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leave the house.”
    “Nothing but trouble,” Jameson grumbled behind him, a stream of tobacco shooting from his mouth into the shrubs. “I say leave her be, Cap’n. She’s a mess o’ trouble, waiting to happen. Mark my word.”
    “I can’t help ye,” England said, looking me straight in the eyes with his steely blue ones, “if ye don’t do as I say. There are no ladies here in Nassau. Only whores. Only pirates’ women. I may not know what ye are, lass, but I know this: Ye won’t last a second here without protection. Is that plain enough?”
    I nodded. I wasn’t about to argue. I was shaken to the bone. “It’s just that… I wanted… a bath.”
    England raised an eyebrow. “How now?”
    I rubbed my face with my hands, stumbling a bit in the sand. “A bath. With soap. To get clean.”
    The men exchanged glances and England grinned. “Well, now, why didn’t ye say so to start, instead of wandering out into the rain and nearly getting yerself raped and killed?”
    “I tried… I asked Kat…” I sighed. “That was a bad idea. I’m sorry. I’m so confused… You killed that man…” I was starting to feel dizzy. Jesus, I can’t faint again. All I’d been doing since I arrived in 1718 was either puking or fainting. 1718. This was no act: I’d just watched a man die. I’d watched a pirate skewer another pirate dead with a cutlass. Dear God, was it possible? I am in 1718.
    As the sun set in a spectacular display of pink, purple, and orange over a placid, shimmering sea, the storm but a cluster of dark clouds in the distance, the men abandoned their work cleaning the hulls of several beached ships and loading cargo onto others to eat, drink, and womanize. England was watching me as we walked past the tents, the pirates laughing and cussing around their fires, mugs and bottles of ale and beer and rum in their hands. The prostitutes giggled and flirted and sat in the men’s laps, their breasts nearly tumbling from their low-cut bodices. “Ye’re not going to faint again, are ye, lass?” he asked warily, reaching for my arm. “Ye’re looking a bit pale.”
    “Nothing but a load o’ trouble,” Jameson growled, a step behind us.
    “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll be fine. I just need a bath.”
    England chuckled. “Do folk wash themselves often in 2011, then?”
    I looked at him, finally cracking a smile. “Yes. Yes. Every day. Well, most of us do.”
    Back at the house, Kat was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief. Jameson disappeared and England produced a bar of lye soap, a pitcher, and a clean rag. While my hopes of submerging myself in a bathtub were dashed, I was able to wash my face and body to a semblance of cleanliness. I rubbed a bit of soap at the roots of my hair, but didn’t bother washing it. It would have been impossible, anyway, with the amount of clean water I’d been given. This would have to do.
    England had also left a stack of dry clothes for me at the door, and this set was quite a bit finer than the worn, smelly rags Kat had given me. The gown was made of fine aquamarine silk, which was delicately beaded and embroidered in silver thread, with a petticoat of damask. The clothes smelled of lavender, and a bit of must. Pirate booty. The owner must have never worn them before they were stolen.
    As I struggled with the corset, England politely rapped on the doorframe. I was startled to see him in his finery – he wore a rich maroon knee-length coat with wide cuffs that were folded back and gold buttons that gleamed as he moved. His waistcoat and breeches were clean silk, his shoes were buckled, and he wore a large three-cornered hat on his head. Around his neck was a silk cravat, and his red hair was smoothed and tied back with a black ribbon. Best of all, he smelled a little bit less pungent, which meant he’d washed up. I noticed that, despite the sumptuous clothes, he still wore his weapons strapped to him beneath his coat.
    England caught my admiring look and