The coffee shop is packed, as usual. Leo's nowhere to be seen outside, which disappoints me. I kind of wanted to see how he's doing, and ask about getting together before Amelia goes back to Charleston. She'll be delighted at us starting a friendship now, after all those years pretending to battle 24-7.

The sight of the two of them at a table in front of the windows ruins the surprise but gives me pleasure all the same.

"Hey."

They look up, Amelia's green eyes sparkling and Leo breaking into a smile.

"Hey, Graciela. Why didn't you tell me your beautiful and much-more-charming cousin was visiting?"

"I've been a little busy, Leo."

I don't mean it to come off rude, but his expression sobers in the blink of an eye. "I'm sorry about your Gramps. It was a great funeral. Exactly the way I'd want to go out, with a bunch of people talking about how much better I made their lives."

"Thanks." It's amazing that even though it's only been a week I can already accept those kinds of condolences without choking up. "I'm going to get a sandwich. Be right back."

The line moves quickly since the staff has plenty of practice catering to the crush of hungry people on their lunch breaks, and I'm back at the table with chicken salad on a croissant in fewer than ten minutes. I set down my raspberry iced tea and slide into the seat between Amelia and Leo, digging in while the sound of their catching up blends in with the twenty-three other conversations bouncing off the walls.

Leo stands up before my sandwich is half gone, offering an apologetic smile. "I've got to get back to work, I'm afraid, and then bring Marcella to story time. But let's get dinner before you leave, Amelia."

"Maybe we can join Grace on one of her dates with the mayor."

The pause grows uncomfortable, and Millie shoots me a glance that says she has no idea what she said wrong. I don't, either, but it's been clear since the first day I saw Leo and Beau interact that there's some sort of weirdness between them.

"Maybe just the three of us," he amends finally, a small smile trying to undo the avoidance in his response.

He exits after gathering up assenting nods from Amelia and me, then she makes an awkward face in my direction. "What was that about?"

"I don't know. They don't like each other or something, but I keep forgetting to ask about it."

"Probably because you're too busy doing other things." Her teasing tone makes me snort, mostly because she sounds as though we're back in high school.

"It's not like that, at least not right now. I don't really know what he wants from me at the moment."

"I can tell you what he wants." She waggles her eyebrows and takes a bite of coleslaw. "Things have been awkward because of Gramps being sick and then passing. Mayor Drayton's had to play the supportive friend part, but the guy wants the starring role. I'm positive."

"I don't know."

Beau likes me, and he's attracted to me—I haven't been out of the game long enough to argue against either of those statements. But whether or not I'm the kind of girl he could ever take public remains to be seen.

"I saw him pick you up on the street this morning. Why don't you let him get you at the house instead of sneaking around?"

It's the second time today someone's accused me of sneaking around. Sheesh. "I'm not asking him for rides. He kind of keeps appearing out of thin air."

"Poor, poor Grace. I can see how inconvenient and annoying it would be to have handsome, well-connected, grown-up men offering you rides around town." She pats my hand sympathetically.

I swat her away, and we both laugh. I'm probably being silly, she's right. As usual.

"I can't believe there's nothing in the archives about Mary Read."

"She's not even from here, though, right? The journal makes it sound like her family was from Virginia." Amelia sits back, rubbing her stomach.

"I know. It was a long shot. I'm not sure she ever lived in the colonies, even."

"So, if that professor doesn't come through for you, we're back at square one."

"I can't believe they let the two of you in here, after that incident with the lemonade machine in seventh grade." It's Mel's voice that interrupts, and she bends down to pull Amelia into a hug. "How are you feeling?"

"Good, mostly. You?"

"Constantly sick to my stomach."

"Well, sit and have lunch with us! We were just lamenting the sorry state of the local archives, and also the impressive bitchiness of Grace's boss."

"You were in the archives?" Mel sits, opening the lid to her just-purchased soup, which looks like potato. She takes a whiff and blanches, then sits back and contents herself with water. Pregnancy is weird. "Amelia Cooper, pretending interest in historical documents. That I would have loved to see. Are you sure you didn't just miss whatever you were looking for?"

"Very funny. But, no. I mean yes, I'm sure."

"She was helping me with some research on local history to pass the time. No big deal." I ignore the look Amelia shoots me. It's not that I don't trust Mel, but Anne didn't come to her. She came to us.

"Was that Leo Boone eating with you guys when I came in?" Mel changes the subject, which doesn't surprise me. She and Amelia had never shared my love of the past, scary stories aside.

"Yeah. I ran into him a few weeks ago, and he brings his niece into the library for story time every week. She's adorable."

"Yeah. Too bad about her mom, though."

"What happened to her?"

