“No,” said Percy, suddenly sobered. “No. I would if I could, John. Please believe me.”

“If it helps you to sleep at night, I believe you,” John said, with as much vitriol as he could put into the words, and had the bleak satisfaction of seeing Percy’s face fall. John sighed.

“What the devil do you want, Perseverance?”

“I—well.” Percy steeled himself enough to look up and meet John’s eyes directly. “I wanted to say two things to you. First … that I’m sorry. Truly sorry.” John stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

“All right. I believe that, too, for what it’s worth. Which is not all that much, as I’ll likely be dead soon, but still. And the second.”

“That I love you.” The words came softly, seeming to be addressed to the tabletop rather than John, but he heard them and was both shocked and annoyed to feel a small lump in his throat. He looked down, too, not answering. The sounds of the river and the marsh and the distant sea washed through the tiny room, and he could feel the blood pulsing in his fingertips where they rested on the rough wood.

I’m alive. I don’t know how to be anything else. He cleared his throat.

“Why do you suppose pelicans don’t call out?” he said. “Gulls scream and cackle like witches, all the time, but I never hear the pelicans make any sort of noise.”

“I don’t know.” Percy’s voice was stronger now, though he also had to stop to clear his throat. “I—that’s all I wanted—all I needed to say to you, John. Have you … anything to say to me?”

“God. Where would I start?” But he didn’t say it unkindly. “No. Or—no, wait. There’s one thing.” The notion had just come to him, and he doubted that it would be of any help; Percy was a coward and always would be. But maybe … He straightened up and leaned toward Percy, the chain rattling on the floor.

“Richardson doesn’t allow me paper or ink—probably thinking I’ll try to toss a message to some passing boat below. I can’t write to anyone—last words, I mean, or farewell, or what-have-you. I gather you have some freedom, though.” He’d seen, from his port, Percy being rowed ashore now and then, presumably doing errands for Richardson. “If you can, will you at least go to my house—it’s Number Twelve Oglethorpe Street—”

“I know where it is.” Percy was pale, but his face had settled on its bones.

“Of course you do. Well, if you meant what you just said, then for the sake of any love you’ve ever had for me—go and tell my son that I love him.” He badly wanted to shout, “For God’s sake, tell Willie what’s happened! Tell him to go to Prévost and get help!” But Percy was terrified of Richardson—and everything else in the world, he thought with an exhausted pity—and to ask him to risk something like that was likely to make him run away, get drunk, or cut his own throat.