
He slipped into a seat beside a solitary fisherman. The man shot him a look that said, What's the occasion? So Francis cut straight to business.
"I need to borrow a skiff for the next couple of days. I'll pay if necessary."
"What for?" the fisherman asked in that suspicious, small-town way.
Fortunately, Francis had come armed with an excuse.
"See, I heard a neighboring island has this rare flower everyone across the Atlantic is obsessed with. And the other day my betrothed mentioned it. So I thought… she'd appreciate something like that before the wedding."
The fisherman's reluctance melted into a teasing smile. "Ah, lovebirds. Why didn't you say so? One silver and it's yours."
Such are the benefits of serving everyone drinks.
Francis doubted the skiff was even worth one silver. But discretion had a price.
"Alright."
"But, lad…" The burly man narrowed his eyes. "Do you even know how to row a skiff?"
"I'll manage," Francis answered, though he had to admit—fair point.
"Okay," the fisherman said as he pushed himself up with a grunt. "Follow me. I'll show you where I put it."
***
After Francis learned where the skiff was tied, he headed straight for Camila's house. Naturally, the door swung open to reveal her mother, smiling like she'd been waiting to ambush him.
"Good evening, Francis! You're just in time for dinner."
Perfect. Exactly what he needed—family hospitality on a schedule measured in minutes.
For a brief moment, he considered protesting. He had an expedition to plan, a disappearing act to justify, and a non-zero chance of drowning in freezing waters. But then again… he didn't know how any of this would go. Or if he'd even make it back to argue about dinner invitations.
He shoved the thought aside and forced a polite smile.
"Evening," he said, stepping inside. He exchanged the usual pleasantries with his future mother-in-law and followed her in, trying not to dwell on the fact that this might be his last peaceful meal for a while.
Perhaps yesterday had something to do with it, but seeing Camila in a knee-length black dress hit him harder than expected. She smiled when she noticed.
"Hey, Francis~" she said, that lilting tone doing absolutely nothing to steady him. "Miss me already?"
Her mother arched an eyebrow at the exchange, though—mercifully—she didn't comment.
Francis stepped closer, taking the invitation for what it was, and kissed her. Camila's bravado evaporated instantly. By the time he pulled back, her cheeks were flushed a deep, unmistakable red.
"Not in front of my mom!" Camila hissed, flustered beyond saving. It only worsened when her mother burst into loud, delighted laughter and began teasing them—well, mostly her daughter.
Once the embarrassment faded, the three of them settled at the table. Camila finished her prayers before lifting her spoon, as always.
"Must you do that every single time?" her mother asked, not unkindly.
"I do. I must honor the Lord."
Francis, unsurprisingly, wasn't devout. He went to Mass, yes, and he'd read the Gospels more than once—Revelation stuck with him the most, at least offering some explanation for why their world felt so… off. But when it came to prayer, he wasn't far removed from the passing foreign sailors who muttered thanks to gods he'd never heard of.
"Do you think He's still watching over us?" her mother asked, uncertainty softening her voice.
"I don't think. I know for a fact," Camila replied with quiet conviction.
Her vocabulary is certainly improving.
Her mother looked like she had more to say but swallowed it, choosing—for now—to keep the rest of the conversation between the two of them.
Dinner was a simple stew—carrots, zucchini, potatoes, chili pepper, and boiled chicken. Nothing extravagant. But to Francis it might as well have been a piece of heaven. His mother had made a stew just like it, and for a moment the taste alone felt like a hand pulling him backward in time.
"Think I should add tomatoes for the wedding recipe?" Camila's mother asked, almost as if she'd plucked the memory straight from his head.
Francis nearly choked. "N-no. The privateers can't eat them."
His reaction was so abrupt it made Camila snort into her bowl, while her mother let out a long breath of relief. Adding tomatoes to a stew meant for nearly a hundred mouths would've been a nightmare, and she clearly hadn't wanted to do it in the first place.
"So, Francis~," Camila said, slipping into that teasing tone she'd been using more and more lately. Thankfully, her mother didn't notice—or didn't care enough to ask. "Do you have any plans tonight?"
"Actually," he began, "I've been meaning to talk to you about that."
Her eyebrow went up immediately.
"I'm planning to go to Logreef. For a couple of days."
That made both Camila and Ma'am Gabriela pause, exchanging a quick glance.
"What for?" Camila asked in concern.
"I've been reading my parents' old notes," he said, keeping his voice steady. "It looks like they left something for me there. I don't know what it is, but… I think I should find out now."
"Why now?" Ma'am Gabriela asked. "The island barely has anyone living on it. And the ones that do aren't very friendly."
And who could blame them? What befell them decades ago was unenviable.
"What if you get attacked there?" Camila added, visibly worried.
"My guess is it's some kind of savings. Maybe valuables." He shifted his attention to Camila. "And if that's true, it would help us with the wedding."
Her expression softened immediately.
"Francis… you really don't have to," she murmured.
He stood, moved closer, and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "I know. But I'd still like to do it. You deserve as much."
Guilt clawed at him from the inside, but he held the smile anyway.
Camila let out a small, startled squeak at the kiss, then quickly composed herself, cheeks still pink.
He thanked Ma'am Gabriela for the meal, offered them both a warm good-bye, and started toward the door.
"Can't we at least spend one last night together?" Camila asked behind him, her voice unsteady—more plea than question.
He paused, hand on the frame. "Sorry, love. I have to leave under the cover of night. Otherwise someone might notice, and the secret could leak."
The moment the word love slipped out, heat crawled up his neck. It was the first time he'd called her that.
Camila froze for a heartbeat, just as flustered, then nodded. "Promise you'll come back."
A small, gentle smile tugged at his mouth. "I promise."
***
A while later, Francis reached the borrowed skiff. He fumbled through the knotted rope, finally freeing it, and let the small vessel drift just enough before climbing in.
Rowing wasn't his specialty. In truth, he'd never done it before. The first few strokes were clumsy, but muscle memory he didn't actually have began to form, and the rhythm eventually settled.
I did it. I'm actually sailing!
Above him, stars stretched across the clear sky. The moon hung low and bright, illuminating the water. The sea was calm—mercifully so. If the waves had been any rougher, he was certain he would've capsized before leaving the harbor.
He wasn't sure what he would find on Logreef—if the treasure existed, if anything the stranger left behind had survived the years, or if he'd even make it back in one piece. None of it felt guaranteed.
But doing nothing had already cost him too much. Stagnation had swallowed his father whole and dragged his mother into an early grave. He wasn't going to let that same slow rot take him—or the people he cared about.
"Well… mostly Camila, if we're being honest," he muttered under his breath.