Rain poured down in relentless sheets as Ambrose boarded the Sunset the following day, shielding his notebook under a shabby brown coat he had borrowed from Banneker. He must have looked a fool, trudging on deck with a patchwork coat, hair soaked flat, and red-rimmed eyes.

But how he looked couldn’t possibly match how foolish he felt.

He avoided the gaze of Dawn’s first mate, hoping she wouldn’t notice anything as she led him to the captain’s quarters and opened the door. At least his tears couldn’t be differentiated from the rain.

“Apologies,” he mumbled once he stepped inside, dripping icy puddles on the floor. His voice came out raspy—he’d have craft a lie about that later. “The shops took longer than I expected, and I got turned around in the rain. But I have some potions, if you want to take a look at them...”

Dawn and Eli looked up from a table in the middle of the cabin, both bent over the same map that Ambrose had seen in the tavern the day before. Eli immediately abandoned it to take the satchel off his shoulder.

“Ames, you didn’t have to come in this weather.” He passed the satchel to Dawn, then started pulling at Ambrose’s coat. “Here, take your coat off and sit by the fire—“

“I shouldn’t stay long.” Ambrose drew back from him, refusing to look him in the eyes. If he did, he’d break. “Banneker made some requests, so I—I really should be going…“

Eli frowned at the lie, but it seemed to be enough for Dawn, for she pulled up a bag of her own and held it out.

“If you need to distract Banneker with something, he’ll want to see these.” She shook the bag; wood rattled against wood. “Wands in return for your potions. I tossed in a fire staff, too, but Grim’s already carried that over.”

“Thank you.” He took the bag, and caught Eli staring at the hand that still held his notebook under his coat. Before Eli could open his mouth, Ambrose scrambled for another distraction. “Um—what are you all looking at?”

Dawn sighed and patted the red parrot to her left, who ruffled its wings and squawked. “X marks the spot!” it cried, then set about to preening its feathers.

“Tom isn’t wrong,” she grumbled. “It’s a map. Or, a half of one, at least. Stupid dead pirates, coding their stupid old treasure maps…”

Ambrose dared one peek at the table. It did appear that the mapmaker had only drawn half the map—the large stretch of paper was dotted with a mess of broken, squiggly lines. The only indication that the drawing meant anything at all was a red X in the lower corner.

“Try applying a heat wand,” he said. “Perhaps the rest of the map was drawn with invisible ink.” They looked at him, and he swallowed. “I mean—I realize it sounds childish, but…“

“Heat wand, where’s a heat wand?” Dawn scrambled around the cabin. Eli picked one up from near the hearth.

“How about this?”

“Valenz, we want to warm the paper, not set it on fire.” Dawn scrounged up a wand and waved it once, then twice, over the paper. After a moment, she grabbed Eli’s arm. “Look, look, something’s appearing—“

As they began to jump and shake each other’s arms in tandem displays of excitement, Ambrose slipped outside and plodded through the rain to the Griffin’s Claw.

#

Once the wands were passed off to an overjoyed Banneker, Ambrose locked himself in his cabin and pulled out the notebook, splotched with raindrops despite his best efforts. He knew what the numbers inside would say, but he opened the pages and re-calculated them anyway. If he continued to sell his potion scraps at this rate, but the down payment for a shop averaged that much across the ports…

Three years. It was going to take Ambrose three years to earn his way off the ship.

He threw the notebook against the wall and dropped his head into his hands. Most pirate ships didn’t even last three years. He’d see the bottom of the ocean or the hangman’s noose before he’d ever see the interior of his own potion shop.

All because he had been stupid enough to make a contract with a bloody pirate.

When Sherry tried summoning him for dinner, he politely declined in as few words as possible, to hide the crack in his voice. When Banneker and Grim stopped by, he made excuses, citing a mild illness from the rain.

When Eli knocked on the door, he stood from the cot, let out a breath, and slouched back down. There was no lie he could come up with that the captain wouldn’t see through.

“Ames, what’s going on?” Eli asked. “Banneker says you’re sick, but I don’t believe that.”

“Please go away,” Ambrose mumbled. He couldn’t talk about it now. If they just gave him a day, or two, or three years to sleep it off...

“What happened?” A sense of urgency crept into Eli’s voice. “Ambrose, please open the door.” Then, after Ambrose hesitated—“You realize I have keys, right?”

He forced himself to his feet and opened the door. Eli slipped inside and frowned. “Lord, it’s freezing in here.”

Ambrose opened his mouth, then closed it as Eli guided him back to the cot, pushed him down, then set to work warming up the cabin. Lighting a fire under the cauldrons, candles by the worktable, then scrounging around an upper cabinet for a teacup. Ambrose watched him in a daze. “How do you know where I keep the tea?”

Eli looked back at him over his shoulder. “Because it’s where I kept the tea, too.” As he puttered about, he gestured to Ambrose. “So Grim said you went to the shops to ask about prices today.”

Ambrose clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

“And?” When Ambrose didn’t respond, he turned and grimaced, teacup in hand. “Were they really that bad?”

Whatever thread was holding Ambrose together snapped, sudden and painful.

“What do you care?” He flung the words at the captain. “You have the potioneer you wanted, don’t you? What does it matter to you that I’ll never be able to pay my way off this godforsaken pirate ship—“

“Hold on.” Eli’s voice sharpened. “I actually care very much, thank you. And what are you talking about, never paying your way off? Grim said you did well yesterday.”

Ambrose wiped tears off his cheeks and nodded to the notebook splayed on the floor by Eli’s feet. “Check the numbers for yourself.”

As water simmered in the cauldron, Eli scooped up the book and scanned the last notes. Looked up to the ceiling to make a few calculations. Frowned and double-checked the numbers. “These can’t be right. This would take you—“

“Three years,” Ambrose finished for him. “If I sell as much at the next port, if we stop at port a certain number of times per year, if the prices don’t change.” He slumped, not having the energy to sit up and look at Eli anymore. “I can’t—sir, I know we had a deal, but please don’t make me—“

“No.” The cot creaked as Eli sat next to him. “No, I’d never keep you here as prisoner. That would violate the ship’s code.”

Ambrose wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “What do you mean?”

“You see, a pirate is…” Eli fidgeted with the blanket on the cot. “Pirates can sail where we like. Make our own rules aboard our ships, do what we want with our share of the plunder. We don’t bind ourselves to normal laws or customs. So…” He squeezed Ambrose’s wrist. “To bind you to my ship with impossible terms would go against what I believe in as a pirate.”

Ambrose smiled weakly at the floor, his fears melting into a puddle around him. “So what do we do?”

“Well, I’m disinclined to simply dump you out on the dock and set sail.” Eli pushed himself to his feet and paced. “You need money, and I’d like to retain my potioneer a little while longer…” Then he stopped mid-step. Ambrose looked up as he turned on his heel, a glint in his eye. “My good sir.”

“Yes?”

Eli held out a hand. When Ambrose took it and stood, Eli gave him a crooked grin. “How do you feel about buried treasure?”