"The unfortunate soul cannot cease whispering of ravings. Ravings commanding him to hear a shanty."
Archbishop Lorenzo, Date Unknown.
"Tell you what," Valeria said. "I'll cover the price of meat. Well—mostly chicken. You barely have any cows or sheep on this rock anyway. Consider it repayment for your hospitality."
Francis blinked. That… was not an offer he expected.
Chicken was cheap—one bronze coin for two. But sheep were two silver at minimum, and cows—best not even think about cows. His yearly pay barely scraped sixty silver. By their island standards, Valeria might as well have offered him a chest of gold.
"I'd appreciate it," he said with surprising sincerity.
"You can also consider it a down payment," she added, swirling a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "In case I ever find a use for your skills in the future."
Of course.
Valeria studied him for a moment, arms crossed, the wind tugging at her coat.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" she asked.
Francis blinked. "What?"
"You're seriously going to marry your lass without a ring?"
He exhaled, unsure if she was teasing or testing him. "Is that what you do across the pond?" he asked, not feigning ignorance about where she could be from. Her Spanish accent might've been less than ideal, but it certainly didn't sound like anything you'd hear on this side of the Atlantic.
Her smile sharpened. "No. That's what gentlemen who adore their ladies greatly do. You really want to mimic the peasants you continue to loathe?"
A small pulse of unease rolled through him. How much did she actually see? He kept his expression even. "How did you—?"
"Oh, please, Francis." She cut him off with a raised hand. "Aside from my crew and your betrothed, you barely give anyone else the time of day. Add your eloquence, your bearing, your obsession with sailing…" She shrugged. "We get a lad who clearly wasn't made for these parts."
Her tone was light, but her eyes told another story. She was akin to a hunter recognizing a creature out of place. A chill slipped under his ribs. She knew things. Maybe more than she was letting on. And if she'd pieced together this much from scraps, what else could she pry open?
He managed an unconvincing laugh. "What can I say. You got me."
Valeria only smiled, satisfied in a way that made his doubt settle deeper.
Her eyes then flicked toward the harbor, the hint of a smirk still lingering on her lips. "I'll handle the meat and chicken. You can stay here and… try not to get lost in thought," she said, her tone teasing but authoritative.
Before he could reply, she turned on her heel and strode toward her ship, boots clicking against the cobblestones. Francis remained in the square, alone, the weight of her gaze—and her words—still lingering. The bustle of the morning market went on around him, but for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to the spot where he stood.
"Whatever. She's a woman with her own secrets too. Maybe that's why she speaks so openly," he muttered to himself, scanning the market for a merchant selling rings.
His eyes soon settled on a shop that, by the sheer volume of its wares, he quickly dubbed a trinket shop. It seemed a catch-all for anything shiny or ornamental, and he stepped inside without hesitation.
The clerk greeted him warmly, clearly relieved for a customer after what must have been a slow morning. "Francis! Good to see you here," he exclaimed in surprise. "May I ask what you are looking for?"
Of course you know me.
Francis hesitated for a heartbeat, then asked, "Do you have any rings suitable for… a wedding?"
"Material?" the clerk asked. Tin or brass would have sufficed, but Francis felt Camila deserved something nicer. "Silver and gold," he said.
The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Silver and gold? That'll be… five silver coins in total. Are you sure?"
"Yes," Francis replied firmly.
"Alright."
"I'll be back once I have the money," he said, nodding and leaving the shop before it could get too crowded, already planning his next stop—Camila's workplace.
***
By the time he reached the shop, Camila had already finished tending to the chickens. She sat in the corner on a low stool, flipping through a worn picture book, her foot swinging lazily in the air.
"Francis!" she called the moment she saw him, her face lighting up.
"Hey, Camila. How are things?"
"Seems like I worried over nothing," she said with a relieved sigh, closing the book. "Your captain came by earlier and bought all the chicken. Said it was for an upcoming wedding."
My captain?
"She didn't recognize you?" he asked.
"Why would she? We've never met." She shrugged, then leaned forward with a pout. "Anyway, want to keep me company? I'm bored out of my mind."
He hesitated—not because he didn't want to, but because the sky was already getting dark. The trinket shop would close soon. And if he was buying a ring… well, he'd need the proper size.
