The repairs to the ship were underway inside the hull. From the beach, the steady pounding of hammers could be heard. The captain had decided to remain aboard, despite how uncomfortable it was to walk across the slanted deck. From there, he could see the camp, where a central fire burned and the men gathered around it, waiting for the ebb tide. Some slept, others talked, and a few simply passed the time playing dice, cards, or smoking.

  Sammy was inside the tent, sitting on the sand with her back against a barrel, while the pilot snored on the ground, sprawled over a piece of canvas. She stood and stretched. She felt sleepy, but feared being caught by the captain asleep instead of keeping watch over Wells.

  She stepped out of the tent and scanned the camp, trying to locate Kayin. She approached Mr. Pete, who—as always—sat atop a crate, leaning against a stack of barrels while smoking calmly.

  "Mister Worthy," he said as he saw her coming closer. "Has your baby finally fallen asleep?"

  Sammy smiled at the remark.

  "He snores like a hippopotamus on the Nile."

  "Perfect. You've been doing a fine job. If you're looking for your friend, he's on watch near the mangroves."

  She nodded. That man truly was an enigma, she thought.

  "Mr. Pete… may I ask you something?" she said, lowering her voice. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

  "Are you asking because of Price, or in general?"

  Sammy blinked, then smiled.

  "In general."

  The pirate took a long draw from his pipe.

  "I've spent a great deal of my life at sea, Mister Worthy. I've seen battles, knives flying through the air… Personally, I've never seen a ghost. But I've heard stories all my life. In The Odyssey, Elpenor's spirit appears to Odysseus, and—"

  "And Pliny the Younger writes about a haunted house in Athens," Sammy added.

  "Exactly. They've existed in stories for thousands of years. But there's no proof of their existence. Perhaps there are people who aren't interested in them—skeptics. And perhaps there are others with whom they can communicate… sometimes to frighten them, sometimes to warn them."

  "To warn them?"

  "Of some catastrophe. Or of some quest you may be pursuing. If that's the case, a ghost might be like a gossip—seeing everything, hearing everything… perhaps pointing you toward a clue, a key."

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  Pete raised the pipe to his mouth again.

  Sammy fell silent, thoughtful. After saying goodbye, she went to look for Kayin, spotting him as a solitary figure at the southern edge of the anchorage.

  She walked along the shore, where the water barely lapped at the sand. Behind her, the camp seemed drowsy, though the carpenter's hammering still echoed from inside the hull.

  Kayin sat on a rock, a musket in his hands and a machete at his belt, watching the dark jungle. Sammy cleared her throat, and he turned with a grin.

  "Hey, the pilot's nanny."

  "Don't be an asshole," she replied, sitting beside him.

  "Feeling calmer?"

  "I'm caught in the middle of a cold war between the pilot and the captain. Skippy is visibly furious with Wells."

  "Well… your friend is an obnoxious, arrogant fat man."

  Sammy smiled and nodded.

  "He already threatened me. I don't know what he might do, but… he's already read my cards."

  "Of everyone aboard, he's the weakest rival. Everyone hates him… right after the secretary."

  "True…"

  They fell silent for a moment.

  "What did you want to tell me about Price?" Kayin asked.

  Sammy cleared her throat and swallowed. Showing vulnerability—even with friends—was difficult.

  "I think… he's trying to tell me something. He's appeared to me ever since the time we went down to the hold. His presence has become… recurrent."

  When she looked at Kayin, she found him wearing an incredulous expression.

  "I'm not crazy. I'm not hallucinating… and I haven't touched any of those forgotten opium crates in the hold."

  "Sammy… it's hard for me to believe this."

  "Why?"

  "Because ghosts don't exist. I'm telling you this as a slave who grew up surrounded by violence."

  "Oh, heavens… you have less discernment than Mr. Pete—and he claims to be a skeptic."

  "Pete's strange… maybe he does sample those opium crates. But back to ghosts: if they were real, we'd be surrounded by them, considering how many people die every second."

  "Oh, heavens… I knew I shouldn't have told you… or Cody," she sighed, standing up.

  Kayin caught her hand, urging her to sit again.

  "All right, I'm sorry… but is there anything specific the ghost shows you?"

  Sammy shrugged and raised three fingers.

  "He only does this," she said.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Three fingers pointing to three… idiot."

  Kayin suddenly rose, musket at the ready.

  "I'm not talking about that…" he whispered, aiming toward the foliage.

  Sammy jumped and reached for her belt. To her frustration, she was unarmed. She grabbed Kayin's machete instead, while he kept the musket trained ahead.

  "I see a shadow moving between the trees," he said quietly.

  Sammy narrowed her eyes to focus. Indeed, a figure was creeping low through the bushes, advancing stealthily toward the camp.

  The captain was in his cabin, lit by the ship's lantern. He sat in a corner, discreetly consulting an electronic device while drinking from a bottle of elven wine. Suddenly, the door swung open due to the tilt of the hull, and the Boatswain appeared.

  "Captain, forgive the disturbance," he said. "We have a situation in the camp."

  Skippy stood clumsily and crossed the slanted floor. He went out on deck and carefully descended along the ship's side into the boat, which carried him to shore.

  The camp, which moments earlier had seemed lethargic, now buzzed with movement. Everyone stood on their feet, gathered around a single point.

  "What's going on here?" Skippy asked as he reached the beach.

  "The night watch caught an infiltrator."

  "A Spaniard?" Skippy asked, frowning as he jumped from the boat and pushed through the men.

  At the center of the circle, he found a Black man bound and seated on the sand. Murmurs rippled through the crew.

  Skippy froze, stunned.

  "Mr. Kwame Baptiste?" he said.

  The man looked up.

  And smiled, lips pressed together.

  "Good evening, Captain… a pleasure," he said.