Francisco looked at his father with a quiet sadness. The morning light caught the edges of Carlos's gray hair, and for a moment it shimmered like frost. Six years would stretch between them now. This man had raised him and Isabella after their mother's death—had been the steady rock that kept their grief from swallowing them. The thought of leaving him made Francisco's chest tighten, as though a band had drawn around his ribs.
Carlos watched his son and sighed. The room smelled faintly of tobacco and old wood polish. "Son, I'm proud of the life you'll lead, but don't forget where your home is."
"Don't worry, Father," Francisco said, forcing a smile that wavered at the corners. "This is only goodbye for a while. We'll see one another again in a few years. Look after Isabella and the estate while I'm away. And—more importantly—look after yourself. You've spent the last seventeen years looking after me; it's time you look after you."
They embraced. Francisco felt the rough wool of his father's coat under his palms, the faint tremor in the older man's shoulders. Neither spoke—the quiet filled with the ticking of a distant clock and the smell of rain against the window. When they finally parted, Carlos said, voice rough with feeling, "Go. When you return, I'll do what I can to make sure you and Catalina can be together without trouble."
Francisco nodded, puzzled but not pressing the point. He knew nothing changed overnight; laws and customs were stubborn. His father's promise felt like a seed—small, hopeful, uncertain it would grow.
With Ramiro leading, Francisco and Catalina gathered their bundles and moved for the door. The boards creaked beneath their boots. A single knock broke the silence, sharp as a musket crack. Everyone froze. Francisco opened the door to find one of Elizabeth's men standing in the dim passage, rain beading on his coat.
"Sir," the man said softly, his breath misting in the cold air, "I was sent by Miss Elizabeth to help you escape."
Francisco's eyes narrowed. "Is there anything besides a word of hers that proves it?"
The man produced a collar—worn leather threaded with a small carved charm. Candlelight caught its edges, and Francisco recognized it instantly. It was the same charm Elizabeth had worn at the viceroy's banquet. For a heartbeat no one moved; then the other agents inside the house relaxed, the tension sighing out of the air.
"Are you ready?" the man asked.
"We were planning to leave before you arrived," Francisco said.
"I expected as much. Listen—this is not as simple as slipping away on foot. The viceroy's men are watching the streets. If you walk out, they will see you. That could compromise Miss Elizabeth."
Francisco frowned. "Why would the viceroy's men be a danger if they merely see us?"
Carlos stepped forward, voice cold as tempered steel. "They want to kill my son, don't they?"
The messenger startled, then nodded. The lamplight flickered against the sharp lines of his face as he spoke. He explained how Elizabeth had sent him to uncover a traitor within the viceroy's circle—a man selling information to the French—and how that search had led to something far darker: a conspiracy to sink the ship that would have carried Francisco and Elizabeth, leaving the French to take the blame.
A chill crawled up Francisco's spine. The room suddenly felt smaller. "I've tried to be cautious," he said bitterly, "even reckless at times, but I never expected the viceroy to mark me for death."
Carlos's jaw tightened. "That bastard dared to mess with my son." His voice rose, low and dangerous. "Perhaps I must remind him that bastard or not, I was raised under a duke's wing—trained alongside soldiers who have fought across the world."
"Not now, Father," Francisco said, alarmed.
Carlos chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "Don't worry, son. I won't start a war with the viceroy today. But from this moment I will lend what aid I can to those who favor independence."
Francisco stared, hearing the rain drum harder against the roof. His father's declaration—an open break from the Crown—felt like the world shifting beneath his feet.
"Then speak with the Lozanos," Francisco said suddenly. "They've been debating whom to name as leader among our family. I'm too young, and they once offered it to you. I refused before—because you were loyal to the Crown and would not accept. But you might fit. At least until I return."
Carlos glanced toward the palace's shadow through the rain-streaked window, then back at his son. "We'll discuss it later. For now—go." His smile was faint, but his eyes burned with resolve.
Francisco nodded and followed the messenger's plan.
They seized a carriage bound for the port—an audacious, silent act that left the startled driver blinking in the dark. The wheels rattled over cobblestones slick with drizzle, horses steaming in the night air. Francisco, Catalina, and the servants were packed into a cluster of empty aguardiente barrels used for shipping to Cádiz—the same barrels his family's distillery made for the duke. The scent of molasses and sugar clung to the wood; the faint ghost of alcohol bit at their throats.
At the quay, mist rolled off the water. The barrels were loaded onto the Lucía and stowed among the cargo. The planks groaned as the tide shifted beneath them. Ramiro took the helm, his steps uneven from breathing too much of the fumes; the sweetness of the casks had gone straight to his head.
Elizabeth stood by the rail, her coat whipping in the salt wind. "It seems you enjoyed the journey already—you even managed to drink your way into the hold," she teased.
Francisco glared, his voice muffled by exhaustion. "Why use full barrels? Why not empty casks or boxes? You could have spared us this farce."
She shrugged, a quick glint of mischief in her eyes. "Because I thought it would be funny."
Catalina and Francisco squeezed into a barrel together, their knees knocking against the damp wood. The air inside was thick—sweet, alcoholic, and warm—and every breath carried the taste of sugarcane. Ramiro, swaying on his feet, tried to shout orders through the haze. The first mate, sober and grim, took over with the weary patience of a man holding a storm at bay.
"It could go wrong if the captain's drunk," Francisco muttered, resting his head against Catalina's shoulder. The deck creaked beneath them, and outside, the harbor bells tolled softly through the fog. The mingled scents of salt, tar, and aguardiente filled his lungs as the ship began to stir toward the open sea.
The sea breeze carried the sting of salt and the faint promise of rain as La Lucía slipped free from the dock, her hull sighing against the waves. The ropes groaned, sails snapping open with a low thunder that rippled through the masts. Francisco climbed to his feet, swaying with the ship's first true roll, and stepped beside Elizabeth near the rail.
"So," he said, breaking the silence, "are we sailing to Cuba like before?"
Elizabeth turned toward him, her eyes glinting in the lanternlight. "Cuba?" she repeated with a half-smile. "No. That would be suicide. The viceroy's eyes are fixed on every Spanish port in the Caribbean. If we went there, we'd be trapped before dawn."
She lifted a gloved hand, pointing toward the invisible east. "We'll go first to Jamaica. The British will give us safe passage—or at least won't ask questions. From there, we'll ride the Gulf currents north toward Florida. The flow of the sea will carry us faster than sails alone. Once past the coast, we turn east for England."
Francisco frowned slightly. "But Florida belongs to Spain, doesn't it?"
"It does," she said, the wind pulling strands of hair loose around her face. "That's why we won't stop. The fleet there answers to the viceroy of Mexico, not New Granada. He won't act just because another viceroy gives the order. And honestly—" she paused, her gaze on the dark horizon—"I doubt this plan even comes from the Crown, though I can't be sure."
Francisco rested his hand on the rail, feeling the cool spray of the waves. "Then… we're sailing into the unknown."
Elizabeth smiled faintly. "For you, perhaps. For me, just another gamble."
He let out a quiet breath. The smell of tar, salt, and wet rope filled his lungs. "Then let's hope fortune favors us both."
Above them, the sails cracked in the wind. The ship tilted forward, chasing the moon's reflection across the black water—and the lights of Cartagena faded behind them, swallowed by the sea.