I saw myself as I was—small and square as a boy. Big wide eyes and an “impudent nose,” as Sewel called it. My dark hair tied back, but still falling in my face. But instead of my diving garments, I wore a fine blue coat with a ruffled white neck stock and sleeves dripping with lace. I stood at the bow of a grand ship, a spyglass tucked under my arm, as I guided it over every inch of the globe’s waters.

For as long as I could hold my breath, I went on adventures and I felt free.

The clouds opened as I swam back to Mercy. In a matter of moments, the swells rose to six feet and the sea sizzled with a furious rain.

We met behind her papa’s boat, where we listened to Sewel and Mr. Baines shouting at each other. Instead of heading for shelter as we ought to have been, they were arguing over whose bright idea it had been to come out this far, exposing us to such foul weather.

“Sewel’s never had a bright idea in all his life,” I said.

“He’s never even had a dull idea.” Mercy wiped the rain from her eyes. Our knees bumped underwater, talking to each other as we did. “Shame he en’t more like my papa.”

I’d had the same thought a dozen times myself. In the boat above us, Moses was busy stashing conches in a crate. As we dove for hidden treasures, he dove for dinner, which struck me as wiser. “The real shame is he en’t more like yesterday,” I said.

Mercy wrinkled her nose. “How’s that?”

I grinned. “Gone forever. Never to be seen again.”

Mercy laughed, showing all her pretty teeth. Her papa looked down from the boat with a scolding glance that seemed rather mild to me, but Moses never did look mean. He had a face like he was always about to tell you a sad story, even when he smiled.

“C’mon, Mercy. ’Fore the storm trap us out here.” He helped her aboard. Then he rowed for West End, his strokes steady as wings in spite of the choppiness of the sea.

“Fran!” Sewel shouted, spotting me in the water. “Get over here!”

I swam over and hoisted myself into the wherry, huddling my shivering body into the curve of the bow.

Sewel shook his head, disappointed at my lack of sturdiness. “Wiggins find anything?”

“No, sir.”

“He was diving the wreck and didn’t find a thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Useless.” He cast a hateful glance at the retreating boat; then he reefed the sail and weighed anchor, sure and swift, like seafaring was a dance he knew all the steps to.

He was made for the sea, Sewel was. Everything I learned about sailing and wrecking, he’d taught me. For that, I had to be thankful. Mama had told me once that as a boy he’d dreamed of serving in the Royal Navy. I couldn’t imagine Sewel as a boy with dreams. But I could picture him fighting in a tavern over a spilt drink and killing somebody, which was how he’d earned the M on his thumb. By reciting a Bible verse and getting the brand, he was saved from swinging by a rope round his neck.