The heavy oak door swung inward, bringing with it a spray of freezing rain and the scent of the churning Atlantic.
Victor Vane stood on the threshold. He was taller than he'd looked through the glass, his silhouette cutting a jagged shape against the gray storm. He wore a tricorn hat pulled low, but when he stepped into the firelight he tipped it with a flourish—more suited to a ballroom than a seaside dive.
Thump. Scrape. Thump.
His wooden leg—a stout piece of polished mahogany tipped with brass—echoed off the floorboards. He leaned on a heavy cane topped with a silver crow's head.
"A nasty bit of weather for a stroll, wouldn't you say, lad?" he asked. His voice was like aged brandy—smooth, warm, and deceptively strong.
I didn't answer. My hand stayed on the door handle, my knuckles white. Beneath my shirt, the edge of Flint's map scratched against my ribs like a guilty conscience.
"Ethan, move aside," my mother whispered from the shadows of the hallway. She looked like she'd seen a ghost, her hands trembling as she wiped them on her apron. "Welcome to the Sea Raven, sir. We're... we're nearly closed for the night."
"Closed?" Vane let out a rich, melodic laugh. He shook his cloak, sending droplets of water flying onto the freshly scrubbed floor. "A tragedy. I've traveled many a mile for the hospitality of the Hale family. And for the company of an old messmate who, I'm told, has been taking his ease in your finest room."
He scanned the common room. His eyes were a piercing, sea-glass green, moving with a predatory intelligence that missed nothing. They lingered on the stairs, then moved back to me.
"Is he in? The old sea-dog with the scar? Likes his rum, he does, and his silence even more?"
"The Captain is resting," I said, my voice cracking slightly. I tried to stand taller, blocking the path to the stairs. "He doesn't want to be disturbed."
Vane smiled. It was a pleasant expression, but it didn't reach those cold, green eyes. He reached into his coat and produced a small, silver snuff box.
"Resting. Of course. A man of his years needs his sleep." He took a pinch, sniffed it, and let out a satisfied sigh. "But you see, lad, we have business. Unfinished business from a time when the world was much larger and the sea much redder."
He began to move. Despite the peg-leg, he navigated the room with a grace that was unsettling. He pulled out a chair at the center table—the very table where the Captain had spent his final hours—and sat down with a heavy sigh.
"Bring me a pint of your best ale, Ethan. And perhaps a bit for yourself? You look like a boy who's had a very long ten minutes."
I looked at my mother. She nodded frantically, her eyes darting toward the kitchen. She wanted me away from him. I wanted to be away from him, too, but I couldn't leave the stairs unguarded.
I walked behind the bar, my movements stiff. I felt the weight of the ledger and the map shifting in my waistband. Every time I moved, I expected the parchment to crinkle loud enough to wake the dead man upstairs.
I poured the ale, the foam spilling over the rim. When I set it in front of him, Vane didn't reach for the mug. Instead, he reached out and caught my wrist.
His grip was like a steel trap.
"You're a brave lad, Ethan Hale," he murmured, leaning in. I could smell the sea-salt and expensive tobacco on him. "Curious, too. I see it in your eyes. You've seen things tonight that weren't meant for a boy of the inn."
"I don't know what you mean," I said, trying to pull away. He didn't budge.
"Don't you? The Captain's room has gone very quiet. Usually, he's pacing. Usually, he's cursing the wind. But tonight... nothing but the rain."
He released my wrist as suddenly as he'd grabbed it. He took a long pull of the ale, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"He's dead, isn't he?"
The question wasn't a guess. It was a confirmation.
My mother let out a small, stifled sob from the kitchen doorway. My silence was all the answer Vane needed.
"A shame," Vane said, though he didn't sound particularly grieved. "Billy was always a stubborn fool. He thought he could outrun the shadow of the Walrus. He thought he could hide the sun in a wooden box."
He stood up, his cane tapping sharply against the wood. "I suppose I should pay my respects. After all, a man's property should go to his kin... or his closest associates."
"You aren't going up there," I said, stepping out from behind the bar.
Vane paused, his head tilting to the side. "And why is that, Ethan? Do you intend to stop me?"
"He owed us rent," I lied, my heart hammering. "We've already sealed the room. The magistrate is coming in the morning to inventory his things."
Vane laughed, a low, guttural sound. "The magistrate? In this God-forsaken cove? Lad, you have a talent for fiction. But I'm afraid I'm a man of facts."
He started for the stairs. I moved to intercept him, but he used his cane with lightning speed, catching me in the chest and shoving me back against the bar. It didn't hurt, but the message was clear: he was in control.
"Stay with your mother, Ethan," he said, his voice losing its warmth. "I'll only be a moment."
I watched him go up. Thump. Scrape. Thump.
My mother ran to me, grabbing my shoulders. "Give it to him, Ethan! Whatever you found, give it to him! He'll kill us both!"
"No," I whispered. "If I give it to him, he has no reason to leave us alive. This is the only leverage we have."
From upstairs, I heard the sound of the door creaking open. Then silence. A long, agonizing minute passed. I could imagine Vane standing over the Captain's cold body, his green eyes scanning the room. I heard the clack of the sea chest being opened.
I heard the sound of things being tossed—clothes, the quadrant, the tobacco tin.
Then, a sudden, sharp silence.
Vane came back to the top of the stairs. He wasn't smiling anymore. His face was a mask of cold fury, illuminated by a flash of lightning from the window behind him.
He held something in his hand. A small, crumpled piece of paper.
He descended the stairs slowly, his eyes locked on mine. He didn't stop until he was inches away. He reached out and grabbed the front of my shirt, his fingers brushing the hidden parchment. I froze, certain he was about to rip the map from me.
Instead, he pressed the small piece of paper into my hand.
I looked down. It was a scrap of parchment with a rough, blackened circle in the center.
The Black Spot.
"Billy didn't die of a broken heart, lad," Vane whispered, his voice a deadly hiss. "He died of fear. He knew we were coming. He knew the crew was tired of waiting."
He leaned in closer, his breath cold against my ear.
"I know the false bottom is empty, Ethan. Which means you were the first man to open that chest."
He stepped back, his charismatic mask sliding back into place, but the threat remained in his eyes like a bared blade. He adjusted his tricorn hat and leaned heavily on his cane.
"You have until the tide turns tomorrow morning," Vane said. "You can give me the map and the ledger, and I might find a place for a brave lad like you on my ship. Or, you can keep them... and I'll let the rest of the crew come ashore to collect."
He turned toward the door, his peg-leg echoing one last time. He paused at the threshold, the storm howling behind him.
"And believe me, Ethan Hale," he said, looking over his shoulder. "I am the only one among them who would bother asking politely."
He stepped out into the night, the door slamming shut behind him.
I stood in the center of the common room, the Black Spot clutched in one hand and the weight of Captain Flint's legacy hidden in the other.
Through the window, I saw a flicker of light out at sea. Not a lighthouse. Not a star.
It was a signal fire from a ship anchored in the cove—a ship that was waiting for the boy who held the key to the greatest treasure in the world.
End of Chapter 2