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Chapter Text

Tintin examined the portfolio before him with wide eyes and a broad smile. Bending at the middle, his finger on his chin, he peered at the various cartoon depictions of a fascinating cast of characters. Bold, graphic lines and saturated colours were the name of the game with this artist; no matter how many times he saw it, he was enthralled by how deceptively simple it was. He might just have to get another drawing done. 

“This style is fantastic,” he said, facing the artist, who was smiling in that proud manner every creative does when someone admires their work, “I can imagine it took many years to perfect it.”

“Would the young sir like a portrait, then?” 

Tintin looked at his companion. “What do you think, Penny?”

Penny— a tall woman with a poetic air— turned from where she was admiring an old bookcase. She cast a quick glance over the portfolio and grinned. 

“Make sure he gets your quiff,” she said. 

“Don’t think he could miss it, to be fair.”

Five minutes later and the street artist was putting his final touches on the painting. Penny had, with his permission, stood behind him for the entire process, granting her a sneak peak at the cartoon of her friend whilst also indulging her own curiosity. Literature was her main subject, but art of any kind tempted her fascination. 

“Oh that is perfect ,” she said, smiling brightly, “you have to put this on your mantelpiece.”

“Pride of place, eh?” Tintin said.

“It deserves nothing less.”

“Very nearly there sir,” the artist said, “I have to say, your face is familiar. Have I drawn you before?”

“Occasionally,” Tintin said with a knowing air.

“Of course! I’ve seen you in the newspaper. You’re a reporter?”

Snowy, who had sat obediently at Tintin’s feet up until now, yawned and whined.

“I’m a journalist. Be patient, Snowy,” he reached down to ruffle his ears, “not much longer.”

Something drew Penny’s eye away from the cartoon artist; a book stall, almost keeling over with the weight of piles of old volumes. Her eyes sparkled. Tintin caught her gaze and smiled fondly, already guessing what was setting that flicker into her eyes. She tilted her head. He nodded and gestured for her to go.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, skirting around him with a brief squeeze to his elbow.

“I’ll catch you up!” he called after her. 

“I didn’t read of such a friend in your newspaper stories,” the artist said.

“She’s rarely involved, and I prefer to keep her away from unsavoury characters.”

“A gentleman as well as a fine reporter!”

Smiling, Tintin ducked his head. He returned to the pose that the artist had directed him to, his eyes darting over to where Penny was haggling with the book stall’s seller. Glasses in hand, she was chewing on the end of one arm as she squinted suspiciously at her temporary opponent. More likely than not they were trying to get her on board with whatever story they were spinning. A long lost volume, or a secret rare edition published posthumously. Penny, however, was a librarian, and was more than accustomed to reading not only a book’s contents but its history, too. Tintin smiled.

“There,” announced the artist, “ I believe I’ve captured something of your likeness.”

Accepting the paper offered to him, Tintin held it up to the light and admired it. 

“Not bad. What do you think, Snowy?”

He looked around. Snowy had gone. 

“Snowy,” he sighed. 

Digging around in his pocket, he offered the artist the correct amount of money for the picture. The artist shook his head and held up a pound coin.

“No need, sir, it’s already been paid for. Seems you have a gentlewoman with you.”

How did Penny manage to slip that past him?— he was facing her the entire time. He was beginning to regret teaching her some sleight of hand. Tintin nodded, thanked him, and bundled the picture into one of his coat pockets. He would think of a way to pay her back. A good pastry would probably do. 

“Now, where’s he run off to?”

Taking his time, Tintin moved through the crowd towards Penny and her bookseller; wherever Snowy was, he was sure he was not in trouble. There was no rush— just a warm Saturday morning, the market, and his two closest companions.

He strode to Penny's side just as she closed her deal. 

“Done,” she said, shaking hands with the seller before handing over a five pound note.

Penny opened up a net bag— one of a handful she always had on her person, ‘just in case’— and lowered a pile of books into it. 

“Poetry,” she said as Tintin offered her his arm and began to walk through the market again, “a whole collection of female Victorian poets, can you believe it? And I got it for five pounds!”

“Something for your lectures?”

“Something for me, more like.”

“You'll have to read me a few.”

“Oh, they'll be perfect for our evenings together.”

Passing by a stall practically walled in with old mirrors, Tintin took the time to smooth his hair back, trying to tame it a little— it was to no avail, his infamous quiff springing up seconds later. Penny concealed a laugh behind a fake sneeze. 

“Hayfever-ish already?” Tintin said knowingly.

“Dust,” she replied, “from the books.”

“Of course.”

What had been a distant barking suddenly drew closer and closer. Snowy skittered into view, looking at Tintin as if he was trying to tell him something. Tintin crouched down.

“Where have you been, eh?” he said, petting Snowy with a smile. “Chasing cats again?”

Snowy had a permanent suspicion of any of the feline species— in particular, he had a long-lasting rivalry with Penny's cat, Smokey. It was harmless enough, the two never did any damage to one another, but it did often lead to some surprising shenanigans.

“Look at this!” exclaimed Tintin. 

Penny looked down at him. He was staring at something in the mirror— something behind him. She turned. Her eyes widened. 

It was a model ship. Ornate and beautifully constructed, it sat in its glass case, its matte sheen glistening in the sunshine. Blue and yellow paint decorated its sides. At the bow a gold figurehead sat proudly— a unicorn. 

Tintin turned and, standing, walked towards the ship for a closer look. Penny followed behind him. His enthusiasm was, as always, infectious, and she found herself eager to inspect the ship alongside him.

“Triple masted,” he muttered, “double decks, fifty guns.” He turned to Penny with bright eyes, a hand on her arm seizing her attention. “Isn't she a beauty, Penn?”

“A stunner.” Penny smiled. 

“That's a very unique specimen, that is.” 

The seller shifted in his seat, catching the attention of all three friends. It was Crabtree, Penny recognised— a regular at the market. He had sold her some of her first pieces of furniture for her apartment, for a very fair price too. 

“From an old sea captain's estate,” Crabtree continued.

“ The Unicorn …” Tintin said, reading out the name painted on the stern. 

“Unicorn. ‘Man-o-war’ sailing ship. It's very old, that is. At least sixteenth century!”

“Seventeenth, I would think.”

“Reign of Charles the First!”

“Charles the Second ,” Penny corrected.

“That's what I said, Charles the Second. As fine a ship as ever sailed the seven seas. You won't find another one of these, mate,” Crabtree nodded to Tintin, “and it's only two quid.”

Standing up straight, Tintin gave the ship another once-over. 

“I'll give you a pound?”

“Done!”

Crabtree unlatched the case and began to ease the ship out of it. Tintin waited with outstretched hands, ready to take it. Penny positioned herself a little to the side— with her bag of books she would not be able to carry it properly, but she could at the very least catch it should anything happen. 

“Gently does it,” said Crabtree as he handed it over to Tintin, “there you go, careful.”

Cradling The Unicorn in his hands, Tintin admired it with a twinkling eye.

“Hey bud,” an American accent burst through the background chatter of the crowd. 

A large man in a blue suit rushed towards them. Penny instinctively stepped between the newcomer and Tintin. Tintin gave her an unimpressed look over her shoulder.

“How much for the boat?” the man said, panting as though he had been running. 

“I’m sorry,” Crabtree said, “I just sold it to this young gent.”

Tintin smiled at Crabtree— the sort of smile he did when he was genuinely pleased, giddy in a childlike manner.

