You fold the damp dispatch back to its original shape and slide it into the pocket of the nearest sleeping officer’s coat, taking care that the wax seal faces inward. His shoulder shifts, and he snores; you slip away into the dim passage. For a heartbeat, nothing happens β then a shout bursts from the deck above. Boots pound, lanterns flare; two officers grapple over orders that plainly contradict one another. The watch is thrown into confusion. A sentry runs aft, another bolts for the hatch; the murmured rhythm of their patrols stutters and breaks.
Outside, a cold wind from the West rattles the rigging. In the distance, a faint light glows where the Poppy Field meets the Yellow Brick Road β the Robinsons’ treehouse per your sketch. The delay above gives you a sliver of time, but someone will soon notice the misplaced dispatch. The night is fragile; your next move must be quick.
You skirt the hull in the shadow of the surf, the skiff’s oars whispering like ghosts. The commotion aboard has drawn half the deckmen aft; lanterns bob in confusion, and voices snap like broken twine. Across the cove, the Robinsons’ treehouse sits cradled in the boughs, a pale lantern swinging in its window and a small figureβsomeone with Dorothy’s hairβpeering down. Behind her, the skeleton of an old flagstaff coughs in the wind, where a makeshift banner of quilts flutters.
The beach is strewn with driftwood and a single line of footprints leading inland toward a cart path. Between you and the treehouse, an old willow’s roots form natural steps up the sand. Somewhere in the dark, a gull cries and a far-off lantern sweeps the water.
You shove the ladder aside and tumble into the cramped warmth of the Robinsons’ treehouse. The scent of tea and old paper hits you. Dorothy, hair askew, whirls with a small hand on Toto’s collar; Mr Robinson β a wiry man with a splintered pipe β scrambles from beneath a quilt. A child peeks from the loft, eyes round.
“You’re bleeding,” Dorothy whispers, pressing a cloth to the cut at your temple. “What happened? Are theyβ”
“Confusion aboard,” you pant. “Lanterns, shouts. They’ll sweep the cove in minutes.”
Dorothy’s face hardens. “We can’t be seen. Hide the light.” She grabs the swinging lantern; her fingers tremble as she tries to snuff it without sound. Mr Robinson drops a blanket over the window frame, and the child stifles a whimper. Outside, a lantern’s beam bores across the beach and a voice carries faintly over the surf: “Search the cove! Watch the tree line!”
You feel the ladder where you shoved it: the rope is loose but will hold for a moment if you need to climb back out. The air is taut with waiting.
You steady Dorothy’s hand as she clamps the lantern’s metal ring. The oil coughs; a stray ember jumps free and sizzles across the blanket. Dorothy pinches it between two fingers and crushes the heat with a hiss. Mr Robinson presses the blanket tighter across the window frame; the child’s breath is a tiny drum.
Outside, a beam of light cuts the darkness and slices across the treehouse’s shuttered side. You hold your breath; the beam hesitates, as if a searcher paused, then a distant voice calls, “Over by the rocksβmove!” Footsteps scuttle away toward the shout. The willow’s roots tremble faintly with departing boots.
Silence settles like dust. You can still smell singed oil and sea-salt on the air. The ladder rope hums softly where you leaned it; the night beyond is a pool of shifting shadows.
You keep your weight balanced on the highest branch, one hand on the trunk, the other guiding the rope-ladder. The Robinsons press themselves into the deep shadow beneath the overhanging branches.
“Quiet now,” you whisper. Mr Robinson grips the top rung and slides down first, joints creaking. He lands on the packed roots and freezes, listening. “Goβtake the path by the reeds,” he murmurs, voice barely a breath. He shoulders his pack and melts into the brush.
Dorothy follows, descending with practised ease until the ladder skitters against a knot in the trunk. Her foot slips for a second; you catch the rung and steady the ladder with a quick tug. She leans back against you, closing her eyes. “Thank you,” she breathes. “We won’t forget.”
The child is last. Their small hands shake, but you lower them carefully, fingertip to fingertip, until their boots touch loam. They press a damp palm to your cheek. “Don’t go,” they whisper. Mr Robinson coughs softly, urgent: “Move β now. The gulls’ll cover you near the old pier.”
They slip away, shadows folding around them. The ladder sways gently; the rope’s loop at the top has a frayed strand where you braced it, but it still holds. The night outside is quiet for the moment; salt wind lifts the leaves with soft sighs.
You drop the last rung and land silently on the soft, salt-scented earth. Reeds whisper around your boots. Mr Robinson pauses under the bent willow, listening; the moon paints his face a pale copper. Dorothy tugs your sleeve and points: the reed path threads along the shoreline toward the old pier, where a small shadow rocks gently against the timbers.
“Bless you,” Mr Robinson says, voice hoarse. “We don’t have much time. The skipper waits for one more at the skiffβif you can get us there, we’ll owe you our lives.”
A gull cries, the sound ragged, and you can hear the distant slap of waves. The air is cold enough to sting your teeth. The path forks where the reeds open to a narrow causeway: the direct route to the pier is exposed but quicker; a faint animal trail through the marsh runs longer but hides you beneath the reeds.
Dorothy squeezes your hand. “Please,” she whispers. “They’re coming for us if we don’t hurry.”
You whisper for them to go. Mr Robinson’s jaw tightens, then he nods, shouldering his pack. Dorothy presses a pale hand to your arm. “Be careful,” she says. “If anythingβ” Her words break; she melts into the reeds and follows the causeway toward the pier with Mr Robinson just behind her.
You slip along the shoreline, keeping to the black edge where reed shadows meet water. The pier groans under a lazy wind; salt crusts the nails, and the planks glisten with algae. A single lantern hangs from a post at the pier’s end, paint flaking from the bracket. A skiff is tied there, bobbing quietly, its rope secured with a neat bowline around a rotting cleat.
A man leans against the railing near the lantern, one hand tucked deep into an oilskin. He watches the horizon, not the shore. He is broad-shouldered, his face mostly in shadow, but you can see the tip of a pipe between his lips. Another, smaller shadow moves inside the boathouseβtoo still to be busy, too close to be accidental.
You crouch behind a piling. The rope around the skiff is within arm’s reach from the dock, and the lantern’s light throws a long pool across the planks. The broad man hums something low; he has not noticed you yet.
