I hear it then. A low moan, followed by a scraping sound.

“Wh-what’s happening?” I say as Nicolas rights himself and helps me do the same. “Is the ship collapsing?”

“It is not in such disrepair as that.” His gaze sweeps the room. “Andrés? Would you do me a favor, please? We cannot safely leave this room in case the ship moves again. Would you see what is happening?”

The boy takes off, half-running and half-flying, through the door and then gone. An ominous creak sounds from somewhere in the belly of the ship. Then an odd flapping noise that has Nicolas’s head jerking up.

“Is that a sail?” I say. “Did we knock one loose in our climb? Is the ship fighting against her moorings?”

“It takes more than a nudge to break a sail free, chérie. Yet it does sound like one. And it feels . . .”

He braces his feet as if testing. Beneath my boots, the floor seems to sway. It’s barely noticeable until I try to take a step and my knees wobble.

“Are we moving?” I say.

“Yes, that is what I was just thinking. It has been a long time since I have been at sea, and I thought I might be mistaken, but no, we seem to be moving.”

“How is that possible?”

“I have no idea.”

Andrés reappears, his face animated for the first time since I’ve seen him. He glances about wildly. His gaze lands on something, a slate with chalk. His slate for communication.

The sight pokes at me, saying something is wrong, very wrong, something I was already working out. I cannot pursue it, though. Not when something far more critically important is far more critically wrong.

Andrés turns from the slate, which will do him no good in his current form.

“The ship is unmoored, non?” Nicolas says when I ask what Andrés has seen.

He’s right—without that slate, Andrés must be asked questions answered in the affirmative or negative.

This one is affirmative.

“It is,” I say quickly for Nicolas. “The ship has ripped from its moorings? Broken from its anchor?”

Andrés shakes his head.

“Breaking from the anchor is not possible,” Nicolas says. “The chain is too thick, and I check it regularly. If it is undone, someone has undone it. Someone has raised the anchor.”

Andrés nods emphatically.

“There is someone onboard?” I ask.

Andrés shakes his head and motions with his hand, as if showing someone running and then climbing.

“Someone was onboard,” I say. “And they have raised the anchor and the sails?”

Andrés nods.

“We are at sea?” I say, twisting to face Nicolas.

Nicolas isn’t there. He’s striding across the pantry. In the doorway, he pauses, his hands braced as the ship rocks. He looks down into the hole. Then back at me.

“Come,” he says. “I will help you over. We must get to the skiff.”

I grab the shelves for balance as I make my way to him. “Can we not steer the ship? Lower the anchor and stop her?”