I waketo a seagull’s laugh. It sits on my windowsill and lets out its raucous chuckle as the moon, now back to only a sliver, hangs in the sky beyond it.
“Out of here, devil.” A man hurries in and shoos the bird from the window. He turns to me, his mouth turning up into a smile. “Well, hello there.”
No words come out of my mouth.
“You’re parched.” He comes to my bedside, his teal robe fluttering behind him, then pours me a glass of water. “Here. Don’t drink too much. Go slow.” With a gentle hand, he lifts my head from the pillow and pours the water into my mouth.
I swallow, grateful for the moisture.
Once I’ve had enough, he lays me back down and places the back of his hand to my forehead. “Good. You’ve been out of the fever for two days, but we can’t be too careful.”
“Who’re you?” I croak.
“Huran.” He dips his chin. “Very nice to finally meet you, Moira.”
“You’re the healer?” It’s an effort just to get the words out. I’m so tired.
“Yes. Among other things.” He winks, his brown skin marked with black tattooed dots all along his cheeks. “May I take a look at the leg?”
I don’t exactly want him to look at any of me, but I’m not stupid. He’s been looking after me for who knows how long, so he’s seen all of me most likely.
“All right.”
“Thank you.” He pulls back the cream-colored blanket and inspects the bandage on my calf. “The drainage has stopped. Also a good sign.” With deft fingers, he unpins the cloth and unwraps it.
I wince when I get a look at my leg. It’s mottled purple and yellow around the bite, and there are stitches where Huran must’ve had to cut divots from my skin.
“I know.” He pats my knee. “It looks rough right now. But when it heals, there’ll only be a few dimples and scars. Nothing to worry about and not too unsightly. I thought I was going to have to amputate, but you pulled through. Your leg will be just as strong as it was before.”
I don’t want an ugly leg but having a working one is the most important thing. “Thanks.”
“Very welcome.” He grabs a fresh bandage from the nightstand and rewraps it as I look around the room.
It’s a Caribbean sort of flavor. No glass in the windows, wide wooden shutters, white walls, a white-washed wood floor, and shabby chic furniture scattered around the four-poster bed.
“Where am I?” I ask as he finishes his work and covers me with the blanket again. The white nightdress I’m wearing looks like something from a Victorian ghost story, but I’m not about to complain about the clothes. I’m just happy to have a leg at this point.
“Blackbeard’s Cay.” He rises, his teal robe vibrant even in the moonlight. Long braids are gathered at his back and twisted into a rope.
“Are you Blackbeard then?”
He smiles, and then it turns into a hearty laugh.
I guess he’s not Blackbeard. Good. Maybe it’s just named Blackbeard’s Cay because Blackbeard used to live here. Or maybe it’s like, I don’t know, the way a restaurant names itself after a famous person. Maybe before it was just “Sandy Cay” and no one came to visit, but when Huran renamed it “Blackbeard’s Cay” it became all the rage and—Whoa. Yeah, I probably need to rest some more.
He stops laughing and offers me more water. “Apologies. It’s just no one has ever mistaken me for Ed.”
“Ed?”
“Sorry, I meant Blackbeard.” He smiles again, and I estimate he’s possibly fifty or so from the laugh lines.
I take the proffered water, drinking more this time.
“That’s enough for now.” He smooths my blanket. “I’ll let the others know you’re feeling better.”
“Wait.” I try to reach for his hand, but my arm barely moves.
“Yes?”
