We pass the seaside town and continue heading north until I spot a ship moored in a cove.

I turn to look at him. “Is that . . . ?”

“A pirate ship?” He smiles. “Oui, crécerelle. It is indeed a ship of the sort used by pirates—or privateers. More specifically, it was the one sailed by me.” He wrinkles his nose. “Well, no, I did not sail it, beyond assisting when required. It is the ship sailed by my crewmates.”

“What is it doing here?” I gaze around. “You cannot tell me it is hidden. We are scarcely five miles from Whitby, and that is far too large a ship to conceal.”

“Mmm, you would be surprised at how well we could conceal it, when such concealment was required. Mais non, it is docked here for a much more banal reason. A legal battle.”

“Ah, over ownership, after the crew was accused of—” I clear my throat. “Nefarious deeds which they did not commit.”

He smiles my way. “You need not be so circumspect. The officers were accused of treason. I believe them innocent, but only a fool would stake his life on such a thing.”

“As the charge was treason, though, the Crown seized the ship.”

“It did. All her goods were forfeit. The ship, however, is owned by my captain’s benefactor, and that is the bone of contention over which they battle. By this point, I suspect both sides have lost interest, and so she sits in this cove, slowly rotting.”

He steers the skiff around to the side, where it disappears in the shadow of the huge galleon ship. She is a glorious creature, rising from the water, her sails tight against their masts, the curve of her jutting prow like a proud chin lifted against the night.

Nicolas steers to where a dark rope hangs hidden in those shadows. He gives a pull, and down comes a rope ladder.

“You hide your goods here?” I say.

“It is the last place they would expect to find them, non?”

I laugh softly at that.

He gives the ladder a tug, making sure it’s secure. “It is safe, and it is dryer than my cave.”

He motions for me to climb the ladder. I do, and he holds it steady. My arm gives a brief complaint at being asked to climb again, but it does no more than that. Once I am on the deck, Nicolas starts up, leaving the skiff secured. I wait until he is on the deck with me before I look around.

Look around? No, I scamper around, my leg feeling rested and well. She is not a new ship by any means. Every surface is worn with the patina of age, touched by a thousand fingers. The deck is rough underfoot, which keeps it from being slippery in the mist. I examine the navigation room and the sterncastle and the many masts and ask a hundred questions, all of which Nicolas answers with patience and good humor.