The man turned his attention to Tintin, taking him by the shoulder and steering him away from the stall in a conspiratorial manner. “Oh yeah? Tell me what you paid and I'll give you double.”

“Double?” said Crabtree, appalled. 

“Thanks, but it's not for sale.” Tintin clutched the boat closer to himself. 

Snowy had his hackles up. Penny sympathised; there was something off about this American. Some people could be desperate about bric-a-brac and old collectables, but he seemed near-frantic. Eyes wide, skin flushed and clammy, hands trembling as he gestured wildly, he was acting as though his own life was at stake if he did not get that ship. Penny shook her head— she was thinking like a journalist. 

“Look kid, I'm trying to help you out— I don't think you realise this, but you're about to walk into a whole mess of danger.”

“What kind of danger?” Tintin asked, frowning.

Something caught the man's eye. His expression changed to one of alarm. 

“I'm warning you, get rid of the boat and get out while you still can! These people do not play nice.”

He backed away, slipping into the crowd before either Tintin or Penny could say a thing.

“Wonderful!” 

They both whirled around. Another man— one with received pronunciation that sounded almost haughty— stood looming into Tintin's personal space, looking at only the model ship. Another contender for The Unicorn ?

“It's just wonderful! Don't bother wrapping it, I'll take it as is. Does anybody object if I pay by cheque?” He reached inside of his jacket. 

“If you wanna buy it, you'll have to talk to the kid,” Crabtree said— a little anxious that all this fuss would turn customers away from his stall. 

“I see,” the man said distastefully, “well let the kid name his price.”

Crabtree threw his hands up. “‘Name his price?’ Ten years I've been flogging bric-a-brac and I miss ‘name your price’ by one bleedin’ minute!”

“I'm sorry, I already explained to the other gentleman—” Tintin began.

The man frowned, looking around. 

“American, he was. All hair oil and no socks,” Crabtree added helpfully. 

“— it's not for sale.”

“Well, then let me appeal to your better nature.”

Penny frowned admonishingly, clearing her throat in an obvious manner— could no one take ‘no’ for an answer today? The action earned her a nasty look from the man before he continued with his persuasion.

“I've recently acquired Marlinspike Hall and this ship, as I'm sure you're aware, was once part of the estate.”

“Of the late sea captain?” Tintin said.

“The family fell upon hard times, lost everything. They'd been living in a cloud of bad luck ever since. We are talking generations of drinking and irrational behavior—”

Penny had had enough of this. “I'm sorry, but he's already said that it's not for sale. If you wanted to haggle, you should have gotten here five minutes earlier.”

The man glared. Tintin subtly moved forward, placing himself between Penny and the stranger. It was her turn to give him an unimpressed look— he only rolled his eyes.

“Good day to you, sir,” Tintin said firmly, ending the conversation there.

With that, the pair made their retreat, the ship tucked securely under Tintin’s arm. 

“I didn't like that one bit,” Penny said quietly, slipping her hand around Tintin's elbow when he offered it to her. 

“Oh, don't fret yourself, Penn. I've got the ship, we shouldn't see any more trouble out of it.” He smiled. “Aren't I supposed to be the journalist here?”

Penny turned her head to look behind them. That man was staring at them with such a thunderous expression it almost frightened her. She turned back. Tintin looked at her, worry creeping into his eyes at the anxious twist to her features. Smoothing a peaceful smile over her face, Penny shook her head.  

“You're right, it's all said and done, I'm sure.”

A short walk later and the pair were climbing up the stairs to their apartments. 

By whatever luck the universe had granted them with, Penny had rented the flat opposite Tintin’s back when she first came to the city; a move that had strengthened the already tightening bond between them. Now, it was as if the two apartments were two halves of one household. Tintin’s books occupied Penny’s shelves, and Penny’s typewriter sat in Tintin’s cabinet. Breakfast was at Tintin’s, and evenings were spent in front of Penny’s fireplace. Their spare key was on the other’s keyring.

“I’ll go put these books away,” Penny said to Tintin. 

“And I’ll get this somewhere safe,” Tintin lifted the ship up, “I want to give it a good look-over. Join me?”

“Naturally. Won’t be a moment!”

Penny headed into her apartment, leaving the door open as she usually did when Tintin was home. 

“Smokey?” she called out, “Smokey, sweetheart?”

Apart from an empty food bowl and a paw print in some spilled flour from Penny’s morning baking, there was no sign of the Siamese cat. 

“How did she get out? Slippery little thing.”

Penny began to put her new set of books away. A few more, she thought, and she would need another bookcase. Perhaps there would be room in her bedroom. Her apartment was a library in and of itself— bookcases occupied every available space against the wall, all fit to burst with a range of volumes. Tintin often quipped that he did not need to leave the building for research; Penny joked that he only used her little library because he was guaranteed regular cups of tea during his late-night forays into literature and natural history. 

A series of crashes, barks, and yowls came from across the hallway. 

“Tintin?” 

Penny set her books aside and hurried to the other apartment. She stepped inside just in time to see Tintin fall to the floor and Smokey shoot out of the door into her own apartment. A path of carnage trailed around the room— and she knew exactly who was the culprit.

“ Smokey !” she admonished, then walked over to help Tintin to his feet. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know how she got out again. Oh, your ship. Your face !”

Waving away Penny's fretting, Tintin shook his head with a good-natured— if a little sore— smile. “Snowy knows better than to chase her.”

“Still. You aren't too badly hurt?”

“Not at all. Had worse, remember?”

Penny gave him a flat look. She was still getting her heart rate down from the last time she helped Tintin stitch up a knife wound. 

Picking up the ship, Tintin looked it over with a gentle hand. Penny started tidying up after her cat. She made a note to sew up the rips in the curtains that evening; it would not take two minutes on her Singer. 

“Look what you did,” Tintin said to Snowy, “you broke it! Bad dog!”

“I can pay you for the damages?” Penny offered, picking up Tintin’s tea set and putting it back on the table— nothing broken, thankfully.

“You didn't even break it!”

“But Smokey—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Tintin gave Penny a stern look when she began to protest. “Did you let me pay you back when Snowy broke that vase of yours?”

Penny smiled and continued to straighten the place out, lifting up a fallen armchair. Tintin set the ship down and looked closely at it.

“Something happened on this ship, Penny. And we’re going to the one place that could have the answer.”

He strode over and, sweeping his coat up, grabbed Penny’s elbow and practically dragged her out of his apartment. 

“But, the tidying—” 

“No time, Penn, come along!”

It was after closing at the library— Saturday was a half day— but one advantage of being friends with the library owner's assistant was that Tintin had twenty-four hour access should he so desire; an advantage that he cashed in on a regular basis. Penny never minded. If she needed to sleep, there were plenty of couches, and Tintin always made sure to watch over her whilst he did his reading. Besides, when you lived next to Tintin, you had to get used to the midnight exclamations of ‘great snakes!’ and the occasional fistfight.

This time, Penny was wide awake. The excitement had swept her along in its wake; she was just as eager as her friend to discover the secret of The Unicorn .

“You go left and I go right?” Tintin said, looking with elated trepidation at the history section.

Penny nodded, slung her coat over her arm, and began.

An hour later, and the pair had amassed a sizable amount of books with even the smallest mention of The Unicorn , Marlinspike, or the late sea captain’s family. 

