Later, in Aunt Connie's kitchen, she pced the pies in a wooden drawer and instructed the boy to carry them carefully, ensuring the crusts remained intact.

  "Hurry up and deliver them, Cody, and for the love of God, no fooling around. That Sammy is going to get herself into trouble one day," she said.

  "She just wanted to protect me from those mad dogs. You know how she is—a fearless brat," Cody replied.

  "I appreciate the care she takes with you, but we can't deny she's a troublemaker—that's what she is," Aunt Connie said. "Now hurry up, it's getting te."

  At that moment, loud knocks began pounding on the door. Both of them fell silent and looked at each other in confusion.

  "Who could be knocking at this hour?" Aunt Connie asked.

  Cody shrugged, just as puzzled. Connie grabbed a musket and headed up to the upper part of the house, with Cody following close behind, to peek through a window between the shutters. Outside, three men were waiting. Cody leaned in for a better look and felt a chill run down his spine as he recognized them.

  "They were at the tavern," Cody whispered.

  "What do they want?" Connie asked, opening both shutters and peering out, musket at the ready.

  The albino man looked up and gave a courteous bow, touching the brim of his tricorn hat.

  "Good evening, ma’am. I apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but we’re looking for Mr. Virgilio Coppieter," he said.

  "There’s no one here by that name. Good night," Connie replied, moving to close the shutters.

  "Forgive me, ma’am, but we were told that someone here might have information about Mr. Coppieter," the albino insisted politely.

  "Who are you?" Connie asked, her voice sharp with distrust.

  "We are agents of a publishing house in Amsterdam, and we were told you might have information about Mr. Coppieter. Could you tell us where he resides?" the albino man asked in a conciliatory tone.

  "The owner of this shop lives in Port Royal. Perhaps you can find him there… Good night."

  With that, Connie smmed the shutters shut, but they both remained, spying through the gaps. The men hesitated for a moment, one of them even peering into the gss. They exchanged a few words in German before turning away and leaving.

  "Aunt, Coppieter is Sammy’s grandfather’s name—the old man Van Buuren," Cody said once they were sure the strangers had left.

  “How do you know that?” Connie asked confused.

  “Sammy confided in me. Mr. Van Buuren took that name to see if the publisher would start promoting his book again.”

  “I don’t like any of this, Cody,” Aunt Connie said.

  “They look like mercenaries from Balin’s novels.”

  Aunt Connie went down to the kitchen and pced the musket by the door.

  “Go and warn them,” she said. “Go to Balin’s house and tell him about these men. It’s obvious they’re not from a publishing house.”

  ******

  The German mercenaries walked down the narrow street leading to the port when, behind them, they heard hurried footsteps. The four of them turned and found themselves facing a fat man dressed in a tight vest and a loosely tucked-in shirt. On his head, he wore a misshapen tricorn hat, with its wings bent irregurly—neglected, tattered, and with more past than future.

  Discreetly, the Germans moved their hands to the hilts of their weapons.

  “Excuse me,” said the man, who was an elf. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you are publishers and that you were looking for Balin at his shop.”

  “Uh, yes,” the albino said, gncing at his men. “We are from a publishing house in Amsterdam.”

  “How wonderful! Are you from Van Dijk & Zoon Uitgevers or Keizersgracht Boeken?”

  The men exchanged gnces, but the albino smiled calmly.

  “The first one you mentioned,” he answered smoothly.

  "I'm a great fan of the books from your publishing house "the man began to say enthusiastically. "What a lucky coincidence to meet you here. I'm Machias Wilbur, an amateur writer. I've written several adventure and fantasy novels. They may not rival the master of the genre, Mr. Van Buuren, but in quality and originality, I believe they hold their own. In fact, even a master like Van Buuren doesn't always succeed. Take his test novel, Heart of the Caribbean—it was just as melodramatic and over-the-top as Love in Excess by Liza Haywood..."

  “We’re a bit busy, we must go now…” the albino interrupted him.

  “Yes, of course, I understand,” Wilbur said, trying to contain his excitement. “I just want to say that I’m very interested in your publishing house for my works. I would greatly appreciate your help.”

  The albino looked at one of his men, who cleared his throat.

  “Of course. You need to send your manuscript to our publishing house in Amsterdam for evaluation.”

  “By chance, I have it with me,” the elf said, pulling it from a leather satchel.

  “Of course, but we can’t take it… house policy. If you like, we can discuss it tomorrow at the Swan Tavern. Would noon work for you?”

  Wilbur grinned from ear to ear, his eyes gleaming. He clutched the manuscript to his chest with excitement.

  “It would be a pleasure. I truly appreciate it,” he said more than happy.

  “Well then, it’s set. By the way, do you happen to know where Mr. Virgilio Coppieter lives?”

  "The only writer living on this isnd is Balin Van Buuren himself. I'm sure he knows where to find him, by the way, he is the owner of the shop where you went to ask about Mr. Coppieter."The germans looked at one another and exchanged a few words.

  "Could you tell us where we might find him?," the albino asked.

  The elf smiled.

  “Of course. He lives in a house on the cliff, along the Hare Trail. If you follow the street up two blocks from here, it will lead you to the path toward Balin’s house, on the other side of the port.”

  The Germans bid farewell and left Wilbur watching them walk away, thrilled to have met them. He walked down the street toward the port, heading back to Queen Anne’s Fort, humming a tune from a Handel opera. When he turned the corner, he stumbled upon a strange scene—Balin was arguing with a pirate he recognized. The elf crouched in the shadows and stayed hidden, listening with curiosity.