"I'd like you to inform His Holiness that I am most ashamed of myself, for I have failed."
Cardinal Jean-Paul, Date Unknown.
Morning light barely touched the streets when Francis made his way toward the chapel. The air was crisp, a welcome contrast to the heavy heat in his room. He kept his pace steady, expression calm, though he couldn't shake the anxiety plaguing him.
He scanned the path ahead.
No Camila.
For a moment—an embarrassingly short one—he felt… disappointed. Then he shoved the feeling down. He needed clarity, not more chaos. And she, apparently, wasn't lying in wait to ambush him with another book and a pair of pleading eyes.
Mass itself was uneventful. The bishop delivered his sermon with the same practiced warmth, incense drifted through the rafters, and the congregation murmured their prayers. Francis bowed, stood, and crossed himself on cue, mind drifting back to Camila's breath against his neck.
By the final hymn, he was nearly convinced he would get to slip out unnoticed.
No such luck.
The moment they spilled out of the chapel doors, a familiar figure beelined toward him—moving with far too much purpose for someone who claimed to simply "enjoy reading."
Camila.
Her smile lit up the area, and Francis could feel at least a dozen pairs of eyes tracking the scene.
"Well," she said, stopping just close enough to unsettle him, "good morning."
"Morning," he replied, trying—and failing—to sound casual.
A couple of old women near the steps whispered to each other. A pair of fishermen slowed their walk just to stare. Someone actually nudged their friend.
Camila didn't seem to notice or care. She just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked at him like last night hadn't been complicated at all.
Francis cleared his throat. "You weren't there when I walked in."
She shrugged. "I overslept."
He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or concerned.
"And you came straight to me," he said quietly.
"Well, of course." She stepped a little closer, lowering her voice. "We didn't exactly finish our conversation."
A few heads turned.
Francis resisted the urge to take three steps back and sprint to the harbor.
Instead, he nodded stiffly, every muscle in his body locked between embarrassment and something softer he refused to name.
Her smile widened just a hint, far too clever for his comfort.
And around them, St. Agnes watched.
Francis cleared his throat and nodded toward the road. "Walk with me? Less… ears around."
Camila blinked, then smiled knowingly. "Alright."
They moved away from the chapel and the whispering crowd, boots tapping along the pavement. Francis kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes forward like he was marching to his own execution.
Camila waited. Patient. Too patient.
He exhaled sharply. "I thought about… things. Last night."
"I knew you would," she said, tone light but attentive.
He nodded once, stiff as a post. "And I… I do want to marry you."
Camila stopped mid-step, eyes widening—not in shock, but in a kind of quiet triumph that made his ears burn.
"Well," she said, "that's good to know."
"But," Francis blurted, nearly tripping over the word, "I'm not sure about children."
Her brows rose. "Not sure? Why not?"
He grimaced, gaze dropping to the ground. "Because I don't want to turn into my father."
Camila slowed her pace until he had no choice but to meet her eyes. He expected her to tease him, or to dismiss it entirely, but instead she listened, face calm, expression soft.
Francis swallowed. "He left. Just… left. And every time I think about the future, I picture doing something just as stupid. Running off. Or dying in some pointless raid. I don't want—" He stopped himself. "Children shouldn't have to deal with that."
Camila hummed thoughtfully. No judgment. No mockery. Just that steady attention that made him feel both exposed and strangely comforted.
"It's not the same," she finally said. "Your father had no plan. No sense. No one to lean on. You're not him."
He frowned. "You can't know that."
She bumped her shoulder lightly against his. "I do. And even if you were leaving someday—which we don't even know—you're acting like it's tomorrow. Or next week. Or that you'll just vanish." She scoffed softly. "You think too far ahead. It scares you out of living."
He looked away. "Maybe."
"Besides," she added, "I have my mother. My cousins. Half the town watching my steps. Our child wouldn't be alone. Not even close."
Francis almost choked. "'Our' child?"
Camila smiled like she hadn't just detonated his entire brain. "You asked why I wasn't worried. That's why."