Sitting beside one another at a table, they began to work through the books— flipping through them, looking through the indexes, taking notes, anything that could be found.

“There's a story here, I can feel it,” Tintin said to Penny after a short while.

She nodded, frowning over the tiny print of a naval pocketbook. “Mm. Should break you out of that nasty block.”

Writer's block rarely hit Tintin, but when it did it hit hard. Not to mention when it hit before an approaching deadline. Work was work, and he loved his job, but deadlines did not care for one's brain deciding to kick up a fuss. It was why he was at the market— he was hoping to find something inspiring, and he did. 

“Think it already has.”

He tilted his notebook to show Penny the contents. She smiled; it was nearly gray with the amount of writing on it.

“Good.”

She set aside the pocketbook after making a few notes and leafed through a book on local family histories.

“Got a coat of arms,” she said, showing it to Tintin, “but no genealogy. Apparently there was never one kept.” 

He frowned. “Could you jot down the heraldry? Might be useful.”

“‘course.”

She scribbled it down along with a rough sketch. Tintin glanced at it with a smile.

“Have I ever told you how much I appreciate that you can draw?”

“You're lucky I find this fun.”

“ Very .”

“Very lucky or very fun?”

“Bit of both?”

“We'll go with that.”

Conversation lapsed back into the sound of pages turning and pencil against paper, and the pair returned to their intent study. 

“Here it is!” Tintin said after a while. 

Penny hurried over from where she had been rifling through a set of old legal files in hopes of finding something. Leaning on the back of Tintin's chair, she bent to peer at the thick tome in front of him— a maritime encyclopedia. Snowy hopped up onto the table to share in the revelation. 

“ Sir Francis Haddock of Marlinspike Hall ,” he read, “ the last captain of the ill-fated Unicorn. The ship set sail from Barbados in 1676 on one of the most ruinous voyages in maritime history… ship never reached destination… attacked by pirates, all hands lost except for one survivor. When Sir Francis was rescued and returned home, he was convinced his name had been cursed. The Unicorn’s manifest stated that it was carrying a cargo of rum and tobacco bound for Europe, but it was long claimed the ship was carrying a secret cargo… ”

“A secret cargo?” Penny said. “What could that have been?”

“I don't know… what do you think, Snowy?”

Snowy woofed quietly. Penny nodded seriously. 

“Quite,” she said, “very astute.”

Tintin turned back to the book. “ Historians have tried and failed to discover what happened on that fatal voyage— but Sir Francis's last words: Only a true Haddock will discover the secret of the Unicorn .”

A creak cracked through the quiet. Penny jolted upright, head whipping around to face the direction the sound had come from. Beside her, Tintin gasped quietly, tensing in the way only someone used to having to jump into action at a moment’s notice would. They looked at one another. Tintin with a wary expression, Penny with one of fright.

“It- it's an old building,” Penny said, trying to reason with herself, her heart nearly in her mouth. “I'm sure it's nothing.”

It could not be nothing. Both of them knew it— they had felt eyes on them. They were being watched. 

Tintin reached out and caught Penny's wrist in his hand. Her pulse hammered against the flat of his fingers, telling the story that her brave-face did not. He grimaced sympathetically. Perhaps it was time to head home. The rain hammering against the window and lightning splintering the sky certainly seemed to agree.

“Let's get back,” he said, letting her go and grabbing their coats, “I think we have enough to get on with here!”

Twenty-Six Labrador Street was a welcome sight in the pouring rain. Huddled under Penny’s umbrella, Tintin and her sprinted across the street together, Snowy tucked into the lapels of Penny’s coat and barking in encouragement. Tintin had said he would be fine on the ground, but, in Penny’s words, she ‘did not want him to get his little paws wet, he would catch a cold.’ 

‘What about my little paws,’ Tintin had said. ‘Shut up,’ Penny had replied.

Ushering Penny inside, Tintin shut the door behind himself and Snowy. The little dog shook off the remnants of the storm outside and started to patter up the stairs. Tintin followed after him, jogging up the stairs, his mind churning over the information collected in the library. Penny lingered for a moment to check their respective mailboxes: a card from her sister, a reminder for Tintin’s deadlines, and a handful of bills each, 

“I've missed something, Snowy,” Tintin muttered from the stairs, stooping slightly to address his dog, “we need to take a closer look at that model.”

“Perhaps I could try the uni in the morning? Never know, there might be a professor who's written an article on this exact subject,” Penny said.

“Could you?”

“Of course. It’ll only be a phone call.”

Tintin unlocked his door and swung it open. He turned to Penny with a grin as she came up next to him on the landing. 

“I should start paying you, what with all the help you give me.”

“Try it and I’ll just slip the money back.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Bundling themselves inside, Penny switched the light on and Tintin strode over to where he had left the model ship. Filling the kettle, Penny set about making a pot of coffee; it would be a long night, from the looks of it.

“ Great snakes ,” Tintin hissed. 

Penny turned to look at him. She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

The Unicorn was gone.

Chapter Text

“Of course it’s gone, how could I have been so stupid?” Tintin said, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

Penny, leaning against the stove with her arms folded, stared at the vacant spot on top of the dress where The Unicorn had been. “No prize for guessing who it was.”

Tintin looked at her. “The man from the market.”

“Mr. Marlinspike Hall himself.”

A few more paces later, and Tintin seemed to make up his mind about something. Grabbing his torch from the office, he strode to the door, holding it open and looking back at Penny expectantly. 

“Coming?”

Smiling, Penny shook her head. Researching at the library was enough excitement for her, thank you. 

“Are you sure?” Tintin tilted his head; he was getting that look in his eye again, the one that usually resulted in some sort of trespassing or breaking-and-entering. “Might be fun.”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed on your adventures, mister.” Penny made a shooing motion. “Go on, do your intrepid reporting, I’ll make tea for when you get back.”

Tintin grinned and darted forward to kiss her cheek. “If I’m not back soon, don’t stay up.”

“Yes, yes, now go .”

As his and Snowy’s footsteps retreated down the stairs, Penny walked over to the window on the opposite wall. Opening the curtain, she watched as her friends walked out onto the street. Tintin lifted his head, catching her eye. He waved with a smile. Then, crouching down, said something to Snowy, who raised his muzzle and barked up at her. She shook her head fondly and waved to them both. 

A cab dawdled down the road. Tintin hailed it and clambered into the back with Snowy. 

Shutting the curtains, Penny turned back to the room and looked at her watch. “Nine pm. That lad’s sleep schedule is torn to shreds.”

Brick wall. Overgrown vines. Iron gates. Skeletal trees. Gravel road. Marlinspike in the distance. Tintin noted these small details down in his head for later; the atmosphere was one of the most important things in keeping a reader’s attention, and he knew his audience appreciated the details of his adventures. 

His torch flickered over the coat of arms on a pillar beside the gate. He looked the entrance up and down for a way in. Reaching out, he shook the gates, hoping that they were old enough to simply fall open; the only thing that resulted from this was a loud clanking sound as the tightly padlocked chains keeping the gates together rattled against the wrought iron bars. 

A bark. Tintin looked down. Snowy was on the other side of the bars, wagging his tail. 

“How’d you do that?”

Snowy darted to the left. Tintin followed. A hole in the wall where the bricks had crumbled away revealed itself from behind some loose ivy— a hole big enough for him and Snowy to get through. Stooping to his knees, he crawled through.

“Clever boy.”

