"I should thank the Lord for His blessings; in truth, Ireland has sheltered us better than most."
Archbishop Lorenzo, Date Unknown.
Francis left the chapel, still feeling the warmth of Camila's hand in his, and made his way to Ignacio's workshop. The smell of sawdust hit him as soon as he stepped inside, a strangely comforting aroma. Ignacio looked up from his bench, wood shavings clinging to his apron.
"So?" he asked, already anticipating Francis' response.
Francis ran a hand over the smooth surface of the bed frame, noting the deep brown finish. "It's… incredible," he said, his voice earnest.
A satisfied smile spread across Ignacio's face. "Knew you'd like it. Took some work to get the grain to pop like that."
Francis nodded, reluctant to break contact. "It feels solid. Better than I imagined."
Ignacio straightened, wiping his hands on his apron. "And the old bed? You keeping it?"
"I was thinking… maybe repurpose it," Francis said, weighing his words. "It has sentimental value, but it could still serve a purpose."
Ignacio's eyes softened. "Fair enough. I can do that. Won't be much trouble."
Francis hesitated. "And… about moving the new one to my place. I can pay extra if—"
Ignacio cut him off, shaking his head with a hint of a smirk. "Pay extra? Francis, I'm not hauling it for a fee. You think I'm that kind of carpenter?"
Francis blinked, caught off guard. "I… I just meant—"
"Don't worry. You're not dragging it alone, either," Ignacio said, turning back to his workbench as if the matter were settled.
Francis couldn't help but laugh softly, the tension fading. "Alright, alright. No extra fees, then."
Ignacio clapped his hands once, calling over two of his apprentices—most likely family—and gestured toward the bed. "Alright, lads, grab the other end. Francis, you help too."
The two young men moved swiftly, lifting their side of the bed with practiced ease. Francis took hold on his end, muscles straining more than he expected. The weight put Ignacio's earlier words into perspective; this was no small piece of furniture.
Step by step, they carried it through the narrow streets, the slow rhythm of their progress making time drag unbearably. Luckily, the town's cramped layout spared them a long trek—barely minutes later, they arrived at Francis' building. He groaned, finally realizing just how deceptively heavy the thing was.
Then came the real torture: the stairs. Each step was a battle, and Francis was half-convinced that if the bed had been an ounce heavier, the entire staircase would've buckled beneath them.
"It better offer greater comfort," Francis mumbled under his breath.
"What?" one of the apprentices asked, glancing up.
"Ah, nothing," he said quickly, waving a hand. "Just thinking out loud."
Shortly after, they set the new bed frame down beside Francis' door. He unlocked it and stepped aside, letting the apprentices squeeze inside to haul out the old bed. The whole process felt backward and awkward—dragging one frame out just to wedge another one in—but they managed.
"I guess you'll need a new mattress too," one of the young men remarked, eyeing the old one.
God forbid people in this town mind their own business, Francis thought—then immediately felt a pang of guilt. The kid wasn't doing anything wrong. Francis was just tired and sore.
"I'll work on it later," he said, forcing a polite tone. "Thank you for the reminder."
The pair didn't linger. Once the new frame was in place, they hoisted the old bed between them and headed out, their footsteps thudding down the stairs until the sound faded.
Francis stood there a moment, staring at the sad, lumpy mattress still lying on the floor. He exhaled, then crouched to grab it. Changing his mind wasn't unusual for him, but this time it felt necessary.
He hefted the mattress under one arm and stepped outside. The matter needed to be settled—no more delays, no more excuses. Once this was done, he could finally turn his attention back to what had been on hold for far too long.
And so with determination.
The lad resisted procrastination.
A new mattress he was to get.
His beloved get uncomfortable he wasn't going to let.
"Huh. I'm actually getting better at this."
***
Working in the tavern from morning until evening had never been pleasant, but Francis found himself missing the rhythm of it now that the afternoon left him with absolutely nothing to do. Idleness didn't suit him; it only gave his thoughts too much room to breathe.
He considered testing the ring again. The two remaining caves crossed his mind as well. Both options filled with urgency, but he knew better. Those kinds of tasks needed quiet and a whole lot more discretion than broad daylight was willing to offer.