"She got arrested for drugs and prostitution, and even though there seemed to be a case for coercion—there was this horrible dealer-pimp kind of guy lurking around Charleston a few years back—they threw the book at her for the amount of heroin she had in her possession. She's in jail for twenty years, and Leo's raising Marcella."

"That's terrible."

"Yeah. The Boones fought the conviction hard, but the cop was new and determined to make a name for himself. See, your Mayor Drayton isn't loved by everyone in Heron Creek, Gracie."

"Beau's the one who put her away?" That explains the bad blood between the two of them, and I'm not sure how hard-ass-lawyer Beau reconciles with the guy I'm slowly getting to know. I can see it, I suppose. Underneath his gentle exterior runs a man who knows exactly how to get what he wants.

"Yep."

I cast a glance at Amelia, waiting for her to make some kind of quip about the mayor's hard ass, but she's not paying attention. Her hands rub her stomach, and her eyes are fixed on the table. Something's wrong, and when she feels my gaze, she looks up.

The fear in her eyes seizes my heart, and I fly to my feet. "What is it?"

"I don't know. I'm... Something's wrong with the baby."



Being back in Heron Creek General Hospital does not amuse me in the slightest. Reminders of Gramps lurk around every corner, not to mention that they still employ my least favorite people ever—doctors. They've been monitoring Amelia and the baby for three hours now, and her contractions have stopped. The doctors don't know what caused them yet, and until they figure it out there isn't any way to be sure they won't happen again. Amelia's feeling better and has convinced me not to call her mother or Jake because they'll make a big deal out of it.

I'm not convinced it's not a big deal, but it's her body and her baby, so I keep my mouth shut and my itchy fingers off my cell phone. I don't blame her for not wanting to call Jake, but I would have done it if she'd asked. Aunt Karen, for all of her faults, loves her daughter, and she should be here.

She's going to take it out on me, no doubt, when she finds out she wasn't.

I called the library once they ran the initial tests on Amelia. Mrs. LaBadie put me through to Mr. Freedman on my fourth request, which means I still have a job, even if there's hardly time to work around all of the drama in my life.

My cousin dozes in the bed under the windows, which gives me hope that her pain has eased altogether. The test results aren't back yet. Beau's texted me once after the news of the coffee shop excitement spread to his office, asking what's going on, and I assured him he does not need to stop what he's doing and rush over here. Melanie had to leave a little while ago to pick up Grant, but she'll call or be back as soon as she's free.

I'm struggling not to nod off, despite an awkward attempt to cram the angles of my body into the plastic bedside chair, when my phone dings with an e-mail. Based on my unofficial study, there's a 267 percent chance it's spam, either from a lingerie company that refuses to take me off their list or one of the seven workout programs that kept my attention for approximately three days.

No one—not one single person—in Iowa City has contacted me since I left. They were always David's friends, as opposed to mine, and even though there aren't any of them that I miss, their total lack of interest in my well-being kind of stings. No one in Heron Creek uses e-mail, probably because all one has to do is wander down the street to connect with anyone they'd like.

This e-mail isn't spam, though, and straightens my spine so quickly I almost topple onto the floor. It's from the UNC Wilmington professor, and my thumbs manage to click it open without accidentally deleting anything.

Ms. Harper,

I must admit my surprise at finding answers to your query about genealogical information relating to Mary Read. I'm pleased to tell you that I did track down two aunts living at the time of her death, both on her paternal side. I've enclosed a document that outlines what little is known of her life prior to joining Jack Rackham's crew, and another that traces what lineage we've been able to find following her death. It's unclear, as you know, whether she has any direct descendants, since the disposition of her child after her death is a matter of contention. The names listed are the progeny of the aunts on the Read side of the family.

Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance, and of course, I would love to hear more about this line of research when you've completed it and have the time.

He signs off in a professional manner, and I click on the attachments, impatience almost making me growl. The only reason he agreed to help was because he had read my master's thesis and thought it showed promise, but I'm not complaining. Help is help, and this is free.

I skip the first attachment, because obviously I've read everything I can easily find on Mary's life before piracy—there isn't much known for sure, other than that her father, a sea captain, died before she was born and that the first person to dress her like a boy had been her mother. Later she'd been married, he died, too, and she ended up making a living for herself at sea. Short and not very sweet, had been Mary's story before the Revenge.

Come to think of it, her life had been short after meeting Anne and Jack, too, but if Anne's diary is as true as it seems, at least the woman had some sweetness at the end. Her friendship with Anne, and presumably making the baby, at least, had been fun.

The second attachment begins with the two aunts, one who had been living in England still, and the other—to my delight—residing in Virginia. The second's name was Eliza Goode, and her known descendants run out with a woman and a man, both still living. And I know them.

