“Someone killed him,” Nicolas says, barely able to get the words out. “Someone locked him in this room and nailed shut the door and...” His entire body shakes with rage as he pushes to his feet. “I will kill whoever did this. I swear that to you, Andrés. I will find him, and I will kill him.”
There is satisfaction on Andrés’s face. The satisfaction of knowing he is mourned, and of knowing someone vows revenge. After a moment, though, he shakes his head. He looks at me and shakes it again, mouthing no.
“He says no,” I say. “I think he means he does not wish you to kill his murderer but only to bring him to justice. Is that it, Andrés?”
The boy nods. He makes a motion, as if putting a rope around his neck.
“He wants his killer to hang,” I say. “Let him die as he should, branded a murderer.”
“How did it happen?” Nicolas asks, looking in Andrés’s direction as he helps me to my feet. “Did you return from York? Were you looking for me? You must have come here to fetch something from your quarters. Was someone on the ship? Not me. You know that, do you not? It was not me.” His eyes round in horror. “You did not think it was me.”
Andrés shakes his head emphatically.
“No,” I say. “He did not. Is Nicolas right, Andrés? You returned from York to fetch something and—”
The ship lurches. For a moment, I think Andrés has attacked again. Nicolas falls against me, and I gasp, catching him even as I slam into shelves behind me. Then the ship jolts again, and I see Andrés standing where he has been the entire time, his head tilted as if listening to something above.
I hear it then. A low moan, followed by a scraping sound.
“Wh-what’s happening?” I say as Nicolas rights himself and helps me do the same. “Is the ship collapsing?”
“It is not in such disrepair as that.” His gaze sweeps the room. “Andrés? Would you do me a favor, please? We cannot safely leave this room in case the ship moves again. Would you see what is happening?”
The boy takes off, half-running and half-flying, through the door and then gone. An ominous creak sounds from somewhere in the belly of the ship. Then an odd flapping noise that has Nicolas’s head jerking up.
“Is that a sail?” I say. “Did we knock one loose in our climb? Is the ship fighting against her moorings?”
“It takes more than a nudge to break a sail free, chérie. Yet it does sound like one. And it feels...”
He braces his feet as if testing. Beneath my boots, the floor seems to sway. It’s barely noticeable until I try to take a step and my knees wobble.
“Are we moving?” I say.
“Yes, that is what I was just thinking. It has been a long time since I have been at sea, and I thought I might be mistaken, but no, we seem to be moving.”
“How is that possible?”
“I have no idea.”
Andrés reappears, his face animated for the first time since I’ve seen him. He glances about wildly. His gaze lands on something, a slate with chalk. His slate for communication.
The sight pokes at me, saying something is wrong, very wrong, something I was already working out. I cannot pursue it, though. Not when something far more critically important is far more critically wrong.
Andrés turns from the slate, which will do him no good in his current form.
“The ship is unmoored, non?” Nicolas says when I ask what Andrés has seen.
He’s right—without that slate, Andrés must be asked questions answered in the affirmative or negative.
This one is affirmative.
“It is,” I say quickly for Nicolas. “The ship has ripped from its moorings? Broken from its anchor?”
Andrés shakes his head.
“Breaking from the anchor is not possible,” Nicolas says. “The chain is too thick, and I check it regularly. If it is undone, someone has undone it. Someone has raised the anchor.”
Andrés nods emphatically.