Help from Strangers

James draped a simple cloak around my shoulders as we moved through the bustling dock. I could not shake the feeling of eyes lingering on us, curious glances flickering in our direction, whispers trailing behind like shadows.

“We need to get you to safety,” James murmured, his voice low and urgent, meant for my ears alone.

His breath brushed my ear.

“The cabin is at least two weeks' ride from here,” he added, tightening his grip on my arm ever so slightly.
“We will secure a room at the inn for tonight,” he said, scanning the crowded dock for any sign of danger.

The scent of saltwater mingled with the sharp tang of fish and sweat. The dock was alive with activity, sailors barking orders, merchants haggling, and children darting between crates and barrels. We wove through the crowd, moving swiftly.

Ahead, the inn loomed, its wooden structure weathered by time and the relentless sea air. James pushed open the door, and we stepped inside the dimly lit room. The murmur of conversation and the clink of mugs greeted us.


James approached the innkeeper. A grizzled man with a bushy beard and suspicious eyes. After a brief exchange, he secured us a room, and we ascended the creaking stairs. The room was modest but clean, with a single bed draped in a faded quilt. When James shut the door behind us, the latch clicked with an unsettling finality that echoed in the silence.

“We have to stay vigilant.”
“By morning, word of the captain’s death will spread.”

His eyes darkened.

“They will come looking for you, Isabella.”

A chill ran through me, but I forced my expression to remain calm.

“We will leave at first light to gather supplies.”

Turning toward me, his expression softened.

“Rest, Isabella.”
“I will keep watch.”


Grateful for his unwavering support, I settled onto the bed. The modest mattress felt like a luxury compared to the cold, hard ground of captivity, but my mind refused to rest. Thoughts of the captain’s death and the danger we faced churned restlessly.

“James,” I said hesitantly, “will you sleep on the bed with me tonight?”

He paused before sitting on the edge of the mattress, causing it to dip slightly. His gaze, filled with concern and something deeper, made my heart ache.

“I am right here,” he said softly.

I shifted, making room for him. He lay beside me, his presence a comforting shield against the dark unknown. The room was quiet except for the distant murmur of voices and the occasional creak of the inn settling. Beneath the covers, James’s hand found mine, our fingers intertwining in a silent promise of protection. Despite everything, I felt a small sense of peace in that connection.

At dawn, James woke me gently, his touch soft yet insistent. He was already gathering his belongings. A small pouch jingling with coins and gems. We moved with practiced caution, slipping out of the room and down the stairs without a word. James left a few coins on the innkeeper’s counter as we stepped out into the cool morning air. The market was just beginning to stir, the scent of freshly baked bread mingling with the salty breeze.


James moved swiftly, scanning the market as he gathered food and medical supplies. Every motion was deliberate and precise. At a stall selling fabrics, he selected a simple dress for me, sturdy yet soft. He handed it to me with a small smile, before moving on to find boots that would last the journey. The merchant, a kindly woman with laugh lines etched into her face, helped us choose a pair that fit perfectly.

I changed into the new clothes behind a screen, marveling at James’s foresight. Every choice was made to ensure our survival. When I emerged, his eyes flickered with pride.

“Perfect,” he murmured.

We navigated the bustling market. His hand never left mine.

“We need to secure a ride,” James said, glancing at me with concern.
“You’re too pregnant for horseback.”

Finally, we approached a group of travelers with a sturdy-looking wagon. James turned to me.

“Stay close.”
“Let me handle this.”



He approached the leader, a man with a weathered face. I watched as they spoke, James’s words measured and careful. After what felt like an eternity, he returned to me, relief in his eyes.

“We have secured a ride.”
“They will take us to the next town.”
“It is safer than walking.”

We climbed into the wagon. James helped me settle. The travelers, a family, welcomed us warmly. The wagon trundled forward, and the rhythmic clatter of wheels became a soothing backdrop to our escape.

“Thank you.”

James turned to me, his expression softening.

“We will make it, Isabella.”
“Together, we will find a way.”

The countryside rolled by in a blur, wildflowers dotting the landscape, their vibrant colors a beautiful picture painting the hillside. The family offered us bread and cheese.


The sun set painted the sky in soft hues of pink and orange. We reached a clearing where the family set up camp. James helped me down, his hands steady, his gaze never wavering. We joined them by the campfire, the warmth of the flames a welcome comfort in the cool evening air.

The father, Thomas, chatted easily with James about the safest routes ahead. The mother, Margaret, shared stories of their travels while the children, Peter and Lily, laughed and played. For a moment, it felt like we were ordinary travelers, the weight of our past forgotten. The fire burned low and the stars twinkled above. Reality crept back in. James and I retreated to a small tent Thomas had lent us. Inside, the space was cozy, with soft blankets and a thick quilt. James’s expression grew serious as he sat beside me.

“We are one step closer to safety,” he said quietly, his eyes searching mine.
“We are not out of danger yet.”

I reached for his hand. His grip tightened around mine.

“Rest, Isabella.”
“We will leave at first light.”