“Aye, sir.” Tugging Bannock beside him, Runner rolled his eyes at Divana. “He thinks me irresponsible.”

“Nay, he’s just irritated that Mistress Evans didn’t ken more about the whereabouts of Captain—”

“Enough.” Kennan sliced his palm through the air. “When that name is uttered, I’ll do the uttering.”

“Very well, but where are we off to? Another fine house owned by a wealthy widow?”

“I don’t reckon you’ll find any fine houses here.”

Nassau was a kindly place compared to Port Royal, with fewer merchants and more scoundrels. But the town still lay in the midst of the trade routes, and thus goods were loaded, unloaded, and bartered here. Kennan stopped outside a shop bearing a shingle that read “Jack’s Mercantile.”

Divana peered into the window “A haberdashery?”

Kennan glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one was close enough to eavesdrop. “Word is Vane comes to the port for his supplies. That implies two things.”

“What would those be?” asked Runner.

A bell rang as Kennan opened the door. “I’ll tell you later.”

A shopkeeper stood behind the counter, his beard long and unkempt. He regarded them with steely, untrusting eyes veiled beneath a jungle of eyebrows.

A true mercantile, the place was lined to the rafters with everything from thimbles and cloth to hammers, and pots for cooking. The only patrons were a pair of ladies carrying parcels, who sidled past them and out the door.

“Saint Columba,” Divana whispered under her breath as she stared up at a cerulean-blue gown.

When the man said nothing, Kennan moved nearer. “Are you Jack?”

“Jack’s dead.” The man’s black eyes shifted between Runner and Divana. “What are ye lookin’ for?”

“Perhaps a wee bit of information.”

“You’re on the wrong island.”

“I think not.” Kennan placed his palms atop the counter. “And I’ll reckon you can help.”

“Not likely.”

“I’m looking for a man.”

“Everybody is lookin’ for someone. If ye’re not here to spend your coin, ye know where to find the door. And your two sidekicks can wait outside with their dog. I don’t allow no sticky fingers in my shop.”

Kennan motioned to Divana and Runner. “Wait for me outside the door. I won’t be long.” He returned his attention to the shopkeeper. “How much for the blue gown?”

“Fifty pieces of eight.”

“Fifty?” Kennan guffawed. “That’s thievery.”

“’Tis the price of conducting business in the islands. Ye want it or nay?”

There were a hundred items or more that would cost a penny or less, including a basket full of shiny stones right beside his hand. But Divana wouldn’t be wearing breeches for the rest of her days. When the time came to reveal her true identity, it would be delightful to see her in such a gown—red hair, eyes made bluer by the color of the fabric. “Aye, wrap it up,” he said, tossing a handful of coins on the board.

The money immediately disappeared somewhere below the counter. Kennan watched as the man retrieved the dress from the nail on the wall. “What can you tell me about Jackson Vane?”