"If this letter reaches you well, I have a request to make."
Cardinal Jean-Paul, Date Unknown.
Once inside, Francis gestured toward the small bed. "Shall we continue where we left off? The tale of King Arthur and the sword in the stone?"
Camila shook her head, eyes fixed on a book with a bright, flowery cover. "No, I want this one. It looks… fun."
Francis raised an eyebrow. "That's… a romance novel."
She nodded eagerly. "Yes! I like the cover. Please?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You do realize what 'romance' actually means, don't you?"
Her grin didn't falter. "Yes. I still want it."
"Alright," he said, setting the book between them. "Let's see what chaos you've dragged me into."
Camila wrapped her hands in her lap, leaning slightly but not touching him. Her presence had its own gravity, in a way that was impossible to ignore.
Francis opened the book. The first chapter was harmless enough: two young lovers exchanging letters, stumbling through their uncertain feelings. He read aloud, voice steady, though sometimes his tone betrayed amusement at the more sentimental lines.
Camila listened with wide eyes, smiling at parts he expected her to laugh at and frowning at parts he skimmed over. "They really care about each other," she murmured as he read a passage about stolen glances by lantern light.
"They do," Francis agreed. "But they're both too scared to say anything. Happens more often than you'd think."
"Hm." She leaned closer. "Sounds familiar."
Francis nearly lost his place. "I—what?"
"Keep reading," she replied, pretending not to notice his fluster.
He cleared his throat and obeyed. The romance progressed in earnest: shy honesty, awkward confessions, hands brushing accidentally. Camila listened to every word like it was sacred scripture. Then at one point she whispered, "They're brave. They don't hide what they feel."
"They're fictional," Francis muttered. "They don't have to deal with consequences."
"You say that like people shouldn't take risks," she replied, giving him a side eye.
"I'm saying people should think," he countered. "Even about things like this."
Camila hummed, unconvinced.
They reached the end of the chapter. Francis closed the book slowly, letting the room breathe again. He expected her to hop up and ramble about the characters. Instead, she sat still, hands resting loosely on her knees.
"Tomorrow?" she asked, voice softer than before.
"Tomorrow," he echoed.
But she didn't leave. She stayed quiet for a moment, staring at the book, then lifted her gaze to him.
"Francis," she said. "Why lie to me?"
He flinched. Of all the conversations he wanted to delay forever, this one ranked high. "I… didn't want you involved."
"In what?" she pressed. "You leaving? Your plans? The sea voyage happening at any moment now?"
Francis shifted uncomfortably, facing a truth hard to swallow. "I'm not someone you should follow. I don't know where I'll end up. I don't even know if I'll be alive in a year. I can't ask you to—"
"You're not asking," she interrupted. "I'm deciding."
He looked up sharply. Her voice wasn't dramatic. It wasn't tremulous. It was simply honest.
"I care about you," she said, hands tightening briefly. "More than I probably should. And I've thought about… a future. Not anything ridiculous—just a life with you in it. A home someday. Maybe even a family, if life ever became kind enough." Her cheeks warmed a little, but she didn't look away. "I know it sounds naïve. But it's mine to want."
Francis struggled for words.
"Camila…" he whispered. "You deserve stability. I can't offer that."
"I don't need stability," she said simply. "I need honesty."
That line hit harder than he expected. He ran a hand across his face, exhaling slowly. "What if I leave soon?"
"Then I'll still choose the time I get," she said. "Even if it's short. Even if it ends with memories instead of vows."
He stared at her—truly stared. She wasn't impulsive. She wasn't childish. She wasn't caught in some infatuation. She meant every word.
And that was worth fighting for.
Camila rose to her feet, smoothing her dress. She crossed to the door but turned back with a small, knowing smile. "You underestimate me far too much, Francis."
He tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out. She gave him a playful half-bow and slipped outside, leaving the door slightly open.
For a moment, he sat in utter silence.
Then, gathering himself, he crossed the room and pushed the door fully shut. The sound felt final somehow, like drawing a boundary he wasn't sure he could maintain.
He returned to the table, where the parchment lay waiting. The shift from emotional upheaval to cold logic felt abrupt, but the familiar rhythm steadied him. He traced the coded lines with a careful finger, mumbling possibilities under his breath.
Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the faint scratch of pen on paper as he traced lines and letters, piecing together meaning. The hope of a breakthrough was slim at first. The verses still danced just beyond comprehension, teasing him with half-hidden directions and riddles.
Then, in the second hour, something caught his eye. A line—subtle, easily overlooked.
Heed and look far, what centers the green is the color of tar.
Had this been any other parchment, he might have assumed it was meaningless. But here? With everything else so meticulously coded? That had to be a clue.
His pulse quickened. Something the color of tar in a sea of green was tangible, concrete—a landmark he could verify. And more importantly, it narrowed the search significantly. Of the dozen sparsely inhabited islands in the archipelago, only three contained such a feature. Three possibilities instead of twelve.
Francis leaned back against the wall, eyes narrowing. "I better keep my mouth shut," he muttered, fingers brushing the edges of the folded parchment. Any slip, any hint to the wrong person, and the advantage could vanish.
The epiphany hit him like a wave, and only then did Francis realize how exhausted he truly was. His eyes burned while his back ached from leaning over the table for too long. He folded the parchment with care and set it beneath his pillow, then dragged himself toward the bed.
The moment he lay down, Camila's face flashed in his mind. The memory tightened something in his chest and made sleep feel impossibly far away.
He turned on his side. No use. Her voice lingered too, whispering that she would risk everything for him. That she wanted a future with him, even if it was brief. Even if it meant raising a child alone someday. That thought made him swallow hard.
They were on the same page, at least. More than he'd expected. More than he felt he deserved.
He exhaled slowly, letting the heat seep into his skin. "I really should work on my communication," he muttered under his breath—Camila would no doubt agree—then finally, as the tension leaked out of him, drowsiness crept in.