"I can only pray that the Lord would have mercy on me, for my cowardice is most despicable."
Cardinal Jean-Paul, Date Unknown.
After everything was sorted, Francis gathered the silver—just over a hundred coins—and dropped them into a cloth bag. The weight surprised him. It wasn't much in the grand scheme of things, but to him, it felt like holding a piece of someone else's life.
The ring he kept separate, slipping it into the inner pocket of his cloak. He hesitated for a moment, feeling a faint sting of guilt, then dismissed it. Call it commission. Call it payment for crawling into a cave in the dead of night. Either way, it was his now.
The parchment, he burned. No point keeping proof that could drag him into trouble if someone else ever stumbled in here.
He stood, wiped his palms on his cloak, and let out a long breath.
He had no idea when he'd be able to return.
And that thought alone pushed him into a brisk pace as he left the cave, torch lowered, steps echoing faster than before. The forest air hit him like a cold slap as he stepped out, but it was far superior to the cave's oppression.
Francis didn't slow. Not once. Not with the sky hinting at dawn, not with the ache in his legs, and not with the creeping worry that his boss would make a public spectacle of him if he showed up late again.
He moved like a man carrying secrets.
Because now, he was.
Well, I have been for a while now.
***
The walk back went faster than he expected. Adrenaline, maybe. Or the quiet dread of being caught outside town before sunrise. Either way, his legs carried him with a steadiness he didn't feel.
He only slowed twice—once when another snake sent him flinching sideways like an idiot, and once when a boar lifted its head from the underbrush, snorted, then decided he wasn't worth the trouble. Francis didn't breathe until it wandered off.
By the time the trees thinned, his cloak was a mess—vines clinging to the hem, streaks of dirt, crushed leaves pressed into the fabric. He didn't bother brushing it off. Dawn was still an hour out, and getting home unnoticed mattered more than looking presentable.
He kept moving, steps quick, hoping no one would see him slip back into town looking like he'd rolled through half the island.
The hike's smoothness left him alone with his thoughts—never a blessing. And ponder he did. The privateers' arrival gnawed at him the entire way back. People like that didn't drift into Saint Agnes by accident. Someone had pushed them here… or was hunting them here.
Which meant trouble. Trouble for the island. Trouble for everyone he'd finally started caring about.
Talk about my luck.
As the thick vines gave way to a deserted beach, Francis noticed a stir in the water. Not the small, familiar ripple of a school of fish, nor the slow, deliberate motion of a shark or whale. This was… different. Uneven. Purposeful.
He couldn't ignore it. Boots sinking slightly into the sand mixed with mud, he crept closer, every step cautious. The waves lapped quietly at the shore, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed.
But the darkness kept the sea a deep, unbroken blue. Francis squinted, leaning forward. Whatever was out there… it wasn't ordinary.
He looked to his right—nothing. Then to his left—and froze. There, on the sand, lay a bundle of clothes: black leather boots, thick dark blue fabric, an even darker fabric, and a white piece in the middle. His pulse kicked up.
There is no way!
A splash echoed, and a slender figure emerged from the water. She moved with effortless grace, moonlight revealing the outline of her form. The clothes on the shore made sure that her sudden appearance left little to the imagination, and Francis' stomach twisted with a mix of shock and disbelief.
She didn't seem to notice, or care. Valeria waded up the shallow water and onto the sand, her shoulders glistening with droplets. "What are you doing out here at this hour?" she asked, voice calm, almost teasing, as if everything about the situation was ordinary.
Francis blinked, taking a beat to process the situation. He turned his gaze partially away—half out of embarrassment, half out of respect for Camila. "I… was scouting the forest," he said cautiously. "Make sure… no wild animals were wandering near town."
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "A bartender who can pass for a scribe, taking dangerous night walks? That's a new one. Should I be worried?"
Francis froze, caught between guilt and shame, until she laughed. "Relax," she said. "I'm not one of your townsfolk. I couldn't care less why you're out here."
