Charlestown was burning.

Ash was everywhere, floating through windows whose buildings were empty of occupants—those who had earlier fled in terror, scattering in the streets seeking safety from the cannons and gunshot. It drifted through the upstairs windows of the governor's mansion, where Lord Peter's daughter Abigail sat at the pianoforte, picking out the same note over and over again.

Though she trembled, vaguely, with each cannon blast, her finger on the key did not falter.

A man shouted below, near the window, but men had been shouting for most of the afternoon, and Abigail did not move. She held her back straight, aided by the corset pressing against her ribs, and played the note again, fingernails ticking against the ivory. But then came the pounding of feet on the stairs, and she shrank back on the bench, her hand falling from the keys as the room doors were flung open, sending particles of newly settled dust skittering up in a miniature maelstrom.

She gripped the edge of the bench and stared at the revealed intruder. One of Captain Flint's pirates, Billy—the man she'd asked him about only a day or so before. Cutlass in one hand, soot on his face (which bore an expression of angry disbelief), he demanded—"What the hell are you still doing here?"

She was unable to form words into any sensible reply, though she attempted, but all that happened was her mouth opened, soundlessly.

He crossed over to her side and crouched by the bench. She stared into his blue eyes, rapt by the discovery that the initial irritation in them had vanished and only earnestness remained. "Miss Ashe," he said, and his voice was more gentle now. "You can't stay here. It's not safe. Where can I take you?"

"There is nowhere," she answered, and to her horror she felt tears beginning to well up because she had just realized it was true. It was all true, though until now she had, perhaps, been imagining it was a dream, much like her dreams of having been kidnapped. But Miranda Barlow had been murdered, and her own father's actions felt like a betrayal. Her father, who might also be dead. Who might deserve it. "Have you seen my father?"

Billy rose and reached for her hand. "Come with me." It was less command than request, and that made her want to comply—made her feel, ridiculously, as if she would be safe in the company of this strapping outlaw.

Ladies did not take the hands of strange gentlemen; he was no gentleman, but no stranger either, though she'd only known him from the short voyage from Nassau to South Carolina.

He hadn't been rough and loud like the others. His eyes were so innocent; she could perceive no venality in them. Yet he had killed before. How many? She didn't know.

She put her hand, oddly cold on this warm day, into his.

His fingers enclosed hers completely. He gave her a slight, reassuring smile.

She followed as he led the way across the soot-flecked floor and down the curved staircase. At the front door leading to the street he paused, halting in the foyer. "There another way out?"

Abigail mutely pointed down the hall in the direction of the servants' entrance. As they neared the smaller exit, Billy belted his cutlass and withdrew the flintlock, a weapon she'd seen many of his crewmates carrying, before kicking the door outwards. Smoke swept in, and Abigail fumbled for a handkerchief, putting it up to cover her face as they passed through.

His hand was tight around hers as he pulled her along the narrow alley. The surroundings were unfamiliar to her as she had never been allowed to wander alone away from the house, but she could scarcely register anything beyond the piercing light, dust and smoke. He urged her along as fast as she could manage, yet Abigail stumbled often, hampered by her skirts and the heels on new boots never intended for flight.

Billy paused momentarily where two streets met to reveal a glimpse of the sun-glistening harbor water beyond, and the sails of a ship. Abigail suddenly realized what he had in mind. "Where are you taking me?" she said, just to confirm, even as her breath caught in her throat.

"Only place there is," he answered, looking rather desperate. Looking sorry. "Back on board."

"I cannot." Her mind swam, searching for something to cling to, a truth, even just a mere possibility, an alternate suggestion he might accept. A lie? The trouble was she so rarely had the occasion to invent falsehoods for self-preservational purposes, he would see through it the moment she opened her mouth.

"There's nothing left for you here," he said, waiting for her contradiction. When it didn't come, he persisted. "Is there?"

Thudding of soldiers' booted feet came nearer in the aftermath of yet another cannon blast. Billy pulled Abigail into another side street, behind an open shop door shielding them from sight as the others raced past. Swaying, she grabbed his forearms. He held her up effortlessly, one arm pulling her against him while holding the door with his other. With her face against his chest she smelled tar and gun-smoke and warm leather. "Captain'll call me a damn fool," he muttered, barely audibly, once the footsteps had passed out of sound away down the street.

"Look," he added then, over her head. "I'm sorry. Your father—"

"Is he dead?" she whispered.

"Aye." The single syllable was regretful.

She swallowed. She wanted to hide against his chest, behind the door, to trap the sensation of feeling safe just a moment longer. But he was already backing away, leading her into the dusty street.