Charles did not return for nearly a month, but Emma didn’t spend her time pining.

  Most days passed much like the ones before them. Emma rose early, washed, dressed, and saw to Silver before anything else. She addressed him carefully each morning, changing the dressing on his wound before she would even consider letting him out of bed. She was strict about it, more so than he liked, but she refused to be rushed.

  They worked on his balance first, then his strength, then his patience. After a week, he could manage the house with a crutch well enough that Emma trusted him to move about on his own. The small victory lightened the mood of the cabin considerably. Silver reclaimed a sliver of independence, and with it came humor again—grumbling, teasing, the familiar sharpness that had dulled since their work at healing began.

  Evenings were meant for funnier things. She and Silver talked about books, argued over card games, and shared meals that felt almost domestic in their simplicity. On occasion, Jack would arrive with supplies and linger for supper. Emma knew well enough that he was checking on her at Charles’s request, but Jack was good company, and she didn’t resent it.

  When he came, he also delivered Charles’s gold portions. A rudimentary banking system had been established for the crew. Each man could withdraw portions from his share as needed. It was more order than Emma had expected from pirates, but it seemed to be working, for the most part.

  Emma spent only a small portion of her own gold. She bought paint and canvas so she could keep her hands and her thoughts occupied, and fabric enough to make clothing for herself. The rest she hid beneath a loose floorboard, tucked away where it would remain until Charles returned for it.

  Jack also began introducing her to the island and its people by bringing guests to dinner with him.

  Bonnie had been the first.

  Her behavior was polite, agreeable even, but there was a stiffness to her, as though she were uncomfortable with the notion of playing at domesticity. She never returned for another meal. Still, Bonnie was more than generous when it came to escorting Emma into town if the need arose. She seemed to take particular pleasure in frightening off men who made ill-advised advances. Her presence alone was enough to end most conversations before they began.

  Max was second. The brothel owner was striking and far more practical than her beauty suggested. She hired Emma to mend and make dresses for her girls. Seamstresses were unheard of on a pirate island, and importing dresses was costly. Max valued Emma’s craftsmanship despite the limited fabrics available. Half the dresses, she reasoned, wouldn’t survive a month anyway. They would be stained, torn, or ruined in the course of business. Emma was grateful for the work and the coin, and the girls were grateful for clean garments.

  Billy had been the third.

  Emma knew him from the ship, though she’d never spent much time in his company before. He came only when Flint visited the island to speak privately with Silver. Whatever they discussed, they did so elsewhere, leaving Billy to keep Emma company. Emma swore she had never met a taller man, and with his height came an appetite to match. He welcomed a hot meal every time and proved pleasant enough company. He was quiet, thoughtful even. Though there was an edge of anger in him that surfaced now and again, Emma had yet to meet a pirate who wasn’t angry about something.

  At Charles’s request, this was the small circle Emma was allowed to keep. It wasn’t much, but she was thankful for it all the same.

  Charles returned only twice.

  The first time, they spent the day in bed together, making up for weeks of absence in whispered conversation and familiar touch. Emma clung to the hours greedily, only to learn that he had just the one night to spare.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The second time, he never made it to the cabin at all.

  Emma went to meet him on the beach, where he kept a small tent. They didn’t make love that night, but Charles brought her gifts instead—objects scavenged, bartered, or stolen. He told her the stories behind them with an almost boyish pride, carefully omitting the more brutal details if something bore traces of blood. Emma didn’t press him for more. She didn’t want to know. She found it endearing that he thought of her at all, that he carried pieces of the world back for her like offerings.

  Both times, Emma swallowed her complaints about missing him.

  Charles had given her exactly what he’d promised: freedom. She could do what she wanted, when she wanted, without answering to anyone. The people who called the island home were accustomed to not asking questions of one another, and Emma found the absence of polite society’s expectations to be a relief.

  It wasn’t until she realized she’d missed a course that the weight of island life pressed heavier on her shoulders.

  Another month passed before she spoke of it.

  It was over dinner, on Silver’s last night in the cabin. His leg had healed enough that he could walk on the wooden prosthetic one of the crew had carved for him. Rope had been secured throughout the ship to help him maneuver, and the same system had been recreated in the house so he could grow accustomed to it. He’d taken to it well enough, eager to return to his crew.

  “Silver?” Emma broke the quiet at the table.

  “Yes?” He swallowed his bite before answering.

  “I think I’m with a child.”

  “You think?” His voice was careful.

  “I’ve missed two bleeds.”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  She shook her head.

  “You should,” he said gently. “That’s not something you want left uncertain.”

  “I know.” Emma pushed her food around her plate. “Should I tell Charles?”

  She wasn’t sure how—or when—she should burden him with it, not with everything else demanding his attention.

  “Of course you should tell him,” Silver said, his expression softening. “If it were me, I’d want to know.”

  Her thoughts spiraled. Would it be another month before she saw Charles again? How would he take the news? With joy? With anger? With indifference?

  “Do you want me to stay until you tell him?” Silver asked after a moment.

  Emma shook her head. The offer warmed her, but his place was no longer here.

  “No. I’ll be fine. He’s given me everything I need. Once Nassau settles, he will too.” She hoped the words would one day prove true.

  She knew Charles disliked the idea of land life. How would he feel knowing he had kin rooted to the island?

  “Congratulations,” Silver said carefully, but sincerely.

  The rest of the night passed in silence. Tomorrow would end their time together, and now the goodbye felt heavier than either of them had expected. Emma wished she hadn’t burdened him with her news, yet she’d needed to tell someone. Anyone. She wanted Charles to hear it from her.

  The next morning, Silver insisted she go into town to see the doctor before he left. He waited outside while she went in.

  The doctor confirmed her suspicions. She was with child.

  He gave her a list of warnings and a catalog of discomforts, most of them unpleasant. None of it surprised her. Her mother had prepared her well enough when Emma came of age, refusing to let her daughter be ignorant in a world already harsh enough.

  Emma left with more questions than answers, but the weight of not knowing was gone.

  “So?” Silver asked, rising when she emerged.

  “I am.”

  He wrapped her in his arms, and she clung to him fiercely.

  “You’ll be a wonderful mother, Emma.”

  She bit her lip to keep from crying.

  “Thank you.”

  That evening, Flint’s ship arrived under cover of darkness. Emma walked Silver to the same stretch of shore where she herself had once arrived. She tried not to cry, but a few tears escaped as they said goodbye. She watched the skiff carry him out to the waiting ship until the dark swallowed them whole.

  That first night alone, she cried herself to sleep. But each day after grew easier to bear.

  Max still invited her for tea when she came to deliver dresses. Bonnie still escorted her through town when she was on the isle. Billy became more of a regular, and Emma tended the garden the woman before her had planted, coaxing life from the soil with careful hands as she grew the life within as well.

  Little by little, she carved out a life of her own, but things on the island never settled down.

  Stories of Flint filtered back to the small cabin tucked deep in the heart of the island. Flint was becoming something of a legend, and the fevered whispers worried Emma, because Charle’s name and deeds were becoming just as infamous.