Emilia sailed to Santiago, traded her captain’s coat for a nun’s habit, and entered the Convent of Santa Clara. Esperanza was old now, her eyes milky with cataracts. When Emilia whispered the name, the old woman smiled and handed her a wooden cross.

Emilia turned. From the sundial’s position, the pelican’s remaining eye gazed east, toward the old Portuguese cemetery. She counted three graves in from the rusted gate. The third grave marker was a smooth, black stone—and even in the dry season, its surface beaded with moisture. "Sweats."

Then she saw it: a brass sundial embedded in the mansion's outer wall, a relic from an older Spanish building. The gnomon's shadow fell not on the hour marks, but directly across a small, carved stone pelican. The pelican had one eye chipped away—it was blind.

"The guardian." She knew this lore. The guardian was a sea cave protected by a massive grouper—old, blind, and territorial. Local fishermen said the fish would only let you pass if you poured a bottle of the finest Spanish sherry ("the oldest vintage") into the water.