Pulling himself upright, he walked forward. Before him, Marlinspike Hall revealed itself; a large and luxurious building, beautiful in a deserted manner with its windows boarded up and ivy crawling all over the pale walls. It was not quite as grand as a stately home, but it was an impressive chateau nonetheless. Tintin could well imagine a family of sea captains living there. 

Walking up to the steps, he angled his torch at the crest above the doorway. 

“A coat of arms,” he whispered, “why does that look familiar? Hang on a minute…”

Pulling out his notebook, he opened it to the page where Penny had drawn the coat of arms of the Haddock family. He lifted it up and compared it to the carved crest. It was a perfect match. Beside the drawing were notes: ‘ Haddock, ’ they read, ‘ signifies good fortune, bountifulness, lucky fish, feeding of five thousand. ’

Tintin smiled. “Good old Penn. Of course! Marlinspike Hall is the old Haddock estate.”

He turned to Snowy. He was not at his feet. Turning, he watched as Snowy trotted off to the side. 

“Snowy?” 

The gravel behind him rustled. He looked back, and winced. A dog stood a few feet away. Snarling, saliva dripping from its jowls, it was every inch the fierce guardian of the estate. It barked, and sprang forward, and ran straight for Tintin. Eyes widening, Tintin broke into a sprint for the woodland.

Leaping, jumping and sliding, he skidded down a slope and ran through a small stream, the hound snapping at his heels all the while. He swore he could feel its hot breath against his calves as he tore through the trees. Catching a protruding branch, he pulled it with him and let it spring backwards. The dog only snapped through it. Tintin felt himself starting to panic a little. 

People were one thing— angry dogs were another.

A drystone wall loomed out of nowhere. Tintin stumbled. He caught himself against the wall. Turning, he watched with dawning horror as the dog drew closer. 

Something burst out of the wall behind him. A white blur— Snowy! Barking, he squared up against the larger dog. Tintin grimaced, readying himself to get between Snowy and that brute, half expecting it to tear Snowy apart, but no; the dog backed down. Rolling over and whining, it flopped like a puppy, utterly disarmed.

Crouching, Tintin gave Snowy some well deserved attention and fuss. “Well done, Snowy! Good boy.”

The two dogs played as Tintin returned to the hall and climbed to one of the first floor windows. Unlatching it through the broken glass, he pushed it open, dropping inside and sweeping his flashlight along the room. Sheets of cloth and dust covered every surface. It was as if the place had not been lived in for a good two decades. 

Making his way through to the next room, he slinked through the open door. His torch fell over odd pieces of furniture and scaffolding. Then— there!

On the opposite side of the room was a glass case covered in a sheet. When the beam hit, a silhouette was revealed. The silhouette of a ship.

Tintin strode over. Pulling the cloth away, he opened the case and carefully drew the ship out. Smiling in disbelief, he ran his torch over it. 

It was The Unicorn . It had to be. The same yellow and blue paint. The same gold figurehead. The same name on the stern. 

“Well, well, well… it seems we’ve caught our thief,” he said satisfactorily, “Penny will be pleased.”

A breath fell on his neck. Someone was behind him. 

He whirled around, and was met with the business end of a candlestick. 

Penny hummed to herself as she remounted Tintin’s torn curtains. It had only taken two minutes, just like she had thought, and now it was as though the rips were never there in the first place. Turning away from the window, she inspected the room.

Any evidence of Smokey’s trail of destruction had been put back in its proper place. The sole lamp that she had left on— too much bright light made her squint— bathed the room in a warm glow. It was a gentle night; the storm from earlier had passed, and was replaced by balmy air that drifted in through the open window, bringing with it the scent of rain-wet pavements. Just the sort of night for perfect sleep.

Yawning, Penny fanned her face, hoping that a little cool air would wake her up some more. She checked her watch. Ten pm. Tintin had said not to stay up too late. Still, she did not like the idea of him out there, investigating, with no one awake to contact should it go pear-shaped. 

“Tea?” she asked no one, clapping her hands together. “Yes, tea, I think.”

Busying herself by the stove, she looked around for the matchbook. Behind her, the door swung open and tapped against the wall in its usual gentle manner. She immediately perked up. Tintin had returned. Not bothering to turn away from the stove, she continued to search the cupboard for matches.

“You’re back ea—” Footsteps made her pause.

That was not Tintin’s tread. 

“— early,” she continued, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, “I wasn’t expecting you until the small hours.”

The footsteps advanced closer. She looked to her left. Nothing. Her right— there. A copper pot. It ought to be heavy enough to at least keep whoever it was away long enough to make a break for it. Her heart hammered in her chest. 

“I’m about to make some tea. Want some?”

A hand landed on her shoulder. Reaching out, she grabbed the pot with both hands, turned, and swung. A dull ‘thung’ rang through the room. Groaning, the man— a stranger in a knit jumper and dirty trousers— behind her stumbled away, clutching at his nose. Penny dropped the pot and sprinted for the ajar door. A rough voice cursed, then she was grabbed from behind. Her stomach sank. She felt her blood chill. 

There was a bloody second man.

His arms were around her middle as he wrestled her back into the apartment. Her glasses fell from her face in the scuffle, clattering on the floor somewhere next to the doorway. She tried to remember some of what Tintin had taught her about getting out of a hold like this, but it— and her voice— escaped her. She sank her nails into the man’s forearms, pulling a muffled yell from him. 

“Knock her out before she does anymore damage,” he said to his fellow through gritted teeth.

“Gimme a moment,” the other whined, “she’s got a mean arm on her.”

“Just get on with it! We’re here for the scroll, remember?”

“I’m doing it, I’m doing it.”

Looming out of the dark, Penny barely had a chance to frantically shake her head before a damp cloth was pressed over her mouth. It smelled sweet. What was it called again, she thought dully, chlorophyll? Her vision swam. Everything felt like it was swirling, pooling into an abstract painting of dull colours and patterns. The world shifted. She was looking at the ceiling. No one had a hold of her any more, but she still felt pinned. Her body was leaden. She could not move— could not speak— could not—

“Let’s get to work,” one of them said, his voice sounding like he was speaking through cotton wool.

—could not stay awake.

“‘ Some things are easily lost. ’ What did he mean by that, Snowy? What was he trying to tell me? ‘ Some things are easily lost ’...”

Tintin walked down the street to his apartment with Snowy at his side. What he had discovered at Marlinspike Hall only brought more questions than answers. Two Unicorns . Both were exactly alike, down to the very last detail. Sakharine had one, why did he want the other? Why would someone steal Tintin’s version? Why was the Haddock line cursed with bad luck? All of that, and ‘some things are easily lost.’ 

Unlocking the front door to Twenty-Six Labrador Street, Tintin let himself and Snowy in quietly. It was late, and he did not want to disturb Mrs. Finch or any of the other guests. 

Snowy smelled something in the air, then with a short, sharp bark rushed up the stairs and barrelled into Tintin’s apartment. Tintin frowned.

“Snowy?”

He hurried up after him. Pushing the door open, he squinted in the low light of a single lamp. His eyes adjusted. The breath fled from his lungs. 

“Penny!” 

Penny was strewn, unmoving, over the tiled floor of the kitchenette. Snowy sat beside her, licking her face and whining frantically. She looked— no. He did not let himself finish that thought.

