Enjoy!
-----------------------------------------
Adam had spent far more time than he would have thought learning to pick a lock.
And yet, this one was among the simplest in the world — child's play for an experienced thief.
He certainly hadn't expected it to be such a pain.
Maybe it was because he'd had to make do with improvised tools — just embroidery needles and hooks — but deep down he knew those were just excuses.
The truth was plain: he simply wasn't cut out for this kind of task, the kind that demanded delicacy, patience, and nimble fingers.
But by late afternoon, though he couldn't have said exactly how many tries or how much time it had taken, he finally managed to lock and unlock his room's door without the help of its little key.
The lock was a simple one, worlds away from modern designs. If he was lucky, the captain's key would be just as basic.
Adam looked up at the window.
Still raining. I didn't pay much attention, but I don't think it's stopped all day.
The sky was as dark as when he'd woken up. The rain drummed against the roof of Madame Boileau's house and his windowpane, making a sound that was almost comforting.
He sat up, put his tools down on the small piece of furniture that served as his desk, and stretched out flat on his bed. A deep sigh escaped his lips at once.
"Ahhh... that feels good."
With his head sinking deep into the pillow, he closed his eyes and rested both hands on his stomach, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.
"Cough, cough..."
Now that his body and mind had stilled, it was easier to notice how he really felt. There was no sign of improvement — if anything, quite the opposite.
He placed a hand on his warm forehead.
Yep... no doubt about it. Fever.
And his throat felt painfully dry.
Letting his arm fall limply back down, he lay perfectly still, like a corpse. From downstairs and out in the hallway, he could hear movement and voices. People were coming and going, chatting.
The prostitutes from the floor below were laughing and gossiping excitedly, probably sharing stories from their day. The sounds all blended together, and though the floorboards were thin, he couldn't make out a single clear conversation.
Eventually, he drifted off to sleep.
-----------------------------------------
When he woke, it was a little darker, but night hadn't fallen yet.
His stomach was empty — he hadn't eaten since the day before — so he decided to head back to the inn where he'd eaten on his first day.
By the time he arrived, he was soaked through. The moment he stepped inside, he realized getting served wouldn't be easy: the place was packed. It seemed half the town had chosen to gather there that evening.
Adam spotted two of the prostitutes from downstairs, including Marie, who was leaning halfway across a client's table, showing off her chest the way a fruit vendor might display her wares at the market.
He pressed his lips together and looked away.
From the entrance, he scanned the room for a free seat, but there wasn't one. Still, he spotted a small gap at the corner of the bar, cluttered with empty glasses and plates.
The innkeeper was a thin man, a little shorter than average, with grey hair but a beard that was still mostly dark — except under the mouth. Wearing an apron, he was pouring drinks for customers while a woman, his wife, at least ten years younger than him, was busy serving food.
Adam caught sight of a steaming plate passing by, and his stomach growled the instant he saw it: beans and a sausage, covered in a rich-looking brown sauce, probably mushroom-based.
The scent alone was enough to make his stomach growl louder, though the smell of sweat, mud, and wet dog still hung heavy over the whole room.
Adam stepped up to the bar.
"Good evening. Can I order food at the counter?"
The innkeeper glanced at him, barely pausing his work.
"Of course. Have a seat. What'll it be? We've got sausage and beans tonight."
"I saw. Looks good."
"It is good," the innkeeper corrected him, his tone a little curt as his wife came back over.
"The Poulain brothers want a pitcher of Burgundy and another dried sausage," she told her husband as she passed behind him.
"Again? Must be a hit. We'll have to order more. Take the big one, next to the ham. I'll get the pitcher. Oh — and this gentleman wants a meal."
The woman — taller than her husband, kind-looking but not exactly sharp — glanced at Adam and nodded.
"Hello! I'll bring this over and then I'll take care of you, sir," she said kindly. "The meal's seven sols with bread. Drinks are extra."
Before Adam could reply, the innkeeper's wife was already off, carrying the dried sausage and wine pitcher to a table near the door, though not directly facing it. The customers were regulars, clearly good clients.
A few minutes later, she returned with a steaming, generous plate. To wash it down, Adam had also ordered a pint of beer for one sol — which turned out to be awful, clearly watered down.
The food, however, was excellent. A cut above what he'd been served on his first visit — maybe even two. It was enough to make him wonder if this was even the same establishment.
