That evening, Omorose rode in on a skiff into the grotto, having been escorted by the Numidian brothers until they approached their meeting place. Abasi handed Omorose a lantern so she could chase the shadows in the cavern away to their respective corners. Each niche appeared to cast mishappen masses of black every which way she glanced, but the dark was not what she feared.

Further within the maw of the grotto she could hear thunderous crashing of the waves as they licked the precipices; barnacles dotted the ledges eked out in the sides of the cavern, given breadth by the high tide that frequently filtered in.

The bay was once an old smuggling hideout for thieves and their ilk but was since abandoned when English officials raided it. Half-cracked and rotten crates were strewn about in addition to moss-eaten hemp ropes and mired rowboats that were cracked up the keel.

As a result of the humid weather, the grotto was thick with fog. Omorose’s brow was dappled with a light film of sweat, but the rest of her skin was entirely cool. It may have been that the overcoat she wore was two sizes too big, or that her trousers—a supple doeskinned material—were of a mitigated make.
“They’re here,” Abasi announced in his native tongue. When the cog teetered in towards the lip of the edge they stood on, Papasi began to voice his concerns.

“Are you certain of this? They are like to just turn you in to the Governor.” His brow was knotted with concern.
“I’m never sure,” Omorose admitted, “But if Subira has requested that I meet with her …” She swallowed. “It’s for the best.”

The brother’s nodded in followed her to the gangplank, both weary with each step they took. Omorose simply leered at Lars long and hard, as if she were seeing through him, then boarded his vessel with a look of unadulterated disdain plastered across her lightly freckled face.