I have to blink a half-dozen times to convince myself I didn't fall asleep after all.

Melanie Massie.

My Mel, and her younger brother, Jonah, are the final two descendants of Mary Read's aunt Eliza—from a girl-child, also Mary, whose eldest daughter was born almost seven years after her sons. If she's the one who took in her baby cousin, Melanie could be Mary Read's great-granddaughter times however many generations that makes.

It blows my mind. It doesn't seem possible that the answer could have been under my nose not only the past month but my entire life. Melanie never mentioned it, but then again, my own mother and grandmother never mentioned my relation to Anne Bonny, either.

I wish there had been more time to ask Gramps why. Why no one said anything to me, or to Amelia. Were they embarrassed? Or maybe no one wanted to believe it. Neither of those things seems like something that would affect the decisions made by the women who had raised me.

The only thing that might have convinced them to keep their mouths shut is that making our heritage common knowledge would have made certain people in Heron Creek look at our family differently. Whether or not the residents claim to believe in ghosts, everyone knows the story, and no little girl wants to grow up with everyone asking about her pirate blood, or whether or not the ghost lives in the guest room.

And they didn't know about the diary, I remind myself. Neither my mother nor grandmother could have known there had been more to the story, perhaps more of a reason for us to learn everything we can about our history. Maybe they weren't even sure they believed it.

Amelia's still asleep when the doctor—a female ob-gyn whose name isn't familiar—strides in a few seconds later. Every thought of Anne and Melanie and Mary Read flees my head as she nudges my cousin awake, a serious expression on her pretty, middle-aged face.

"Mrs. Middleton?"

It takes Millie a minute to come fully awake, but the way she scrambles into a seated position tells me she's more worried about the baby than she's letting on. The drive to the hospital was endless, with sweat and tears mingling on her cheeks, panted breaths punching me in the stomach, her hands clutched over the baby.

Melanie was a huge help, much calmer than either Amelia or me, and we fell back into old roles and friendships that might turn out to be timeless, after all, without a second thought.

"Yes? Is he okay?"

The doctor gives my cousin a tight smile, but it's enough to unknot the ball twisted between my shoulders. "As far as we can tell, he's doing fine. There was some stress due to those contractions, but we've got that under control, and it doesn't seem as though your body is determined to continue."

"That's good, right?"

"Yes." She studies Amelia for a moment before saying more. "Are you familiar with black and blue cohosh?"

"No."

"It's sometimes called Callphyllum or Cimicifuga." My cousin shakes her head again, and the words are foreign to me, too. She might as well be reciting Oedipus in the original Greek. "They're herbs, the natural equivalent of pitocin. Given in the right dosage, they can induce labor at any stage of pregnancy."

"What? I haven't taken any herbs or eaten anything odd."

"Did you find traces in her blood?"

"Yes, we did. Significant amounts." Her eyes flick to me before landing back on her patient.

It crosses my mind that she's evaluating Millie's mental health. As though she thinks my cousin could have done this on purpose, tried to abort her baby.

"Is it possible to ingest or...breathe them in or something and not know?" Amelia's confusion thickens the question, as though she's not sure exactly why this is happening.

"They have a pretty intense scent and taste, and they're not terribly common, so I'd say it's unlikely." The doctor snaps closed her pad and pins my cousin with a look. "We're going to keep you here overnight to make sure everything flushes out of your system properly, but then you're free to go. I'd advise you to be more careful with unknown food and drink during your pregnancy."

Her patient swallows and nods, a little too meek for my tastes. I want her to yell at that doctor, tell her no way that's right, or if it is, it has to be an accident, but the fear glistening in Millie's eyes stills my tongue.

"I will. And ma'am?"

"Dr. Lyons."

"Dr. Lyons...did you call the baby a him?" Amelia holds her breath, eyes huge and full of expectation. It's not clear whether she wants to know or doesn't want to know.

"It's a boy. I'm sorry. I thought you knew because you referred to him that way first."

Tears spill over now, and the smile that lights up Millie's face can't fail to convince the doctor that she would never, ever do anything to harm the little guy growing inside her. It seems to relax the entire room, like the ceiling and doorframe and the tops of the windows all sag with certainty.

Then we're alone. I sit on the edge of the bed and fold my cousin in a hug, careful to avoid the wires attached to her arms and hand and belly, but holding on tight. "It's going to be okay. He's going to be okay."

She nods, and once her heartbeat stops fluttering like a pent-up bird, she lies back on the pillows, hands brushing her belly with light strokes. A soft smile paints her face with the kind of beauty that exceeds even her typical blinding fare. "A boy. I knew it."

Remembering my conversation with Beau about the lack of boys in our family, the confirmation makes me sure time is running out.