It was well worth the price.
The captain on leave savored his meal and wiped his plate clean with a piece of bread. One could have thought the plate was spotless, which greatly pleased the innkeeper's wife.
When he returned to Madame Boileau's house, the shop had already closed. Taking advantage of the moment when one of the ladies' visitors was discreetly leaving — after all, prostitution was no more legal in New France than it was in France — Adam slipped inside and climbed to the top floor.
At the sight of his bed, he was tempted to crawl under the covers, but it was still too early. Instead, he sat down at his makeshift "desk," and by the light of a tall candle, he resumed his writing.
It took him a while to get back into the flow of his story, but gradually his ideas fell back into place. From that point on, the words started to pour out.
Elizabeth Swann had been imprisoned by the fearsome Captain Barbossa, and the Black Pearl had left Port Royal's harbor, leaving behind a devastated town.
Adam began recounting the next scene, which took place the morning after the attack. It was the moment when William Turner, the devoted lover who wanted nothing to do with piracy, was supposed to seek out the local authorities and ask for their help in rescuing Elizabeth — when a soft knock at the door startled him.
Adam paused his writing and carefully placed his quill back into its small inkwell before getting up slowly. Unsurprisingly, he found young Gaspard standing in front of his door, his face shy and worried.
"C-can I come in?" the boy asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Adam said nothing, but opened the door wider and stepped aside to let him in.
"So… you saw it? I wasn't lying," Gaspard stammered.
"Yes, I saw," Adam murmured, slowly nodding, his expression grim.
"What can we do? We have to report them!" the boy pressed, his voice rising.
The young captain raised his hand to signal Gaspard to calm down.
"Easy, kid. Not so fast. When you accuse someone, especially of something this serious, you need proof. Solid proof. And you have to go about it the right way, or the real culprits will slip away unscathed, understand? Koff, koff, koff…"
He covered his mouth as a fit of coughing overtook him. Once it passed, Adam continued in a raspy voice:
"I recognized Captain Chamoine, the one who's staying on the first floor. I'll try to find proof and gather more information when he's away... but I'll need some time. He has to be gone long enough for me to search without being disturbed."
The boy, understanding, lowered his eyes.
"C-can I help?"
"No, that's alright," Adam replied with a faint smile. "Although… if you could let me know when he leaves the house, that would help me a lot."
"Oh, that I can do! I usually leave early in the morning. I'm almost always one of the first to head out for work."
Adam explained what he had seen and laid out his leads. The boy was relieved to see his warning taken seriously.
He hoped those people — those thieves — would fall soon, but for now, all he could do was wait.
Gaspard didn't stay long in Adam's room; lingering would have looked suspicious. He returned to his own room, and Adam closed his door and went back to his manuscript.
There wasn't much more the young officer could do that day, especially at that hour and with the weather the way it was. Outside, it was pouring.
If he went out again that evening, he'd likely end up bedridden for the rest of his leave. It was October 16th, which left him no more than six days to carry out his investigation before he would have to return to Fort Bourbon.
-----------------------------------------
The next morning, Friday, October 17th, Adam woke up fairly early despite having stayed up late working on his second novel.
He was quite pleased with his progress, even though he knew the road ahead was still long. He had reached the scene where William Turner, desperate, freed the pirate Jack Sparrow from the gallows and, together, they seized control of a British warship to sail toward Tortuga in hopes of finding a crew.
Bit by bit, the pieces were falling into place.
Adam quickly dressed and headed out into the street. At last, the rain had stopped!
A brilliant sun lit up the sky, making the Saint Lawrence River shimmer.
However, the streets were covered in mud and puddles, and he had to take wide detours to avoid them.
He passed by Madame Boileau's shop but didn't go inside. Instead, Adam walked down the street to the market square, which was just a short distance away near the river.
The market was bustling, as always, despite the ongoing war.
Voices rang out all around him, everyone trying to be heard over the crowd, not to mention the merchants shouting to lure customers to their stalls.
Adam began his little shopping tour, buying a few local products of excellent quality, even if not always the prettiest. He managed to gather everything he needed for a wonderful breakfast.
He bought himself a huge, shiny apple, which looked full of juice and rich with flavor, and wasted no time sinking his teeth into it.
He wasn't disappointed. It was like biting into the sun itself.
A trickle of juice ran down his chin, and he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. A faint stain marked his dark jacket, but he hardly noticed.
