The Legend of the Uncharted Island

Meanwhile, Sammy was walking in the rain, which had already turned into a light and persistent drizzle, when she suddenly heard the clatter of hooves approaching like a growing thunder, accompanied by agitated snorts. Sammy turned toward the source of the noise and then saw the carriage bursting through the mist like an unbridled beast. It was a heavy and robust vehicle, its body painted in dark tones with golden details dulled by the mud of the road. Four harnessed horses, covered in foam and snorting fiercely, pulled the coach at full speed. On one of the lead horses, a hunched postilion struggled to maintain control, dressed in a leather jacket and thigh-high boots. The screeching of the axles, the clanging of the metal fittings, and the creaking of the frame formed a deafening noise. The tall wheels, reinforced with iron rims, jumped over potholes in the road, raising a wave of mud like a burst of artillery, splashing Sammy from head to toe with a thick, dark sludge.

"Out of the way, idiot!" shouted the postilion driving the coach.

The girl stumbled aside, spat out mud, raised her fist, and shouted in fury:

"You're lucky I'm not carrying a sword, bastard!"

The carriage disappeared into the foliage of a nearby hill, leaving a pair of ruts in the muddy road behind. Sammy shook the soaked coat vigorously, picked up her tricorn hat from the ground, and placed it back on her head with reluctance, still dripping with mud.

The road was a quagmire, and every step cost her double the effort. A thunderclap roared from the darkened sky above, and seconds later, the rain fell with renewed fury. Sammy ran to take shelter under the gnarled canopy of a tree by the path, panting and clicking her tongue in annoyance as the water beat down on the leaves with a racket. She waited, impatiently, until the storm relented and only scattered drops remained, falling like a gentle drumming between the branches. Then she resumed her path.

The slope finally brought her to a curve, where the port of Kingsport appeared before her, shrouded in a humid, glistening mist. The air was thick with the smell of salt, wet wood, and fish. The masts of the ships rose toward the gray sky like crosses in a maritime cemetery, and the flags flapped lazily, soaked by the rain. Sammy descended toward the muddy, puddle-filled streets of the port. The shops, taverns, and warehouses had canvas awnings or tiled roofs, under which passersby crowded to avoid getting wet. Some, the rougher or drunker ones, walked directly down the street, fearlessly splashing through with their tall boots, clad only in thick cloaks and wide-brimmed hats.

After asking for directions, a white-bearded cooper looked at her with a furrowed brow and an ironic tone.

"Don't you think you're a bit young and poor to be looking for whores?"

Sammy shrugged, not fully understanding the comment. Finally, the man nodded his head.

"Follow Cliff Street up the hill. The house you're looking for is the last one—the one with the golden blacksmith sign."

The young woman walked in that direction, ascending past increasingly elegant mansions until she spotted a building that clearly stood out from the rest: a Georgian-style mansion. Sammy approached Aunt Betty's house. The sound of a harpsichord escaped through the open windows, filling the street with a refined, almost mocking melody. The shutters were half-open, letting out a warm golden light, while a pair of oil lamps hung from the eaves, casting dancing shadows on the whitewashed walls. On each side of the main door, two pots overflowed with tropical flowers. The doorframe, hand-carved with floral patterns and sea shells, spoke of wealth and French taste. From within came laughter, hushed conversations, the clinking of glasses, and the constant flutter of fans beating like butterfly wings.

Sammy paused a moment under the rain, her heart beating fast. She didn't know what she would find inside that house, but something told her it wouldn't be simple hospitality. She adjusted her wet tricorn hat, lifted her chin with determination, and climbed the porch steps. The harpsichord music continued to fill the air, mingling with the damp like an ancient perfume.

"Well… it's better than nothing," she muttered, and knocked with the brass lion-shaped knocker.

After a moment, footsteps approached. The door opened slowly, revealing a doorman dressed in a red livery embroidered with golden brocade.

"If you're here to unload coal, use the side door," he said, starting to close it.

"I'm not a coalman," Sammy replied impatiently. "I'm here to see Madame Betty."

The servant eyed her with suspicion.

"And what business do you have with her?"

Sammy took a deep breath and cleared her throat, gathering courage.

"I want to speak with Madame Betty about a family matter."

The doorman looked her up and down: old clothes, tall boots splattered with mud, and a tricorn hat still dripping water.

"The lady is busy… Goodbye."

The door began to close, but Sammy stopped it. The doorman frowned, visibly annoyed.

"I'm the granddaughter of Balin Van Buuren, a well-known writer in the literary world."

"Look, kid, even if you were the grandson of the King of Rome, she won't see you."

"Maybe she'll change her mind if you show her this," said Sammy, pulling a letter from her leather satchel.

The doorman took the sheet, unfolded it carefully, and after reading it, glanced sideways at Sammy.

"Wait here a moment."

Sammy remained on the porch, watching the water cascade down from the gargoyles on the roof. After a while, the door opened again.

"Come in, but leave your boots here and wait," the servant ordered firmly.

Sammy obeyed and stepped into the vestibule. A minute later, the young man named Kayin appeared. He looked at her with a discreet curiosity, but kept the composed bearing appropriate for a domestic servant.

"Please remove your boots and follow me."

"And what if I don't want to?"

The young man looked at her without flinching.

"If you want to be received by the lady... you'll have to. Otherwise, Joey—the doorman—will show you out," he said in a calm tone.

Sammy scowled, but saw only resolution in Kayin's eyes and in the massive doorman, who stood ready to throw her out like a stray cat.

"Fine…" Sammy muttered, taking off her mud-caked boots and leaving them next to other shoes—it seemed she wasn't the only one required to go barefoot.

Once done, she followed the young man, feeling the comforting softness of the carpet under her feet as they led her into a parlor. Sammy observed with some surprise the opulence of the place. In the central hall was a gathering so strange she had only read of something similar in her grandfather's books. Some people were gambling, others drinking or dancing minuets amid the laughter of women with revealing necklines, dressed in tight corsets, wide skirts, and large bows. Then, Sammy understood what kind of business this was. She could almost hear her grandfather's voice scolding her for setting foot in such a place.