Dear Peter,

I think it's time I told you a little bit about The Encantador.

I don't like dragging these memories to the surface, Peter, but I'm going to. Heather and I made a deal. We decided we'd both write about what happened, and once we're done, we're going to talk about it. Obviously, what happened on The Encantador really affected both of us. We haven't talked about it, and I think it's made both of us very angry and a little strained with each other. It was a horrible experience, and honestly? I think we may be taking out our anger about it on each other.

There's something about being dehumanized that makes it hard to come back from. When you're treated like an object, it makes you feel . . . like you don't have any right to be human at all, I guess. Like you belong to someone else, whether you like it or not, and you are no longer an individual. You exist, but you aren't allowed to live.

On The Encantador, Heather and I were treated like property. They pushed us around, starved us and handled us like we were toys. They hurt me like it was a game.

I don't think I've ever been in that much pain for so long. They did everything they could think of to hurt me -- they hit me and kicked me and beat me until I fell to my knees. They pulled my hair, ripped my clothes, shoved me into walls. They called me names and threw things at me and tempted me with food only to snatch it away a moment later.

One night, they sent Heather back to our cell, and took me up to the deck for a new one of their sick games. Araya's first mate, a man they called Sangre (Robin says that means "Blood" in Spanish) tied me to the mast. I have scars on my stomach from the thick twine rubbing against my ribs.

He put a knife to the base of my neck. The crewmen watched, cackling as he leaned toward me, putting his face right in front of mine. He said, with a breathy, accented voice, that if I didn't kiss him, he would kill me.

Peter, I was terrified. I couldn't have kissed him even if I wanted to, I was so paralyzed with fear. He drove the knife into my skin, drawing blood. I began to scream, kicking against the bonds. And you know what he did? He laughed. He cut me again, across my collarbone this time, and repeated his order.

He kissed me anyway. It felt dirty and heavy on my lips, like a layer of filth. I don't know how many pirates kissed me that night, but I do know that when it was over, I wanted to die.

I felt like I might be dead already. Robbed of my dignity and everything else that made me human, I just . . . wanted to give up. I didn't think I could ever feel alive again.

In the beginning, James helped. For the first day or two, I thought of him to console myself. He'll rescue you, I told myself. He loves you. But soon, that stopped working, too. I felt abandoned.

Robin kept me alive, I think. He held me while I cried at night. He has never hurt me or made me do anything I didn't want to do. And at a time when I was made to feel like an object, he treated me like a human. Like I was the most beautiful girl in the world, even though I felt like a pile of crap with a face. Hmm. I think I might love him, Peter. I don't know. It's too soon to know . . .

But then again, it's never really too soon to know. I knew with James after just a week. And you know what? I don't believe what they say about young love. No matter how young you are, Peter, falling in love is always possible.

I need to go collect myself. It almost time for dinner. We should be in Canada tomorrow, so I'm expected to look happy.

        Goodnight,

                 -Aunty Olive xxxx

XXX

Peter woke up with a metallic taste in his mouth. Blood, for sure. He tried to make a noise -- nothing came out.

He blinked in the darkness, or tried to. One eye opened, the other didn't. It was the left this time, not the right one that Robin had punched. The right remained swollen enough that he only saw a little slit of darkness through it.

His wrists ached. So did his shoulders and his face. Peter tried to move his arms, but something held him back. Startled by the resistance, he gave a little whimper. Where was he? He couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything but his own ragged breathing. He could only feel the hard, gritty floor beneath him and something metal on his arms.

Chains. Giving one last tug, he heard the chink of metal links scraping against each other. His heart sped up, trying to crawl up his throat. He felt like he might throw up.

The last thing he remembered was the crash. The ceiling collapsing, beams and planks falling over him. He remembered Amelia crumpling to the ground under the weight of the rubble. Remembered reaching out for her, remembered letting go.

He realized with a pang that he had no way of finding out if his friend was okay. Poor Amelia -- was she just as scared and alone as he was? It pained him to think of her shackled to the wall, bleeding and unable to speak.

He could taste the gag in his mouth, through the blood. For a panicky moment, his mouth filled with the thick liquid. With no way to spit it out, he feared he would choke. Instead, he swallowed it down.

His face felt heavy. No matter how long he stared into the darkness, his eyes did not adjust.

He closed them, taking a deep breath through his nose. The air smelled of blood and something like sulfur. Peter gagged, swallowing another mouthful of blood. He felt like crying, but his eyes were bone dry.

The Encantador. He was on The Encantador.

Words from his Aunt's journal flashed across his mind. He'd been kidnapped, same as her. Was he going to be tortured and violated like her as well? Was he going to blindly wait for rescue until Robin bothered to save him?

With all the dozens of pirates on The Aceituna, how had none of them managed to prevent this? Or saved Amelia, at least. He thought of Olivia's story about the first mate who tied her to the mast. What if they were torturing Mel right now?

If he could, he would have sighed. They shouldn't have run away. It had all seemed so exciting and adventurous -- just the two of them, striking out on their own, sailing the seven seas to recover the lost Fina. Now, he could see that he'd been stupid.

That's no way to think, said a voice in his head. It was someone familiar, someone he knew well. You're a pirate, now. There's no turning back.

Peter had heard Olivia's voice in his head before. She came an went, hiding in shallow corners of his mind, whispering things every so often. She offered encouragement, sometimes. Others, she gave only a nonsensical line or a suggestion. A short chuckle at one of his thoughts, on occasion. He heard her weeping up there, most often. She cried and night, most of the time, and kept him awake.

There was another voice, too. The other one was masculine, accented in a way that reminded Peter of a pungent perfume. The man, he whispered too. But he didn't offer encouragement. He woke deep dark webs of words, sticky nets that spun themselves into Peter's poems. He didn't know who the man was, but he was always there. He spoke only rarely, but Peter could always feel his presence in the back of his head.

He'd mentioned the two of them to Amelia once. She'd threatened to tell Mrs. Barnes, so he told her he'd been joking.

The two of them got to arguing occasionally, and it hurt like hell. But for the most part, they kept to themselves.

He bit down on the gag, releasing a dry sob. Maybe he was a pirate now, but damn did he wish he could turn back.