He ran over, throwing himself onto his knees beside her. With one hand on her pulse and the other hovering over her mouth and nose, his heart leaped in relief when he felt the thumping of her heartbeat and her breath against his palm. Now that he was close enough he could see the rise and fall of her torso. She was just sleeping; chloroform, if he smelled the traces correctly. 

Someone had done this to her. 

He sighed. “Oh, Penn.” 

Looking around, he finally saw the rampage that someone had run through his apartment. Books and papers scattered all over the place, food flung from the refrigerator, cupboards wide open, an armchair on its side; it was as though a storm had torn through the room. Whoever had been in here, whoever had knocked Penny out, had been searching for something. 

“Great snakes,” he whispered, “we're really in it now, boy.”

Snowy whined and nudged Penny's cheek with his nose.

Gathering Penny into his arms, Tintin lifted her and settled her into the upright armchair. He gently tapped at her cheek. She mumbled something but stayed unmoving.

“Penny,” he said, “Penny, can you hear me?”

No response.

“C’mon, Penn. Wake up,” he whispered, frowning— he did not want to have to resort to less pleasant means. “Penny? Penelope? You awake?"

Penny made a face. “Mm.”

“Is that a yes or a no ?”

“ ‘s a yes.”

Her eyes cracked open. The familiar sight of her peering at him made him breathe properly for the first time since he walked in the door. Snowy ruffed happily, standing on his hind paws to lick at Penny’s limp hand

“There you are, Penny. Good to see you in the land of the living again,” Tintin smiled, reaching out to squeeze her arm.

She seemed to try to smile, only to grimace and mouth something that Tintin could not hear.

He bent a little closer. “What?”

“Water,” she said hoarsely. 

“Oh— oh, yes, of course!” 

Hurrying over to the sink, he filled a glass and gave it to her to sip. She took it gratefully, already feeling the after-effects of her chemically induced sleep. Tintin then fetched her glasses from the floor next to the doorway. One of the arms was a little bent, but they were not badly broken. He twisted the arm back to its rightful place before sliding the glasses onto Penny's head. Squinting up at him, she smiled— a little bleary and confused, but herself. 

“You're not a ginger blob anymore.”

He grinned. “How are you feeling? They didn't… didn't do anything, did they?”

She shook her head. “No. Just gave me an awful fright before knocking me out. Didn't even bother to ask if I knew ‘owt about what they wanted. They… I think one of them said something about a scroll.”

Tintin's eyes glimmered. Another clue! 

Penny winced, pressing a hand to her head. Guilt pricked at Tintin’s conscience; this was because of him. Maybe he should have insisted she come to Marlinspike. Then at least they would have been together instead of her being alone and vulnerable. And she still had the heart after everything to remember anything she could for his investigation. Perhaps he ought to— no. He sighed. He could not give up on this, not when it had already taken so much effort from the both of them. 

Two ships. Mr Sakharine. A scroll. He could work with that. He had certainly built from less. 

“Thank you, Penny. Really. Now,” he stood up straight and put his hands on his hips, “rest up. You'll have a nasty headache for a bit. I don’t want to see you out of that armchair, doctor’s orders.”

“I’ll listen to the concussion expert,” she mumbled, closing her eyes again.

Tintin went to walk away, then hesitated. 

“Here.” He grabbed a blanket from the floor before laying it over Penny’s seated figure, then nodded to himself, satisfied.

Snowy had started to sniff around the topsy-turvy apartment whilst Tintin tended to Penny. After making a complete circuit and a thorough inspection of the office, he was now by the dresser where The Unicorn had sat. Scrabbling around at the base, he woofed and whined until he caught Tintin's attention.

“What is it, Snowy?”

Tintin headed over. The dresser had been pulled away from the wall at a slight angle, the force of whoever had pulled out the drawers and rifled through the cupboard yanking the heavy piece of furniture from its place. Snowy seemed to be trying to get to the other side of it. Bending, Tintin put his torch on the ground and flicked it on, peering at the gap between the bottom of the dresser and the wall. Something glinted dimly in the light. He stood, wedged himself between the dresser and the wall and pushed it into the room. Snowy curled around his feet, barking, encouraging him onward.

“What’s this?” he murmured.

In the beam of torchlight slanting through the bottom of the dresser, a metal tube gleamed. Tintin squatted down to take a closer look. Peering at the metal tube— thin, small, about the size and shape of a cigarette— he reached out and plucked it from the floor. The iron was cold between his fingers. Cold, but solid, hardy enough to survive years without erosion; from the looks of it, it had survived years, the signs of wear and tear decorating its nooks and crannies. 

“Ah-ha! This was in the mast.”

Turning, he stood and hopped over the wreckage on the floor, beaming all the while as he fetched his torch and strode over to sit on the upturned armchair next to Penny’s.

“Look at this, Penny,” he said, his excitement brimming and spilling over into his voice.

Penny sat up and adjusted her glasses. Peering at the metal tube, her eyes widened. 

“Heavens, what do you suppose it is?” her voice had an edge to it— exhaustion, and a little stress from earlier— but her eyes reflected the same enthusiasm Tintin displayed.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Tintin went to put the torch in his mouth, but with a ‘oh, give me that, I’m not that delicate,’ Penny grabbed it and held the beam steady on Tintin’s hands. He nodded gratefully. Then, with care, he unscrewed the tube. It split in two at the middle. Lifting the lid, he tossed it aside to reveal—

“A scroll,” Penny whispered.

They looked at each other and smiled.

Taking the scroll out, Tintin unfurled it and squinted at its contents.

“Do you have the, uh…” Snowy popped up next to him, magnifying glass in his mouth. “Oh, thank you, Snowy. Good boy.”

Focusing the glass on the scroll, Tintin read out its contents. “ Three brothers joined. Three Unicorns in company, sailing in the noonday sun will speak. For ‘tis from the Light that Light will dawn, and then shines forth the Eagle's Cross .”

“A poem? Early Modern English, most likely, if it’s the same age as the ship…” Penny said, frowning.

“Look at these markings,” Tintin gestured to a series of seemingly meaningless dashes and curves at the bottom of the scroll, “some kind of secret language, or code?”

“It’s nothing like any code I’ve come across.”

“None of this makes any sense,” he scowled at the scroll as if a hard look would make it reveal its secrets.

“But it does answer one thing. This,” Penny pointed to the scroll, “is why they wrecked your flat. They were looking for it, that’s why I overheard them talking about a scroll. But they didn’t find it. Which means…”

“They’ll be back,” Tintin finished.

The doorbell rang. 

Penny looked at Tintin, her eyes wide. He laid a hand on her arm and squeezed. 

“Stay here,” he whispered, then turned to Snowy, “stay, boy. Look after Penny.”

Snowy obediently hopped into Penny’s lap. She bundled him into her arms; he was not impressed by being used as a comfort object, but stayed put nonetheless. 

Shrugging off his coat, Tintin tossed it aside; fetching his pistol, he slipped it into the waistband of his trousers. With a ‘be careful,’ from Penny, he walked out of the apartment and into the hallway.

From the top of the stairs, he could see Mrs. Finch talking through the narrow space between the door and the wall that the security chain provided. Who she was talking to, he could not tell— he would have to get closer. Slowly, he descended the stairs.

“No I don’t know where he is, dearie. I think he’s gone out. Anyway, it’s after dark, and Mr. Tintin is very particular about not admitting visitors after bedtime. I have to go back to my cocoa. I’ve got a very good book and a cup of cocoa, it’s really lovely…”

“Thank you, Mrs. Finch, I can look after this.”