And with Camila working, that left him only one option: Valeria.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on the hour—he didn't have to search long. The creep was already planted in the tavern, locked in a drinking competition with a handful of townsfolk. Judging by the growing pile of emptied mugs around her, she was winning by a landslide.
"How is she doing that?" one of the regular drunks shouted, eyes wide.
"It's like she's a wizard!" another chimed in.
"Witch," Francis said flatly.
The second drunk blinked at him. "Huh?"
"Female wizards are called witches."
Before the man could process that, Valeria slammed back another mug and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Good to see you too, Francis," she said, already sounding far too pleased with herself.
"What are you doing?" Francis asked, keeping his tone casual.
"Socializing," Valeria said, as if that explained everything. She promptly humiliated another drunk by outdrinking him in a single, effortless chug.
Oh well. At least the boss is getting more business, Francis thought, watching another round get ordered.
For all his caution around pirates—and he had plenty—he had to admit they brought a certain… liveliness to the place. The town felt louder, brighter, less predictable with them around. It was the kind of vibrancy he knew would vanish the moment they left.
Unless he left with them.
It didn't take long for the townsfolk to lose their enthusiasm. Competing against whatever Valeria was felt pointless, and one by one they drifted off to deal with their own affairs.
"Miss me?" Valeria said, her tone dripping with mischief. She tapped the stool beside her. "Sit."
"Yeah, actually," Francis said as he took the seat. "I want to sail with your crew."
That earned him a raised eyebrow. "And your soon-to-be wife is… fine with that?"
"She's supportive," he said. "Surprisingly so."
"Curious," Valeria murmured, genuinely intrigued. "Most sailors can't say the same."
"Including you?" Francis asked, intending to court death.
Instead of the verbal execution he expected, she threw her head back and let out a hearty, unrestrained laugh.
"Oh, that's a good one," she said once she caught her breath. "But to answer your question… let's just say no one in the English countryside misses me much."
"I knew you were British," Francis said, wearing the smugness of a man who needed a win.
"Not like many people have an accent such as mine," Valeria replied, effortlessly flattening his confidence.
"Didn't know my tell was that predictable."
"I mean… not much sets me apart from the French—may the Lord protect us—Irish, Dutch, Germans—what's left of them anyway—and Norsemen."
"Should I take offense to that?" he asked, amused.
"You're French?" she said, genuinely shocked for the first time since they'd met.
"Well, half. My mother's from Iberia."
"That… explains quite a lot, actually," Valeria said, already analyzing him.
"Oh no. What do you mean by that?"
"Well… you don't exactly exude traditional masculinity."
Francis glanced around the bar—at the slumped drunks, the slurred shouting, the catastrophic posture choices. "Looking at most of this bar, I'd consider that a compliment."
"I knew you would," she said, smirking.
"As for your request," Valeria said, her tone shifting into something rare—actual seriousness—"I'm not sure when we'll be setting sail again. But rest assured, I'll tell you before we depart."
"Thank you. I really appreciate it," Francis said, surprisingly earnest.
Valeria nodded once, then casually swerved the conversation. "Tell me—how often do ships pass by your island?"
The question didn't surprise him; by now, he was almost certain she was a fugitive of something. "Once every couple of months or so. Most are Royal Navy vessels. Not that there's anything to plunder here."
"That we can agree on. No offense," she said, entirely unbothered.
"None taken," he replied, then eyed her over. "The ship isn't yours, is it?"
Valeria lifted a brow, amusement tugging at her mouth, offering neither confirmation nor denial.
Which, in its own way, was an answer.
They drifted into a lazy card game after that—anything to keep the boredom from swallowing them whole. Hand after hand passed without purpose, at least until the sun finally dipped and the tavern lights took over.
Valeria flicked her last card onto the table and stood. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Frenchie, I have a crew to beat up."
Francis pushed back his chair with a sigh. "Yeah, I'm sitting out of this one. British women aren't exactly known for being gentle."
She snorted at that—a short, sharp crack of amusement—before heading toward the door.