I have learned tricks to avoid such mistakes, which I have been teaching my nephew, Edmund. My only excuse tonight is that I am still somewhat inebriated. Also, kissing a handsome man in a pirate ship crow’s nest is bound to unsettle the most sober young woman.

No, let us be honest. I spoke the truth—both about seeing someone below and then admitting I can see ghosts—because I am comfortable with Nicolas. Unreasonably comfortable, and he has given me no reason to be anything else.

I continue down, glancing every few moments to be sure the ghost is still there. I also hope he will see me watching and know I can see him and that we might communicate. Yet he has not so much as glanced my way. His attention is entirely upon Nicolas.

I descend a little farther, and then the angle is exactly right for me to see the ghost, and I stifle a gasp. He is little more than a boy.

Oh, I am certain he would consider himself a “young man,” but he is about fourteen. He wears what seems the correct clothing for the period, though simply made. He carries a dagger at his waist, and his feet are bare.

A ship’s boy? A cabin boy?

As I consider that, a terrible thought strikes.

This boy knows Nicolas. That is why he is staring at him. He is from the ship’s crew. Nicolas will know him.

I am opening my mouth when the boy launches himself. He is there, gaze fixed on Nicolas. Then he is hurtling toward Nicolas, letting out a strangely hoarse cry.

“Nico!” I shout.

Even as I say his name, I chide myself for overreacting. It is a ghost flying at him. Nothing more substantial than—

The ghost hits him, and Nicolas inhales in a sudden gasp. His head jerks back, and all I see is the whites of his eyes. His body convulses, and his hands release the rigging.

“Nico!”

He falls. There seems to be an impossibly long moment where he is suspended in midair. A moment where it feels as if I could grab him if only I moved faster. I am moving, but it is not fast enough, and he is already plummeting toward the deck, a half-dozen feet below.

“Nico!”

It takes every ounce of my practicality not to release my own grip on the rigging. My heart shouts that it would be the fastest way down. Let go and drop. My brain knows better, and instead, I scramble down, hand over hand, ignoring the pain in my arm, until my toes brush the deck.

I let go and drop beside Nicolas. He’s sprawled motionless on the deck. My hands fly to his neck first. His pulse beats strong. Then I bend to check his breathing, and his eyes snap open, eyes staring into mine.

“Did I swoon, crécerelle? Please tell me I did not swoon.”

I can’t bring myself to even smile at the joke. I am too busy looking at his eyes, being sure they seem focused. They do. When he tries to rise, I stop him.