Even if they do not realize I am a woman, they cannot confuse me for Nicolas’s employer. As a man, I am a whiskerless and pink-cheeked boy.

Yet when I do step out, their expressions don’t change.

“You are one of Lancaster’s brood, I presume,” Norrington says. “You lot cannot keep your noses out of other people’s business. Almost as bad as the Thornes. At least they do not run about the countryside playing at being Robin Hood. How old are you, boy? Sixteen, yet?”

I stand there, dumbfounded into silence. He hasn’t mistaken me for an older man. Not even mistaken me for a grown man. He sees a boy. A soft and smooth-cheeked boy. And yet somehow, I am more likely to be Robin Hood of the Bay than Nicolas—ten years older, educated and well spoken, and in the sort of physical condition one would expect of such a hero.

But I am not a man of color. To Norrington, a mere boy, as physically unprepossessing as I appear, is a more likely candidate than Nicolas.

“Speak, boy,” Norrington says to me. “I asked your name.”

I hesitate only a moment. I want to tell them they are mistaken. Nicolas truly is the one they seek. And yet how does that help him? The only reason he corrects their error is out of fear they’ll target an innocent. What if, instead, they target a real person . . . one who doesn’t exist in this century? A specter for them to chase, leaving Nicolas be?

Then I put my hand on my gladius and stand tall. “I am called the Kestrel.”

The two men burst into laughter. Even the corners of Norrington’s mouth quirk as he shakes his head.

“I presume you do not know what such a thing is, boy. Do you imagine some terrible bird of prey? It is an American sparrow hawk. Called such because it hunts nothing bigger than sparrows.”

I lift my chin. “As you have pointed out, I am small of stature myself. Yet the kestrel is still a bird of prey, and a fierce one, and if I may be so bold, is that not a sparrow on your buckle?”

Norrington looks down.

“That is a grosbeak, crécerelle,” Nicolas says. “Yet you are correct. It is indeed akin to a sparrow. Perhaps Lord Norrington should not be so quick to dismiss you. But no, Norrington, this is not my employer. It is a young man of my acquaintance who has no part in my machinations.”

Norrington rolls his eyes and tells Nicolas to stop the ridiculous pretense. As they argue, I catch movement to my left. I glance over and give a start. It is the man I saw with Miss Jenkins. Her father, I presumed, or a male member of her household acting as escort.

The older man walks right up behind one of Norrington’s lackeys. Then he steps in front of the man, who doesn’t even startle. Norrington himself keeps talking to Nicolas.