Well, clearly, judging by your clothes, or lack thereof.
Valeria tilted her head, looking toward the water. "I just swim at this hour. Health benefits. Morning routine. Keeps the mind sharp," she added, as if explaining the most obvious thing in the world.
Francis didn't entirely buy it, but he had no reason to doubt her. She wasn't trying to seduce anyone. Not now.
After a moment, seeing his discomfort, Valeria gave a small shrug and waded deeper into the water, not leaving but simply moving with ease. "Prudish, aren't you townsfolk?" she said, voice teasing, carrying over the gentle lapping of waves.
Francis blinked, the question catching him off guard. "Do… do you walk on deck like that?"
She laughed softly, the sound light and unbothered. "Not exactly. But it's not a big deal either. On a ship, everyone's seen everyone else anyway. There's only so much you can hide."
He swallowed and took a breath, summoning enough courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at him. "So… why are you here? In Saint Agnes?"
Valeria raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in her piercing blue eyes, and it made him jump slightly. Despite her friendly tone—and the fact that she apparently had no shame swimming bare—she was still a pirate captain. A person capable of hanging him by his guts on the prow if she wanted.
"Not unusual," she replied, her voice calm but measured. "Sometimes we dock for weeks… months even, on remote islands. Makes sense to rest and resupply."
"And… this time?" Francis pressed, leaning forward despite himself.
She chuckled, the sound carrying a hint of mischief. "Let's just say we tend to be at odds with governments that aren't our own. Hiding is usually the wisest choice." Her words confirmed his suspicions, and he felt a knot tighten in his stomach.
He hesitated, then asked, voice low, "And… the town? If any of those governments ever found you here… would they—would they come for Saint Agnes?"
Valeria's eyes softened slightly, though her smirk remained. "Relax. They'd only come for the ship. Who else would pay taxes, provide able-bodied men… or, I don't know, pretty women?" Her teasing made him flush, but the point landed.
Francis exhaled, a weight lifting off his shoulders. "I… see. That's… reassuring," he admitted, finally allowing himself to let the matter go. He turned to leave, ready to retreat back to the safety of his town.
"Wait," Valeria called, stopping him with a hand raised. "I won't pry into your little secrets if you don't spill mine. Keep quiet about my crew's situation here, deal?"
Francis paused, then nodded. "Deal."
She gave him a quick, approving smile. "Good. That's all I ask."
And with that, he continued on his way, the early dawn illuminating the shore with faint light, his mind a mix of relief and lingering unease—but at least now he had a clearer path forward.
***
Two hours of sleep—and one inconvenient dream that left him feeling guilty—later, Francis woke to the relentless crowing of the neighbor's rooster. He groaned, rolled out of bed, and immediately replaced the hundred silver coins in his pouch with ten gold coins from his own savings before heading out.
The streets were quiet, humid air soaking the cobblestones, but it was still better than wherever he had been not too long ago. Francis made his way to the chapel for mass, though this time, Camila was nowhere to be seen, neither on the way nor inside. A pang of disappointment nudged him, but it was quickly replaced by the sight of the bishop approaching.
"Francis!" the bishop called, beaming. "Congratulations are in order!"
Francis froze, cheeks heating, fumbling with the folds of his cloak. "I… thank you, Your Grace," he muttered, voice tight. "I… we'll prepare."
The bishop clapped him on the shoulder. "Good, good. It's a fine thing, you two. Blessed, I say. Just remember to… take care of one another."
Embarrassment burned, but Francis managed a stiff nod. "Yes… of course. Thank you."
With that, he left the chapel, the thought of the old man and his inheritance pressing on him. The silver he'd unearthed wasn't going to hand itself over.
"Perhaps I should check on Camila first," he mumbled, adjusting the pouch of coins at his side. A glance at her home told him she wasn't far; seeing her made him hesitate for a fraction of a second before he moved on, determination setting into his stride. Today, he had duties, and he intended to see them through.