Sewel had told me once how he’d lost them on a burning merchant ship when a fiery yard fell and smashed half his foot. He’d nearly been killed that day, he’d said, but God looked out for drunks, fools, and sailors. God must’ve loved Sewel fierce ’cause he was all three.

Like he was peering into my disloyal thoughts, Sewel stretched out his leg and ran his foot against my shin, the thick scars scratching me like bark.

I pulled away, my heart jumping in my chest.

Sewel shook his head at me. Then he tipped the bottle back and drank.

By the time we got to the Valparaíso, the empty bottle rattled round the bottom of the wherry and thunder rumbled in the distance. The tide was so high that only the tip of the old wreck’s mainmast stuck out, like a cross staked right in the sea.

“Less go, Francisca,” Sewel slurred. He tossed the anchor overboard and spat at the sea to bring us luck. “We en’t got much time.”

I checked the rope belting my trousers. The sea flashed like pewter, dull and dark. I always felt a little dizzy when I couldn’t see to the bottom, not knowing what awaited me down there.

“Get diving.” Sewel pulled off his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead. The rum had brought the blood into his eyes. “And best not disappoint. I en’t got a drop of patience today, understand?”

Anger rose inside me like smoke. “Yes, sir.”

Over on the Baines boat, Owen and Daniel Baines shoved each other and laughed as they dove in. Mercy and Moses were already in the water and their tiny boat ran up and down the swells empty. I sucked in a few breaths, readying my lungs, a feeling of strength and daring filling me.

“Sewel, sir?” I said, looking over my shoulder. “I was just wonderin’…you gonna have any patience tomorrow?” He lunged across the wherry to grab me, but I leapt into the air—and crashed into freedom.

Kicking hard, I swam to Mercy.

“You ought not provoke him, Frannie,” she said as I reached her. “You can’t say things like that no more.”

Mercy was thirteen—two years younger than me, but ten years smarter. I’d waited years for a friend in West End. When I’d finally gotten one, I’d gotten the best one.

“I just did and here I am, still breathing.” She didn’t laugh, so I said, “He won’t remember. He finished a whole bottle of kill-devil on the way here.”

“What if he does remember?” Our knees bumped as we treaded water. “You’re his daughter now, Frannie. His alone.”

My throat cinched up like a belt. For weeks I’d been avoiding that very truth, hiding in my memories of Mama instead, but Mercy was right. Sewel loved to torment me, but when I’d lost my patience before, Mama had been there to stand between us. Without her, I had no idea how I’d survive. “Don’t worry, Mercy. I en’t afraid of that birdbrain,” I said, sinking my voice to a drawl, like Sewel’s.