“Not at all,” said I. “I am prepared to be your faithful servant, but before you present me to your father, there’s something you should know. I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

“What, you’re not the deposed King of England, what once shagged a holy woman through a hole in a wall?”

I had shared some of my history with the girl, much of it while in the delirium of fever, but nothing about my previous tenure in Venice. Well, I didn’t know her, did I? A gentleman does not begin a conversation with a young lady he’s just met by saying, “Oh, well, I’ve been having it off with the fish girl while buried alive in the senator’s cellar, and you?”

“No, that bit’s true,” said I. “But I am not, actually, a troubadour who was shipwrecked while on my way to entertain the seventh Earl of Bumsex.”

“You don’t say? That would explain the chains we chiseled off you, then? Why, yes, that makes sense, now, doesn’t it?” She scratched her head and looked out at the sky, as if receiving a revelation from the heavens. As lovely as she was, sarcasm did not wear well on her. Still, she was a bright girl, and in our short time together we had built a bond of petty resentments that usually takes a lifetime to develop. She turned to me then. “Pocket, I am inconsolable in my disappointment.”

“And there are men in Venice who would do me great harm if they knew I was alive.”

“Is it because you’re a shit?”

“I’m not a shit.”

“Then why do they want to do you harm?”

“I have been unfairly judged.”

“Over what have you been unfairly judged?”

“I know not, for many have said that I am charming and kind.”

“Really? Many have said that?”

I nodded, woe sloshing heavily upon my brow. “Unjust suffering and horrendous hardship have been inflicted upon me, for little to no reason.”

“I know, I know.” She patted my hand. “It brings water to my eyes when you talk of your dear Cordelia. I hope that my Lorenzo loves me that much someday. So why do these fellows want to hurt you?”

“For merely doing what I was tasked to do by my queen.”

“It’s because you’re a shit, isn’t it?” Still a compassionate tone and the reassuring pat on the hand.

“No, it’s—I—the evil that men do—” Oh bugger all. “Yes, it’s because I’m a shit.”

“There, there, Pocket.”

“But a shit in the name of the crown!” I added, queen, country, and St. Bloody George implied in my voice.

“Though a shit nonetheless.”

“The only difference between a pirate and a privateer is a flag, you know?”

“Do you have a flag?”