When Francisco stepped out of the café, the salty breeze of Kingston brushed past him. Elizabeth was waiting by the street, her pistol holstered but her posture as sharp as ever.
"It was hard," she said, "but I convinced the governor that traveling with you was in my best interest. And I confirmed something important—the viceroy's plan was Ezpeleta's own initiative, not an order from the Spanish Crown. The governor's already sent a warning to him: if anything happens to you or me, the British will treat it as if Spain killed us. Of course," she added dryly, "London won't go to war over one agent—but it should keep him cautious."
Francisco smiled with relief. "That's good news. I feared it might be a royal command. This gives my grandfather some room to stir trouble."
They exchanged a knowing look, and Francisco asked, "Do you know anyone who could turn this Chinese silk into a dress for Catalina?"
Elizabeth examined the cloth, running her fingers across the shimmering threads. "It's fine work—though I've seen better. Still, for your rank, it's impressive. I have a friend in London who deals with such fabrics. Once we arrive, I can introduce you."
Francisco nodded, though unease flickered in his eyes. "Is it safe to go to London? I'm worried about running into their navy—their main fleet's there."
Elizabeth smirked mischievously. "Are you scared?" She stepped in front of him, eyes glinting. "Don't worry. The Governor already sent a fast ship ahead to warn London about our arrival. Even if we cross paths with the Royal Navy, they'll let us through."
Francisco hesitated. "May I ask you something?"
"You can ask," Elizabeth said, arching a brow, "but I don't promise an answer."
Francisco smiled faintly as they walked through Kingston's noisy streets. "It's just curiosity. What do you think makes a good country?"
The question stopped her cold. After a pause, she gestured toward a nearby tavern. "Let's get a drink first. That's not a simple question."
Inside, smoke and sweat thickened the air. White men laughed loudly, harassing the black servants while the bartender pretended not to see. Francisco's discomfort was obvious—he was about to suggest leaving when Elizabeth acted first.
She drew her pistol and fired a shot into the ceiling. The laughter died instantly. One heavyset man toppled from his chair as others scrambled for their weapons.
Elizabeth slammed her token onto the counter and shouted, "You worthless bastards! I'm here on the Crown's service. Unless you want to be hanged as traitors, get out!"
The men exchanged nervous glances. One started to laugh—until his friend caught sight of the token and went pale. He leaned close and whispered, "It's real."
The color drained from the first man's face. Elizabeth smiled, but her grin carried the chill of a drawn blade. "What were you going to say?" she asked, leveling her pistol at him. "Go on—everyone's listening."
"N-nothing, miss," he stammered. "We're leaving."
They fled, tripping over each other to reach the door. Elizabeth turned her pistol toward the bartender, whose hand trembled on his own weapon. "Bring your best ale and food," she ordered. "And prepare a room for us."
Francisco raised a brow. "One room?"
She tilted her head. "I thought you didn't understand English."
"I do when it's that easy," he said dryly.
Elizabeth smirked. "How convenient. Don't worry—I'm not going to eat you."
He rolled his eyes but made a mental note to sleep on the floor. They sat, mugs in hand, as the tension ebbed.
Elizabeth spoke first. "Honestly, your question is hard to answer—especially for me."
"Why?" Francisco asked.
She stared into her drink. "Because I was an orphan. My mother died south of the Thames—she was a prostitute. My father…" she sighed, "was a noble who couldn't control himself.
I grew up on the streets after she died. The brothel threw me out when I was ten. I couldn't even bury her—some men just carried her off to be burned, and no one looked at me twice. Truth is, I was never her beloved child. She hated me. Carrying me kept her from working for six months, and that debt to the brothel ruined her. Every day she reminded me of it—how I'd cost her freedom, her money, and her body. I think she only kept me alive out of spite."
Francisco frowned. "But if your father was a noble, couldn't she have used that to get money?"
Elizabeth chuckled darkly. "If she had known who he was, maybe. But he never gave his name, and she never asked. Ignorance runs deep in the gutter."
She took another long drink. "So, I learned early how to survive—stealing, fighting, even killing if I had to. Compassion got you killed. Then, when I was ten, he found me—by accident. He'd gone back to the same brothel, looking for my mother. When he asked about her, the Madam told him she'd died, but mentioned a girl about my age. He made the connection.
He searched for me and, when he finally saw me, he must've realized I'd never live a peaceful life. Maybe he felt guilt, or maybe he just wanted to get rid of a mistake—but he'd heard the Crown was recruiting and training intelligence agents from a young age. So he sent me there.
Francisco listened quietly.
"That's why it's hard for me to answer what makes a great nation," she said, pouring herself another drink. "Most of my life has been about surviving. As long as I have food, money, and a job, the rest feels like someone else's story."
Francisco thought for a moment. "You could say I'm preparing for the future."
She raised an eyebrow. "Planning to rebel against the Crown?"
Francisco smiled but didn't say anything at first. Then, quietly, he said, "The truth is, being here made me start wondering what makes a country good. Spain was once a hegemon, yet neither the colonies nor Spain itself seem truly happy—then or now. So maybe colonization failed in spirit, even if it succeeded on paper.
"Then I looked at Britain. For a moment, I thought perhaps efficiency—the precision of a machine—was what made it strong. But then I saw the slaves, the suffering, and realized… no. Maybe for a few it's a great country, but for the majority—the slaves, the mulattoes—this place might as well be hell. So I keep asking myself, what truly makes a good nation?"
Elizabeth studied his face, fascinated. A faint blush rose to her cheeks before she quickly hid it, lifting her mug and downing what remained. "Then," she said softly, setting it back on the table, "I hope you find your answer."