“I am so sorry,” I say.

At first, Andrés does not look my way. Perhaps he presumes those words are for Nicolas, for his grief. But when I say them again, Andrés looks. Our eyes meet.

“I am so sorry, Andrés,” I say. “This is . . .” Tears stream down my face. “It is . . .”

I cannot find words. In that moment, I do not want to be blessed with imagination. I do not want to be a writer who has learned the art of putting herself in another’s place, imagining their lives. I am not imagining Andrés’s life here. I am imagining his death. Locked in, with plenty of food but no water, pounding on the door for help that never came. It is too horrible to contemplate, and I can do nothing but cry as quietly as I can so I do not disturb Nicolas’s grief. When I am able, I move behind him and kneel and lay my head on his back.

“I am sorry for you, too,” I whisper. “Sorry that you saw this.” I look at Andrés. “But you needed him to see it, didn’t you? You needed him to know.”

“Someone killed him,” Nicolas says, barely able to get the words out. “Someone locked him in this room and nailed shut the door and . . .” His entire body shakes with rage as he pushes to his feet. “I will kill whoever did this. I swear that to you, Andrés. I will find him, and I will kill him.”

There is satisfaction on Andrés’s face. The satisfaction of knowing he is mourned, and of knowing someone vows revenge. After a moment, though, he shakes his head. He looks at me and shakes it again, mouthing no.

“He says no,” I say. “I think he means he does not wish you to kill his murderer but only to bring him to justice. Is that it, Andrés?”

The boy nods. He makes a motion, as if putting a rope around his neck.

“He wants his killer to hang,” I say. “Let him die as he should, branded a murderer.”

“How did it happen?” Nicolas asks, looking in Andrés’s direction as he helps me to my feet. “Did you return from York? Were you looking for me? You must have come here to fetch something from your quarters. Was someone on the ship? Not me. You know that, do you not? It was not me.” His eyes round in horror. “You did not think it was me.”

Andrés shakes his head emphatically.

“No,” I say. “He did not. Is Nicolas right, Andrés? You returned from York to fetch something and—”

The ship lurches. For a moment, I think Andrés has attacked again. Nicolas falls against me, and I gasp, catching him even as I slam into shelves behind me. Then the ship jolts again, and I see Andrés standing where he has been the entire time, his head tilted as if listening to something above.