I pick up the lantern and light it as best I can. The damage means it casts only the faintest illumination.

I raise my voice as I look up and down the empty hall. “Do you hear that, young man? We are leaving. If that is what you want, then you shall have it. If it is not, you have moments to speak. I know you have suffered. I saw the injury to your throat. But we did not cause that. We came to help.”

“Injury to his throat?”

“A scar. I believe it is an old injury but . . . Nico?”

Nicolas braces himself against the wall, and I glare about for the ghost, but there is no sign of him.

“He has not spoken, correct?” Nicolas says, his voice low. “The ghost. He has said not a word.”

“Only that noise.”

“A guttural sound. Because it is all he can make.”

Nicolas swallows, and when he speaks again, his voice is low. “He was attacked as a boy on the streets of Cartagena. Attacked and left for dead, but someone rushed him to a cloister, and the nuns were able to save his life. They could not save his voice. He is mute.”

“Oh, Nico,” I whisper. “You do know him.”

Nicolas nods. “His name is Andrés.”

13

Before I can speak, Nicolas pushes from the wall, straightening.

“Andrés?” he calls. “It is Nico. I know you can hear me, and I know you are angry and—” His voice catches, grief clogging it until he must clear his throat, and even then, there is such pain in his voice that I feel as if I ought to retreat, that I am spying on a private moment.

“I do not blame you,” Nicolas says. “Not for being angry, nor for being angry with me. I vowed to protect you.”

A shape shimmers down the hall. It solidifies into the ghost, but he is too far away to see clearly.

“He is there,” I whisper. “He hears you.”

“I do not know what happened to you, Andrés. I knew that you were taken south. I knew that you were safe, and that was enough. It was not safe for you if I joined you or even checked on you. I wanted to, but others rightly dissuaded me. There is a price on my head, and you were safe.”

The boy—Andrés—takes a few steps closer.

Nicolas continues, “I presume you died in some accident or misfortune, and you returned to your home—this ship. I am heartsick to know you are no longer in this world, yet you must not remain here. There is a better life waiting for you. I am certain of that.”

Andrés continues forward. When I can see him, I suck in a breath at the anger on his face. He is bearing down on Nicolas. His lips move, and he makes a noise. I do not understand until he has repeated it thrice. Then the sound and the movement of his lips tell me what he is saying.