As he passed the stall of a baker — who was proudly displaying loaves that must have weighed one or two kilos each — he overheard a very interesting conversation about India. The news had only just arrived and would probably take a few more days to reach Fort Bourbon.
His curiosity piqued, he moved closer and listened.
"Have you heard the latest news from the East Indies? Seems like we're allied with the Dutch now!"
"An ally? Does that mean they've gone to war on our side, alongside the Kingdom of Spain, against Great Britain and Portugal?"
"Yes!"
"No, that's not it!" another corrected him. "Apparently, we've only signed some sort of trade agreement."
"Oh, really? So they're not going to fight alongside us?"
"Hmm, I don't think so. Those Dutch... all they care about is trade. For them, war only happens when they can't make deals and turn a profit."
"But the English... will they accept that? I mean, if they're our allies, the British will surely attack the Dutch, won't they?"
"I don't know, maybe? Either way, it's good news for us!"
Adam, surprised by this development, lingered a little longer to listen to the rumors. Here in Montreal, people were as interested in the events in India as they were back at Fort Bourbon.
It was as if a fever had gripped all of New France. Perhaps it was the same in every major city, all the way down to Louisiana?
"I heard the Dutch were called for help by the Nawab of Bangale."
"It's Bengal, not Bangale, you idiot!"
"Who cares! Anyway, he called them in to drive out the redcoats, but we got there before they did! So they missed a great chance to grab a huge market, and apparently, we've offered the Dutch free trading rights over there."
"Why?! Why would we do that?! That's stupid!"
"No, it's not! Think about it! If the Dutch start trading in Bangale—or Bengal, whatever—then they'll want to protect their interests, meaning they'll deploy soldiers! So we'll both be defending Bengal against the English!"
"Ah, I get it!"
Adam moved on to another group, gathered in front of a potato merchant. Potatoes had become so popular in town that they'd even inspired a local dish: cartoufle à la Montréal, a mix of potatoes, sautéed onions, melted cheese, and grilled bacon.
Here too, the discussion was lively.
"No, the Dutch didn't leave soldiers in Bengal. Not because they didn't have any—apparently, they had prepared quite a force to seize Bengal—but because they needed them elsewhere. From what I've heard, they're giving us money to help raise and maintain a regiment."
"Tch, the Dutch... They were all set to drive out the English, but now that we've done all the hard work, they're backing out? How shameful!"
"Bah, maybe it's because they're planning to strike somewhere else? I bet they're eyeing other trading posts."
"Maybe on the other side of the East Indies?"
"Isn't that too dangerous? The English and the Portuguese are everywhere over there."
"Exactly!"
Adam didn't learn much more than that. He strolled around a bit longer, made a few extra purchases—mostly fresh eggs for making delicious omelets—and then headed home.
As soon as he reached his room, he set down his provisions and prepared a simple meal, which he quickly devoured. Then he grabbed his small embroidery kit.
Alright, time for the moment of truth.
Adam went downstairs to the first floor and waited for a minute to make sure the coast was clear.
Hearing nothing, he carefully advanced down the sunlit hallway.
Since he had already identified the storeroom and the kitchen at the end, he figured the last locked door had to be Captain Chamoine's room.
The floorboards creaked under every step, despite his efforts to move silently. Still, he managed to reach the door without being noticed.
Let's see if this works...
He pulled his tools from his pocket and knelt down. Gently, he inserted them into the lock and began fiddling.
T-this isn't the same as my lock, but... I think I can manage.
The faint clicking of his tools echoed softly in the silence. Slowly, like a surgeon performing a delicate operation, he manipulated the needles and the hook.
Cli, clic, cli, c-clic, cliclic.
It almost sounded like a little bird. Relying on his sense of touch and hearing rather than sight—since he couldn't see inside the lock—he tried to understand the mechanism.
Clack!
Startled, Adam lifted his head.
It worked! Ah, damn, he turned the key twice!
Focusing again, he returned to his task. The soft metallic noises resumed in the hallway, and this time, more quickly, he heard another promising sound.
Clack!
Did I do it?
With a cold, slightly trembling hand, he grasped the small handle and turned it. The door opened.
I did it!
To his great relief, it was indeed a bedroom, and after a quick inspection, he concluded it had to be the captain's room.
Phew! Lucky guess! I really didn't want to go trying every single door.