"How about you keep me company instead?" he said. "I need your help."
She blinked, curious. "Help with what?"
"You'll see. But we need to go before the shop closes."
Camila perked up immediately, hopping off the stool and brushing off her apron. "Alright! Lead the way."
Francis patted the pouch at his belt—five silver coins already tucked inside—then walked out with her beside him, trying not to think too hard about the fact that this next stop felt more nerve-wracking than anything else he'd done today.
Not long after—small town and all—they reached the shop, Francis leading the way. The clerk from earlier noticed him immediately and began rummaging beneath the counter, no doubt hiding the more expensive pieces.
Francis didn't blame him. Without a word, he set the five silver coins down on the counter first, a small gesture meant to calm whatever fears the man had.
Camila, still trailing behind him, frowned in confusion. "Trinkets? What for?"
"You'll see," Francis said, smiling just enough to keep her guessing.
The clerk stepped forward with his measuring string, taking the size of Francis's ring finger before selecting a silver band from the small velvet-lined box. He handed it over.
Francis slid it on. It fit perfectly.
Camila gasped—loudly. "You're getting us rings?!" Her voice jumped an octave, a mix of shock and delight, practically a squeak.
"Yeah," Francis said. "I figured you deserve as much."
The clerk gestured her closer. She approached shyly, extending her hand. Her fingers were much slimmer than Francis's, and for a moment it looked like none of the rings would be narrow enough—until the clerk finally produced a delicate gold band. Francis then slid it onto her finger. It settled perfectly.
Camila froze. Then her eyes brimmed, and tears—actual tears—spilled down her cheeks.
"Francis… that's so sweet. You really didn't have to."
"You've been pretty understanding and supportive for a while now," he said softly. "A silly little ring is nothing in comparison."
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She buried her face in his chest, shoulders shaking, overwhelmed in a way he hadn't expected.
The clerk stood there awkwardly at first, caught somewhere between politeness and the urge to look away. Sentiment wasn't exactly standard business, but he softened after a moment, his expression easing.
"Well," he said gently, clearing his throat, "may the Lord bless your union. Not every day I get to sell something that means this much."
Camila pulled back just enough to glance at him, eyes still shimmering. "Thank you," she managed, voice small but sincere.
Francis nodded to the man. "And thank you for the rings."
The clerk waved a hand, suddenly flustered by the attention. "Ah—go on, go on. You've got a wedding to plan, don't you? I'll wrap the boxes." He placed each ring into its tiny wooden case then slid them across the counter carefully, as if handling something fragile.
Francis tucked the boxes into his coat. Camila kept wiping her cheeks, trying—and failing—to regain her usual playful composure.
They stepped out into the late afternoon light. The market was quiet as most shutters were half-closed. Camila slipped her hand into his without thinking, her thumb brushing over the new ring again and again, like she couldn't quite believe it was real.
"Francis…" she whispered, still dazed.
"Yeah?"
"I'm… really happy."
He didn't trust himself to answer with anything clever, so he simply squeezed her hand.
Together, they made their way down the dusty street, leaving the clerk inside with a smile he probably hadn't worn in years.
***
The forest finally settled, the last echoes of laughter and bruised egos fading as her crew drifted back toward the ship. Valeria lingered behind, letting the cold night air bite through the heat of exertion.
Time to plan.
The Apostolic See's reach stretched farther than any crown, farther even than the Royal Navy—and she'd given them every reason to hunt her. But she also wasn't naïve. They weren't omniscient. Not after she'd abandoned her famed brig in Havana and slipped away on the modest vessel she'd taken here. No sigils. No carved figurehead. Nothing that would scream her name across the seas.
A month. Maybe less. That was how long she judged they had before it became wise to move again. Long enough to refit and scout. Assuming she was the one responsible, naturally.
But only if no foreign ship caught sight of us in this backwater.
She glanced toward the silent stretch of sea beyond the trees. Lanterns. Sails. Curious travelers. It had none of that. Just black water and an even darker horizon.
Good. She preferred it that way.
"Can't say I don't understand," she muttered to herself. "There's nothing noteworthy here."
Except, perhaps, one bartender with more secrets than sense.
But that was a problem—and an opportunity—for another day.