He gives a humorless laugh. “I am sorry, crécerelle. I do not mean to laugh. A ship like this can be steered by a small number of sailors, should tragedy decimate the crew. But two people cannot keep it on course, not when we are neither of us truly sailors. And we cannot drop the anchor while she is in motion.”

My cheeks heat. I have written pirate stories, but admittedly, I skip past the parts about actually operating the ship. There are experiences a “lady” of my station cannot have, not unless she emulates my heroine and dresses as a boy to join a crew. I have considered that, but it does seem extreme for the sake of verisimilitude. Now, though, I wish I had done exactly that.

“We must get to the skiff,” he says as he helps me over the hole. “Quickly.”

“Before she heads to sea,” I say. “Or crashes into the shore.”

“She will do neither before we are in the skiff.”

I steady myself and then reach out to help him across after me, but he waves me off and jumps before I can protest. When one of his feet slips, my heart nearly stops. I grab for him, but he recovers his balance.

As I turn to continue on, the plank beneath me cracks, the sound loud as a shot. I slide, flailing. Nicolas catches the back of my shirt, but I am falling, and he is going to fall with me.

I fall into the hole, and he drops to the floor before I drag him with me. He’s still holding me, my shirt wrapped in both his hands. His lower half remains on solid floor, and I clutch the edge of the hole in both hands.

“I am going to back up,” he says. “I am secure. Wriggle onto the floor as best you can, and then I shall haul you out.”

“If you begin to slide, you must release me. Promise me that you will—”

He shimmies backward, hauling me from the hole as I pull myself out, wincing against the pain in my arm. When I am on the solid floor, we scramble to our feet, and I nudge him farther from the hole . . . and nearly push him into the bigger one in the middle of the galley. We catch our balance, and then we start making our way around that larger hole.

A creak sounds overhead. Then a noise to my left, and I look to see Andrés waving wildly to get my attention. He jabs a finger at a rotted and broken beam. It groans, ready to snap right over our heads.

I snatch Nicolas’s arm and launch myself, shouting a warning just as the beam gives way. We hit the floor, with him atop me, debris raining down on his legs.

“You must stop saving my life, crécerelle,” he says.

“Did you not just save mine? Also, it was not I but Andrés who saved your life this time, by alerting me to the breaking beam.” I look over to where the boy is watching us. “Thank you, Andrés.”