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away restlessly.
    Pete did not seek to return it; Cudro shifted uncomfortably on my other side.
    Striker frowned in the awkward silence. “What is it, Will?”
    I could think of no way to explain that did not entail things I did not wish to discuss with them at the moment. I cast back along the conversation, seeking some purchase to pull myself clear of the sudden mire, and found only slippery slopes. I gave up, deciding the other side might offer more promise.
    “We should decide where we are all to weather the storm,” I said.
    Striker cocked his head at the sudden turn of topic, and then looked to what could be seen of the eastern horizon along the hills.
    “I share the Bard’s thoughts on it,” he said. “It is too late in the season to be a hurricane. It’s just a storm.”
    My thoughts were now as dark and roiling as the unseen clouds toward which we peered. I wished to be away. “Be that as it may – and I do hope you are all correct – but I feel I should return to my abode.”
    “Will he be there?” Striker asked, alert for whatever I might reveal.
    I sighed. “I do not know. I hope he will arrive because of the storm.”
    “How long since you’ve seen him?” Striker asked with a gentler tone.
    “Ten days or so,” I muttered at the sand.
    Pete sighed, and I glanced up in time to find him shaking his head sadly at Striker.
    “So tell me,” I said with as much quiet jocularity as I could muster.
    “What do you all discuss in town betwixt opportunities to brawl?”
    Striker chuckled. “The two of you.”
    “I am glad we serve at least some purpose,” I said without rancor.
    “Amusing one’s fellows may be considered laurel-worthy in certain circumstances.”
    “Not out of amusement,” Striker said sadly.
    “Then in sober contemplation on how fortunate it is not to be us.” I smiled with equal melancholy.
    “That’dBe Closer,” Pete said with a thoughtful nod, and then his face split in a grin and he returned his arm to my shoulder to shake me mercilessly. When he relented, his eyes met mine and the shadow of ageless wisdom overtook him. “Many Wish They Loved Another So.”
    I nodded thoughtfully. Though my reason wished to refute him, my heart found peace in the sentiment and clung to it. He rubbed my stubbly scalp and pressed a hard kiss to my forehead before releasing me roughly. Striker and Cudro regarded me with kind amusement.
    “All who know you, worry,” Striker said. “Those that don’t know you are not allowed to discuss it about those that do.”
    I found that interesting, and reassuring as to the quality of my friends, but it did make me wonder what was said that they sought to silence. Not enough to ask of it, though.
    “Thank you,” I said solemnly. “You need not worry too much, though. He will return as he always does, and someday he will recover sufficiently to return to town and sea.”
    “By the New Year?” Striker asked.
    I frowned.
    He continued, “Morgan wishes to raid late this winter. He’s calling for all interested to meet him in the cays of Cuba. Pierrot and I – and Savant, another French captain – wish to provision before that. Morgan believes in taking what’s needed from the Spanish. I believe ’tis best to have food about while waiting for the Spanish to show.”
    “We’ll be raiding towns.” Cudro grinned. “Don’t have to wait.”
    “Hungry men make bad decisions,” Striker said.
    “I would concur with that,” I said. “Does Morgan not feel this way?”
    “Morgan feels hunger makes men brave,” Striker sighed.
    I shook my head with bemusement. “I would think there is a vast difference between bravery and desperation.”
    “If there is, I’ve never seen truly brave men,” Striker said thoughtfully.
    “Truly?” I asked. “So all men you have been in battle with have been desperate?”
    “In some manner.” He nodded. “But I’d rather they be desperate for gold than victuals.”
    “Ah.” I pondered it, and changed