He stepped inside the cold, silent room, which was twice the size of his own, and immediately began searching—careful not to disturb the officer's belongings.
Adam turned toward a small cabinet near the entrance and opened it. There were a few books, but no documents marked in bold, red letters with "Evidence" or "Clues."
Unfortunately, this wasn't a video game, and Adam had no help finding what he was looking for. In fact, he wasn't even sure there was anything to find here at all.
He walked around the bed and headed straight for a large desk — a real one, this time — placed beneath a window that overlooked the beautiful gardens of Château Vaudreuil. Without sparing the view so much as a glance, he opened the first drawer.
Inside, he found a stack of documents. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead at the thought of having to go through them all, careful not to miss anything.
Finding nothing useful, he moved on to the next drawer, and the next, and so on.
It was finally in a small armoire that he found what he had been searching for.
Well, well, what do we have here? Money, a notebook, letters... Oh, this all looks rather suspicious. Why would he keep all this? Looks like the gentleman has a habit of keeping records of his little activities. Blah blah blah.
There were so many items that Adam found it hard to focus. The notebook contained valuable information about past transactions, and the letters gave instructions on what had been done or still needed to be done for everything to go according to plan.
Unfortunately, all the names were reduced to initials. No full names were written anywhere.
He slipped the notebook into his coat pocket and glanced at the money with longing. There was a lot of it — the equivalent of at least three years' salary for a captain.
Stealing from a thief isn't stealing. And if he's not happy about it, he can complain to His Majesty!
With that, he grabbed a handful of coins and slid them into his pocket without bothering to count them. He also took a few letters and stepped back.
Now he just had to lock the door and get out of there.
Adam was sweating heavily and half-expected to hear a deep voice behind him at any moment. His heart was pounding wildly.
Luckily, the house was so old and creaky that he was sure he'd hear someone coming and wouldn't be caught red-handed.
The second the door was locked, Adam turned on his heel and headed for the staircase.
But he had barely taken a few steps when a powerful voice rang out from the shop below.
"Sangbleu! Someone's ransacking my place!"
Adam turned pale at the sound of the landlady's voice. He could easily picture her, storming through the shop like a demon.
Damn it!
In a single bound, he dashed across the hallway, rushed down the staircase, and bolted up to the upper floor.
There was no time to think. He had to disappear.
Without hesitation, he pushed open the first door that wasn't locked.
Marie, the blonde-haired prostitute, spun around in surprise at the sudden intrusion.
Adam wasn't thinking at all. He was acting like a fool, with no thought for the worst-case scenario. She could have been with someone.
"W-what?!"
Marie stared at him, wide-eyed, half-naked and startled, as he closed the door behind him.
Adam's gaze swept the room in an instant and landed on the bed.
"The bed! Quick! Get undressed!"
"B-but..."
He had already begun tearing off his clothes as if they were on fire.
"No questions! I... I've been here for ten — no, fifteen minutes. W-we've been making love, got it?"
Marie, more and more bewildered, stood frozen, watching the handsome tenant from upstairs strip down. Before she could react or protest, he pulled her onto the bed.
Adam yanked the blue wool blanket and the sheets over them, creating a sort of tent above their heads.
Their eyes met. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest — no man had ever spoken to her or treated her like this. She could feel his rapid, shallow breaths against her skin and read the fear in his gaze.
"W-what's going on?" she whispered.
"Shh," Adam murmured, frowning. "Not a word."
Though he was wearing nothing but his shirt, Adam felt unbearably hot. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe the stifling warmth under the blanket, or maybe the fact that a very pretty woman was pressing her bare chest against his arm.
Probably a bit of all three.
Adam, fully alert, listened to the heavy, rapid footsteps of the landlady pounding up the narrow staircase, loud and sharp like cannon fire. He stayed perfectly still, holding his breath, as the footsteps grew closer.
"P-pretend," he whispered.
"W-what?"
"Act like we're... doing it."
Flushing bright red, Marie realized what he meant. No client had ever asked her for that before, but she understood. It was part of the trade, after all.
Because it was a request — and not part of the act — she hesitated, but then gave in.
Soft sounds began, hesitant at first, then more convincing moans slipped from beneath the covers. Adam, his cheeks burning, felt the heat rise even more — especially lower down.
He was only human.
A door creaked open, and Madame Boileau burst into the room.