Dear Peter,

Here's some advice for when you get older: the key to a girl's heart usually lies in a package deal. Take her to see the sunset, and that's fine. But if you throw in a bottle of wine and a fluffy blanket, and who knows.

Or maybe that's just me. God, Peter. I'm such a sucker for a nice sunset, and you know me and wine. Peach Chianti. Mm.

Robin says I'm gonna die prematurely because my liver hates me. Or I hate my liver. Or something. Sorry, I'm a little hungover, if you can't tell. Probably not good after just breaking from the worst fever of my life . . .

Anyways, as far as I remember, nothing too crazy happened last night. According to Robin, we both got drunk and cried a lot and pretty much ended up sobbing and kissing on the quarterdeck. Not the worst way to spend a Friday night, I guess.

The point of this story is, this whole "friends" thing isn't working. Robin and I talked about it a couple minutes ago, and we came up with a solution. It isn't perfect, and I don't like it, but he's right: it's the only way to keep from hurting each other.

Robin thinks we should just stop seeing each other altogether. He'll sail on his ship, I'll sail on mine, and we won't see any of each other at all.

Peter, why did I agree to that? I know it's the right thing to do, or whatever, but it's just . . . unimaginable. I can't bear to think of letting him go when he's so close. I have him right in the palm of my hand, Peter, and I'm about to throw him away.

But here's what you have to understand: every time I kiss him, every time I talk to him or touch him or even think about him, I get this crushing sense of guilt that almost overrides every other feeling I have for him. I can't stop thinking about how much I've hurt him, and how all he's ever given me in return was love.

I don't know how he could love a wretch like me. Honestly, all I give him is pain. It's better that I just stay away.

I will miss him, without a doubt. In fact, I miss him already. We decided that we'll cut ties once we get back to the Gulf, but for now, he's still mine. I think I'm going to go hold him for a little while until the rest of the crew wakes up.

Hmm. Well, I have the rest of my life to miss Robin. Right now, I miss you. Can't wait to see you when we get back!

Love you as always,

-Aunty Olive xoxo

XXX

Amelia squeezed her eyes shut, trying no to let tears escape as Marco looked at her.

She felt like a painting, hung in wait of critique and inspection. How had this happened, that suddenly her entire worth hinged upon what this one boy thought of her pale, made-up exterior? He wavered in front of her as tears distorted her vision. She blinked them back.

Mateo was tall and well-built with a face very similar to his father's. His nose fell in a sharp slope and his jaw was firm and square. He had a mess of downy black hair on his head but was clean shaven on his face.

He looked from her to his father and back again.

"Go on," prompted Mateo.

The boy held out a hand. "May I have this dance?"

She took his hand. What else could she do? He helped her down the steps and into the throng of dancers who immediately cleared to make room for them. The band paused, striking up chords to a new song. Marco set his hand on her hip, nodding for her to put hers on his shoulder. The music began.

Marco took a step and Amelia followed, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. His breath was warm against her neck, his hand all too real on her hip. His hair flickered over her ear like a feather whenever he turned his head.

She could feel dozens of eyes upon them, scrutinizing their every movement. Mateo seemed just as nervous as she was; he kept readjusting his hands on her as if afraid to be caught dancing wrong. Amelia could feel his hand shaking against her waist.

Amelia didn't want to be with him right now. She wished she was back in the other room with Peter. Her lips still buzzed from the kiss. Deep in the pit of her stomach, buried beneath all the fear and anxiety, were little waves of happiness lapping at her ribcage. They begged for her attention, throwing themselves against her stomach. But she couldn't focus on them now. She could be happy later. At the moment, she needed to devote her energy to this dance.

She had a sinking feeling that messing this up could lead to dire consequences.

Amelia's mind wouldn't stop reeling. She kept imagining Peter, her poor, tired, broken, bloody Peter, finding his way here and watching them, his face wrought with betrayal. She knew he couldn't be watching but still felt compelled to shout, "I didn't want to!"

But what if this was it? What if this really was really the end of the line for Amelia? The rest of her life could be this -- Marco and pirates and dances and uncomfortable makeup.

She didn't want to entertain the idea. No, one way or another she would get out of this.

"Watch your feet."

Amelia shivered, startled by Mateo's voice. She had only heard it once when he had asked if she would dance with him. Now, right against her ear, it sounded different, smoother, deeper. "W-what?" she said.

"Your feet," he repeated. He was whispering, barely moving his lips. "Papa's watching, you had best keep your steps clean."

"Oh, sorry." She hadn't realized she had slipped out of the dazed three step she'd been leaning on this whole time. Now, she didn't see to be able to get back into it.

Mato pulled back a little, just enough that she could see the edge of a smile on his face. "It's okay," he said. "Just relax. Let me lead."

Only, he never had a chance to.