Rated PG. Contains violence, supernatural themes, and sailors who do not swear.
By Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald
On the morning after his death, a clear fluid began to leak from the Jenny’s mainmast: slow, glistening droplets that curled out and ran downward from where the knives were stuck in the wood. “It’s water,” said the ship’s cook. “But not fresh. Salt. Like blood.”
“Not like blood,” said Big Tom, who had also tasted it. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes were hollow and dark. “Not like blood — like tears.”