You ease the wax seal with the tip of your knife and unfold the dispatch. The paper is damp at the edges, but the ink runs steadily enough. It reads in a clipped, official hand:
“To Captain Montrois β Proceed with utmost secrecy. The island at the latitude noted in the accompanying chart harbours valuable timber and an encampment of castaways (reputed as the Robinson family). Seize all survivors for interrogation. Secure powder and victuals; remove charts and maps to the Captain’s cabin. Destroy any signal fires at dawn. The powderβstore is beneath the galley (blackened key). The Capitaine’s chest contains orders and the island chart (fleurβdeβlis key). The narrow locker by the aft ladder holds the chartβroom key (slender key). Two watchmen keep the deck hatch on a halfβhour rotation; patrols circle the east bluff at sunrise. Report when the island is secured.”
Beneath the text is a small pencil sketchβthe same corridor map you foundβwith the powderβstore circled in red, and an arrow pointing from the hatch you entered to a dotted path leading across the sands to a treehouse sketched roughly and labelled “Robinson.”
The lamp in the corridor guttered. Above, the muffled voices grew still for a moment, then resumed with low laughter.