Mrs. Finch turned, smiled, and retreated into her apartment. 

Tintin crept closer to the door. Pistol in hand, he readied himself for what awaited him on the other side.

“Hey kid,” a familiar American voice whispered, “is that you? Open the door!”

“What do you want?”

“Look, the game is up. He’s gonna be back. Now, I know he wanted those boats, but I swear to God, I never thought he’d kill anyone over it!”

“Who? Who are you talking about?”

“I’m trying to tell you that your life is in danger, you and that girl’s—”

“Answer me! Who?”

A bang. Then another, then another. Bullets punched through the door, sending splinters of wood, plaster chunks and decorations flying. Tintin threw himself to the floor and covered his face. 

Footsteps pattered above him. Somewhere, Snowy barked and whined. The bullets continued, never breaking their velocity or ferocity.

“Tintin!” Penny cried out from the landing.

“Stay back, Penny!” he yelled.

Silence. The bullets had stopped. Tintin sprang to his knees, holding out his pistol in front of him. The last of the bullets had cut the chain on the door. Tintin watched as it swung open. Behind it was the man from the market, still in his blue suit and porkpie hat. He stood, swaying, staring, unarmed except for a newspaper. Then, he toppled to the floor.

Penny rattled down the stairs and was at Tintin’s side in a matter of seconds. She fell to her knees beside the fallen man, pulled her jumper off, wadded it up and pressed it to the worst of the bullet wounds. The man wheezed and winced, groaning softly at the pain.

“Stay awake,” she said, her voice and her hands trembling, “keep your eyes open, you hear me?” 

“Mrs. Finch! A man’s been shot on our doorstep,” Tintin shouted.

Mrs. Finch appeared from her apartment and sighed. “Not again…”

“Call an ambulance!”

Leaping to his feet, Tintin rushed out and onto the road. 

“Can you tell me your name, sir,” Penny said, trying to keep the injured man awake.

Teeth bared, he reached for the newspaper that he had been carrying. Penny frowned— what could a man in his final moments want with a newspaper— but lifted a hand from the jumper and pulled it towards the both of them.

“Here.”

His hand landed on the paper. Blood smeared from his finger onto the letters on the front. Slowly, deliberately, he spelled something out, then—

“Sir? Sir?”

He had passed out. Penny pressed two fingers to his neck; his pulse was there. Barely there, but there nonetheless. Ambulance bells rang in the near distance. She sighed, relieved.

“Penny?” Tintin rushed back into the building. “Is he…”

“Alive. Just.” She sat back on her heels and picked up the newspaper. Standing, she handed it to Tintin. “And he gave us a little help.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Penny woke up to Tintin in her apartment. 

Sitting up in bed, she squinted through the open door of her bedroom; she tended to leave it ajar in case she, sans-glasses, wanted a glass of water or something in the middle of the night. A vaguely Tintin-coloured and shaped blob was rifling carefully through her bookshelves, muttering under his breath and occasionally making comments to a white blob at his feet. The sight was not an uncommon one. In fact, it was more common than not, especially if he was writing a report. Like a bloodhound, he was— once he caught a scent, he could not let it go. 

“We need to have a talk about boundaries,” she said, closing her eyes and falling back onto her pillow. 

“Oh! Morning, Penn.”

Footsteps pattered over to Penny's bedroom. A weight flopped onto her bed. Her glasses, sat on her bedside table, were pushed onto her nose. She opened her eyes and fixed a glare at her companion. Tintin was no stranger to Penny's morning moods— it took a good minute for her displeasure at being so rudely pulled out of her sleep to dissipate— so the dark look she was directing at him made no effect on his cheerful disposition. 

“Look at this,” he said, gesturing to the open book in his lap. 

“You're buying me so many pastries,” she muttered under her breath.

“Penny, please?” 

Groaning, she sat up and peered over Tintin's shoulder at the book. It was, she recognised, a volume on Early Modern English poetry.

“So, I was doing a bit of reading, and I found out that the Haddock family were known for their little riddles and tricks. Before the curse, I mean. Look here, apparently Sir Francis regularly gave his crew poems like the one on the scroll to solve.”

Penny scanned the page with a few of Francis Haddock's infamous poems displayed. There was, however, no mention of The Unicorn or its scroll.

“Any leads on the code?”

“No. But any information is good information.”

“Maybe it's all a big gag? If he's known for tricks and pranks.”

“Possibly.” Tintin pondered it for a moment. “But then why is Mr Sakharine after it? Why did that man get shot over it? Why did they ransack the flat? No, Penn. This is something serious. Something big. ”

He sat with his chin in his hand, thinking deeply with a glow to his features that he only got when doing a report. Penny smiled. She could practically see the clockwork turning in his clever head. 

“Someone's having fun.”

He grinned. “Just a little bit.”

“It's very inappropriate,” she said, exaggerating a tone of scolding concern, “someone's been shot, you know.” 

“Speaking of, I've got the Thompson twins—”

“Don't you mean the Thomson twins?”

“You know, I can never tell which it is. Anyway, they're coming over. Apparently they've got information on the man from last night. Which means,” he stood and faced her with his hands on his hips, “you need to get dressed.”

“And why is that?”

“Because they'll be here soon, and I've got toast waiting that won't eat itself, so chop chop.”

He bustled out of the room with Snowy at his heels. Penny watched him go, blinking. 

“Where does he find the energy?” she muttered, before shouting, “boundaries, Tintin, boundaries!”

“Mere semantics, Penny, mere semantics!”

Penny shook her head with an irresistible grin. They both knew perfectly well that if Penny really had an issue with his presence, Tintin would adapt without complaint. After all, it was her who handed him her spare key and told him to treat her home as if it were his. Perhaps it was a little odd that he, a man, felt comfortable wandering in and out of her, a woman's, bedroom— let alone sitting on her bed— but she never thought twice about it. If it turned out Tintin's intentions in his interactions with her were anything but pure, she would happily eat her hat. 

Pulling herself out of bed, she washed and dressed as quickly as she could, before joining Tintin at the dining table. Brightening at the sight of her up and about, he poured her a cup of coffee and pushed a plate of buttered toast towards her. She smiled appreciatively. Looking at the clock, she took note of the time— half five. 

“How long have you been awake?” she asked. “And if Snowy’s going to be at the table, at least give him his own chair.”

“An hour maybe?” Tintin said, chewing on his toast, and plopped Snowy onto the chair between him and Penny. “Probably more.”

Penny pushed Snowy’s chair in. He sat up and put his paws on the table, looking every inch the polite, table-mannered dog. Setting a tea cup in front of him, Penny poured him a drink out of the jug of water she always had out. Snowy lapped at it gratefully. 

“ Blimey , you really do run on clockwork.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Look, I know I said I'd call the university,” she said, “but the maritime history professor is only a few streets away. I checked the address last night, before the uh… incident. She's a real dear, and won't mind a call without invitation. I was thinking I could go this morning.”

“Good idea. Divide and conquer.” He tilted his head. “Will you be alright to be out and about?”

“Of course. What am I, an invalid?”

“I just don’t want you going overboard since, well, you were technically attacked last night. And the whole thing afterwards with the American. I wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted to back off.”

Penny smiled and, standing, patted Tintin's shoulder as she walked past him to fetch the jam from her refrigerator. 

“It’s not as if I’m going undercover. It’ll just be a chat. Might not even lead anywhere, but you and I both know we’re best off covering every angle.”

