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roll in again. Pugsley trotted along behind me, nose to the ground. This time I headed in the opposite direction, back toward the bluffs behind the dock area, where the boxy fortress of Gracie O’Malley stood overlooking the harbor. As Pugsley and I navigated the path, Rosie came bounding across a field to join us, leaving her sheep behind without a backward glance. The two dogs ran circles around one another, tails wagging wildly.
    I lifted the edge of my skirt as I traipsed through the tall, wet grass surrounding the castle to a high point just behind it. There I found a spot to sit that would allow me to see our ship anchored offshore. The sight of her familiar silhouette against the brilliant blue sky and water bolstered my confidence. When I brought Father’s spyglass to my eye, our ship jumped into view. As though the Lucy P. Simmons sensed my mood, her bell began to clang, and in response, the flute in my satchel hummed. I lowered the spyglass and took up the flute. How long had it been since I’d played Mary Maude Lee’s song—the one that provided the clues about the curse? And wasn’t it appropriate, after all, to play the ballad of one pirate queen at the castle of another?
    I brought the flute to my lips and sounded the first phrase. Pugsley and Rosie tipped their heads and joined in with a strident ah-oooooh .
    As the last strain sounded, a faint puff of colorful glitter rose from the flute and followed the melody out to sea. I lowered the instrument and watched the magical mist—it was just as enthralling as it had been before, back in Maine, and throughout our voyage to Australia. Enthralling, but concerning, as it had always signaled trouble of some kind. The beguiling cloud drew my eye across the harbor toward the Lucy P. Simmons . I stood, hand above my brow, and peered at the glimmering swirl of energy now encircling our ship. Pugsley growled, a low rumbling in his throat, the hair along his back bristling. Rosie pawed my leg and whined.
    I returned the flute to my bag and gazed again into Father’s spyglass. It brought the Lucy P. Simmons into clear view, the ship now fully encased in a sheath of colorful vapor. Two other ships appeared along the horizon, both familiar. One nearly transparent, more like a mirage with a shimmering aura around it—the specter ship that had shadowed us throughout our first voyage. And then, just to the right, the unmistakable silhouette of the black ship—the one I’d first seen in Boston that had pursued us nearly all the way to Australia. The ship on which the scrappy pirate and our former mate Quaide had sailed. I’d thought, or rather hoped, we were done with the black ship and its evil mariners—after the storm that had nearly destroyed the Lucy P. My prayer had been that the black ship had really sunk, once and for all. It had been blessedly absent throughout our sail from Australia to Ireland. And now, here it was again. All my senses suddenly piqued—I could swear the energy coursing through me lifted every hair on my head.
    I stayed glued to the spot on which I stood, spyglass fixed on the unfolding scene. Both ships approached ours, the specter ship from the left, the black ship from the right. A small crew of ragged men worked the deck of the black ship. Aboard the phantom ship, bow to stern, a ghostly company of characters shone, their movements fluid, and difficult to make out, given the transparent nature of their bodies. Should I run back to the cottage and summon our group? The Lucy P. Simmons was unmanned and without protection, except for the colorful charged vapor. Would she be boarded? Pirated away? I nibbled the inside of my cheek. Once again the flute vibrated and hummed in my rucksack, initiating another rush of glittering mist that cascaded across the shore and billowed above the water until it, too, wafted around the Lucy P.
    A movement in the water caught my eye. At first I thought it was a