I was praying for God’s protection as I lowered myself into the water, inch by terrible inch. And crying, too, though crying only ever turned him wickeder. But I hadn’t a prayer of holding back my tears.

It took all my strength to let go of the wherry. Every bit of bravery I had. With the clouds reflecting on the sea, I couldn’t see the shark till it broke the surface. Here. There. Close—then much too close.

“Well, Frannie?” Sewel leaned over the rail, staring down at me with his rum-bleary eyes. “You gonna learn to govern your tongue?”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” I stammered as I kicked furiously.

“And?”

“And I’m sorry for back-talking you!”

“Lying’s a terrible sin. An abomination unto the Lord.”

“But I en’t lying!” The water shimmered near me. Any moment, teeth would slice into my legs. “I’m sorry!”

“You are lying.” Sewel’s eyes narrowed. “But I am feeling generously today. You are forgiven.” He reached down to help me aboard. “See, Francisca? Things can be good between us.”

A few days later, we sailed to the Tumbado wreck, once again hoping good fortune would find us. Two hours into diving, the only thing that had found me was disappointment.

I rubbed my stinging eyes and sucked on the cut on my thumb that I’d gotten from a broken piece of pottery—the only thing I’d uncovered. The afternoon had brought thunderheads rolling in. Sunlight sliced through them in long beams that roamed over the sea.

Dedos de dios, Mama had called them. God’s fingers.

Sewel and Mr. Baines had tied their boats together and were carrying on about a battle in South Carolina colony in which we’d lost to the despicable, cowardly, treasonous rebels. God help us. I knew I shouldn’t risk angering Sewel—I’d begun to think he’d forgotten our conversation, to hope it’d just been the rum talking—but he looked occupied for now, and I saw a chance I couldn’t pass up.

I drew a breath and swam for deeper water. Though Sewel had taught me to dive, I always felt it was these clear waters that guided me. Sometimes I heard whispers when I swam, telling me what to do. Voices of the Lucayos who’d lived on Grand Bahama long before we did. They’d been able to dive for a whole hour on a single breath, according to Mercy. We hadn’t managed that yet.

With the seabed dropping beneath me, I shored up my lungs once more. Then I swam down, down, down, plunging one fathom at a time, till suddenly, I felt the sea gently wrap round me and there was no rising anymore, no sinking. Just floating, there in the belly of the ocean.

I’d reached it—the seventh fathom. My dreaming depth.

The whole world far away, I stretched out my arms and set my imagination loose.

Sometimes it wandered to Mama’s stories and I daydreamed of the castle in Baiona, or of the time she’d seen a tiger in a street market in Cádiz. But today, I went into my own imaginings.