He blinked at her, completely disarmed.
She wasn't naïve.
She wasn't blind.
She simply chose him anyway.
And somehow, that made it harder to breathe.
They reached the small stone building where Camila worked. She slowed, then turned to him with a soft, almost shy smile—nothing like her usual bubbly confidence.
"I'll see you later," she said, voice gentler than before.
Francis nodded, forcing composure. "Yes. Later."
She lingered for half a heartbeat with her warm, knowing eyes before slipping inside. The door shut behind her, leaving him alone.
He stood there longer than he meant to, exhaling once before finally turning toward the bar. Just another day, he told himself. Just another shift. He tried to settle back into the rhythm he'd always known.
But halfway down the path, something tugged at the corner of his vision.
He stopped.
Out toward the horizon, past the strip of docks and the morning tides, a dark shape cut through the ocean.
A ship.
Not a fishing skiff, not a merchant's tiny sloop—a real, full-rigged vessel.
His pulse kicked.
For a moment, cold panic seized him. Pirates? Now? After months of silence?
But then the wind shifted, catching the sails and pulling them broad.
White.
Not black. Not patched. Not painted with skulls or bones or any of the symbols that made blood run cold on Saint Agnes.
Francis let out a long, shaky breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
A ship. An actual ship.
And suddenly, the treasure hunt, the plan, and every excuse he'd been cobbling together collided with the reality of that white sail drifting closer and closer to shore.
Whatever happened next… was happening soon.
Francis still went to the bar, even with the excitement clawing at his ribs. Routine was an anchor, and the town only had one place worth sitting in. So he waited. Polished a few glasses. Listened to the same lazy murmurs he'd heard a thousand times before.
The newcomers didn't make him wait long.
The first pair through the door were a burly, sun-beaten duo, skin tanned hard by years at sea. Scars crawled up their arms and disappeared under mismatched shirts and half-fastened vests.
A bigger group followed—louder, rougher, the sort who carried themselves like pirates out of habit. Nothing special, except for the cut of their coats and a patch of sorts that seemed to be their uniform.
Then she stepped inside.
He didn't need an introduction to know who she was. The black tricorne gave her away first, then the long dark-blue coat that framed a white shirt and tight black trousers tucked into weathered leather boots. Her hair—a bright, golden fall—caught the light the moment she crossed the threshold. Her eyes, sharp and blue as cold morning tides, swept the room with a calm that felt practiced.
Her crew looked disheveled beside her. Almost made her seem unreal by comparison. Untouchable.
Francis felt something settle in his gut.
Privateers.
His brief paralysis broke the moment the sailors called for drinks. The voices came all at once—gruff, impatient, too many for a quiet coastal afternoon. It startled him more than he liked to admit.
The workload hit fast as coins slapped on the counter. More noise than he was used to handling alone.
For a moment, his pulse climbed. Then he caught movement at the corner of his eye—one of his coworkers sliding in behind the counter with a nod, already grabbing clean glasses.
His boss wasn't a fool, after all.
Francis exhaled and moved with the surge, letting the familiar motions steady him. The room buzzed, alive in a way it rarely was.
He wasn't given a moment of respite, however. As soon as he set down the last tankard, the captain slid onto the counter with the easy confidence of someone who'd done it a hundred times before. The wood creaked. His heart jumped—half excitement, half something closer to fear.
"So," she said. Her voice was raspy, but there was a charm threaded through it. "What can you tell me about this town?"
She didn't bother with formality. He didn't either. He launched straight into it—laying out what passed for noteworthy around here. Which wasn't much. A quiet port, a few families who'd been here longer than the buildings, a bar that doubled as a meeting hall. A shipwright who worked slowly but honestly. A priest who knew everyone's debts better than their confessions.
By the time he finished, he felt the smallness of it all. The triviality. Yet the captain listened anyway—head tilted, eyes sharp, as if even the dullest details mattered.
"Where are my manners?" the captain said, leaning forward just enough to unsettle him. "Name is Valeria. You?"