Tintin smirked. “I thought you weren’t getting involved.”

“I’m not , I’m just helping you along with some of the more menial tasks. Besides, you’re the one always saying I’m not supposed to be a part of your adventures.”

He considered her carefully, playing with the handle of his coffee mug.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I wonder if we don’t have a choice in the matter.”

She stared at him for a long minute over her jammy toast. “You’re reading too many of my books. You’re starting to sound poetic.”

“Oh, really, Penn.”

“ Fate wants me to be a journalist , we don’t have a choice in the matter .”

“ Penny .”

“Right, you’re sure you’re up for this?” 

“Tintin, I swear, if you ask me one more time—”

“Alright, alright. I won’t nag. Just… be careful, please?”

“Yes, because Professor Pseasold is going to drug my tea.”

“She might.”

Penny gave Tintin a flat look as she put her satchel into the basket of her bicycle. He shuffled, looking uncharacteristically nervous and apprehensive. Sighing, she let go of the urge to tease him; he must be feeling guilty, she thought, blaming himself for the relatively minor harm that came to her. She did not see him as responsible, not at all, but he, irritatingly noble as he was, could not see beyond his own self-admonishment. 

“Being friends with you comes with a certain risk,” she said gently, “I know that. If I wasn’t prepared to face that risk, I would have moved away long ago. What’s it been, three years? I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Tintin made a begrudging expression. “I suppose so.”

“Exactly. We’re a good team, we work well together, so let me work, yes?”

“Yes. Right.” He nodded determinedly, frowning, and fixed a bright smile onto his features. “Off to work, then. Good luck, Penn.”

Patting her on the shoulder, he stepped back and let Penny push her bike past him, through the hallway, and out of the door. She turned, waved, mounted, and was off. Tintin watched her go. Turning to Snowy, he folded his arms and sighed. 

“I think I might be right. No choice in the matter, eh boy?”

Snowy woofed. 

“Penny, darling !”

Moments after ringing the doorbell of Professor Pseasold’s grand townhouse, Penny found herself swept into a tight hug and practically carried over the threshold. Enveloped in a cloud of sandalwood perfume and feather boas, she felt the professor press a kiss to each of her cheeks— undoubtedly leaving a crimson imprint behind— before releasing her onto her own two feet. 

“Oh, it’s been an absolute age my dear, dear girl. I have missed you terribly at the last few faculty do’s, it’s been utterly droll without you, just me and a room full of fuddy-duddy old men who look at me like I’ve grown a second head when I try and talk politics with them, but speaking of the faculty, there’s this delightful TA I have to introduce you to when you have the time, I really think he will catch your eye. Not in that way, my dear, I know your, ah, lack of interest , he simply has the most divine ideas about Brontë—”

Professor Cordelia Pseasold was a grand woman. Well endowed in all aspects, she spent the first thirty years exploring the high seas with her naval father, the next twenty getting various degrees and qualifications, before settling down at sixty with her closest friend, Pepper Plaintiff, a former lawyer who now spent her days playing music for jazz clubs. 

Pseasold liked her clothing outrageously patterned and airy, her makeup vibrant and bold, and her music fast-paced enough to get the heart-rate going. Her lectures, it was said, were as raucous as they were educational. The only thing more impressive than her weaponry collection was her generosity; she always had time for friends, and always had friends to spend that time with. 

As soon as Penny had taken on a full time role at the university, Professor Pseasold had taken her under her wing. Their friendship was a solid one, wrought from the solidarity found in being one of five total women in the faculty of the university (all of whom were in the arts and humanities department). 

“Delia,” Pepper said, peeling her away from Penny, “leave the poor thing alone, you’re going to give her a breakout with all that lipstick.”

Producing an impeccably folded, blindingly white handkerchief, Pepper gently wiped away the red pigment from Penny’s cheeks. Penny often wondered at Pepper and Cordelia's relationship— they were opposites in so many ways— but they were happy together, and that was all that mattered.

“Oh don’t fuss, my sweet, Penny doesn’t mind, does she?” Professor Pseasold pouted playfully.

“Not when it’s you.”

In complete honesty, Penny adored visiting Professor Pseasold. It was like being doted over by your favourite aunts. It could be a little overwhelming, but neither minded if you had to make a swift exit. 

“You're looking gaunt, Penny darling. Have you been sleeping properly? Eating properly? That journalist lad doesn't have you rushing about at all hours, does he?”

“I'm alright, Professor, really. I do need to ask you about a few things, though. It's for one of Tintin’s reports. Trust me,” she lifted a hand to halt Pseasold’s protest before it could begin, “I’m doing the easy work.”

Professor Pseasold clapped her hands together. “Ah, wonderful, I do love a good historical chinwag. Maisy dear!”

A mousey-looking maid poked her head around a door. Penny waved. Maisy blinked.

“Tea for four in the sun room, if you would be so kind!”

Maisy looked around for the fourth in question.

“Oh, don't be silly, dear girl, you'll be dining with us. No, I shall not have you sequestered in the kitchen like some broom to be set aside when no longer useful. Bally rot, the idea of it!”

The sun room was an impressive extension on the back of the house. It boasted a vast collection of exotic plants, all of which were in such fine, glowing health that it sent the room into an array of greens, magentas, oranges, blues, and violets. Cleanly air flowed smoothly throughout, bringing with it a scent of warmth and vitality. A miasma of mist hovered just above the heads of the occupants; with how dry the room was, it did not bring any damp with it, but instead the occasional refreshing brush of a wet breeze. 

At the centre was a metal garden table, laden with all the necessities for tea for four, around which were a mish-mash of brightly coloured velvet chairs and couches. Professor Pseasold and Pepper took one of the couches together, whilst Maisy and Penny sat on a chair each. Pepper went about pouring the tea and handing out plates of food whilst Cordelia and Penny began their discussion.

“I wondered, Professor, if you knew anything about the Haddock family.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Pseasold said to Pepper as she handed her a plate, looking at her with such love in her eyes that Penny felt rather like she was intruding. “Oh, what was that, Penny darling?”

“The Haddock family?”

“Ah. The Haddocks.” Pseasold nodded solemnly. “Bloody rotten luck, that whole affair.”

“You know about the curse, then?”

Taking out her notebook, Penny balanced a pen in her right hand, her notebook on her knee, and a teacup in her left. 

“The Pseasolds are actually distant relations of the Haddocks. Not cousins or anything of the sort, but enough that there was some loyalty between the families. Then… well, Sir Francis Haddock happened. He was a good sort, a terribly brave and honourable sort of chap, but something changed after he came back from the wreck of The Unicorn . A dark cloud descended over the family. Out of all three of his sons, one died, another deserted his ship and his men, and the third… well, arguably his was the strongest line, seeing as it has survived to the modern day, but he lost himself to drink.

“The Haddock name was forever tainted. There was talk of a marriage, I think, between one of my great-great aunts and the eldest Haddock boy, but obviously it did not go ahead. My ancestors opted to, ah, separate themselves rather quietly from their distant relatives. Hence why I am now in Belgium and not England. That’s the gist of it, really. I’ve always wanted to reconnect with the Haddocks, but every attempt to write to Marlinspike always came back in the mail.”

Penny set down her cup and picked up her notebook so she could write properly. “What actually happened to The Unicorn ?”

“No one knows. Francis said nothing of it when he came back. All we know is that it was pirates, and he was the only survivor. There have been attempts at finding the wreckage. I was on one of the expeditions, myself, back when I was doing my undergraduate in history, but none of them have ever found anything. It’s odd, really. Like something is stopping us from finding it before it’s ready to be found.” Pseasold frowned, then shrugged with a bright smile. “Ah, but that’s the stuff of children’s stories, and I’m sure your Mr Tintin would rather something a little more factual, correct?”

“At this point I think he would take children’s stories.”

“Good lad. There’s more to the kiddies than meets the eye, you know. Anyway, let me see what else I can remember… ah, yes. The last years of Sir Francis’ life were dedicated to one thing; making three exact replicas of The Unicorn . Model ones, you see, not real ones. Three Unicorns for his three sons, each one of them containing a secret message that only they could find. He gave them to his sons before he died, and before it all went to pot for them, and told them that only a true Haddock would find the secret of The Unicorn .”

“Three ships, you said?”

“Yes, that’s right, three. One for each son to be passed down the line until the Haddock name was restored to its former glory. Obviously, that has not happened. Marlinspike has gone to some oily stranger, and no one apart from a few oddities such as myself know of the Haddock family. They’re damn close to simply falling out of history.”

“Tintin used to have one of those model ships. He bought it in the second-hand market. He said that the second is in Marlinspike Hall with the man who bought it. Might you know where the third is?”

“Oh, what was it, Pepper? We saw it in the newspaper the other month.”

“Bagghar, sweetheart.”

“Yes! Bagghar. Sheik Omar Ben Salaad has it in his collection. I had half a mind to buy it off him, see if I could get it back into Haddock hands, but apparently he would not dream of putting it up for sale. A prized possession, by all accounts.”

Penny stared down at her notebook. The pieces were starting to fit together, now. Three ships, three Unicorns , for three sons. Three ships meant three scrolls. Together, the scrolls would reveal the secret that died with Sir Francis Haddock. Mr. Sakharine had one ship, tried to buy a second, and despite it being unconfirmed as of yet, he was most likely behind the ransacking of Tintin’s flat. 

“Mr. Sakharine wants to find the secret,” she whispered.

“Did you just say ‘Sakharine,’ Penny darling?”

Penny blinked and looked up at Pseasold. “Um, yes I did.”

“Now, where do I recognise that name? I know it from somewhere…”

“He’s the one who bought Marlinspike Hall, along with the other ship.”

“Hm. Not that. Where do I remember him from?”

“That sale was very underhanded,” Pepper said sternly, “I went to the auction out of curiosity. There were some other bids, but they quickly stopped after Sakharine started. He had these lackeys hanging around. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something odd going on. He is bad news, Penelope.”

“My da says he’s a rat bastard who never pays up,” Maisy peeped. 

Penny stared at her for a second. She did not think Maisy could speak. Maisy sipped serenely at her tea.

“Very succinct, Maisy,” Pepper complimented. 

“Why can I not remember where I heard that damned name? Oh, rot,” Professor Pseasold said, throwing her hands in the air. 

“He must not get his hands on that secret, Penelope,” Pepper reached across and squeezed Penny’s hand, “I’ve a bad feeling about it.”

Pepper’s gut instincts were rarely wrong, which meant that Tintin needed to get to Bagghar. Penny stood.

“Right. Thank you for your hospitality, Professor, Ms Plaintiff, Maisy, but I really need to get going. Good day!”

“Good day, Penny darling!”

Professor Pseasold and Pepper watched as Penny tore out of the room. The sound of the front door opening and slamming shut followed a moment later. 

“Oh, poo,” Pseasold said, pouting, “she’s going to miss the faculty dinner tomorrow, isn’t she?”

Pushing her bike along Labrador Street, Penny thought through everything she had learned. Professor Pseasold had been more helpful than she anticipated. She had everything they needed for the puzzle to come together, she just needed to let Tintin know about Bagghar and Omar Ben Salaad. 

A shout from further on ahead made her stop in her tracks.

“Quick! Get him in the van.”

She looked up and— “Oh!”

The yell flew out of her before she could stop it. As quickly as she could, she shoved herself into a nearby alley, plastering herself to the wall with her bike. Hands sealed over her mouth, she tried not to hyperventilate.

Tintin. They were kidnapping Tintin. She had not seen his face, but she would know him anywhere, even when his limp form was being bundled into a crate and shoved into a red van. If that was not enough, Snowy was barking viciously— she could still hear him at it now, growling and trying his best to keep the men away from his friend.

Peeking around the corner, she watched as the men got into the van. 

What could she do? If these were the same men that knocked her out last night, there was no way she could take them on alone. Maybe she could call the police? But what good would they do if Tintin was halfway across the country— maybe halfway across the world, depending on where they were planning on taking him.

There was no time to think. The van was starting up and pulling away from the curb. Soon, they would be gone, Tintin with them. 

“Bloody hell ,” Penny whispered, before flinging her leg back over her bike. 

With a push, she was joining traffic. Trailing the red van, she followed it until it came to an abrupt stop at a turning circle; she followed suit, trying her best to look like someone on their work commute rather than a woman tailing a trio of criminals. The thought occurred to her that they might recognise her, and she was about to see if she could use her handkerchief as some sort of face covering when—

“Snowy?”

She watched as the little dog, propelled forward by a firetruck’s ladder, plopped onto the roof of the van. There was a shout from the inside. The van shot forward. Snowy clung on, flung back and forth as the driver did his best to get the dog off of the vehicle. She followed as best as she could, trying to keep up with the twists and turns of the van. A white blur shot off the hood— they had gotten Snowy off despite his best efforts. 

“Here, boy!” she shouted, whistling sharply.

Snowy, trying to avoid being run over by the madcap traffic, perked his head up at the sound of her voice. Barking, he ran towards her. She bent down and scooped him up, holding him to her chest as she swooped around the roundabout and, catching sight of the red van, resumed her chase of it. 

“There we go,” she said, placing Snowy into the basket, “good boy, Snowy. Let’s go get him, hm?”

Tailing the van, the pair were led to the docks. Penny cycled past container ships and cruise liners, watching as the dock workers went about their daily affairs unconscious to the fact that the red van speeding through their midst was the vessel of a kidnapping. Part of her felt tempted to yell for help— surely a handful would be decent enough to believe her— but what good could it do? If the docks was the van’s destination, then there was a shipful of men who wanted to keep Tintin captured. 

“What have I gotten myself into?” she whispered.

Passing a pen of livestock, Snowy leaped off of Penny’s bike and landed agilely on the fence. She let him be and continued to cycle on. Snowy was smart, he knew what he was doing. Penny, however— she grimaced. Best not to think about how out of her skill set this was. 

Cycling around a warehouse, she watched the van slow down and come to a gradual stop next to a black and red steam merchant ship. She stopped. She recognised the name from somewhere— Karaboudjan . Those were the letters that the man from last night was spelling out! So she was definitely on the right track; that was good to know. The bike was dropped next to the warehouse and, satchel in hand, she began to sneak closer to the van. 

The men got out and loaded the crate that Tintin was on onto a hoist. It was pulled up and onto the ship with a shout of ‘I want this on the starboard side!’ Penny looked around. There were still a few crates to go. One of them was open.

“Heavens above, this is so stupid.”

Looking around to check there was no one around to see her, she dashed forward and flung herself into the crate. The landing was softened a little; the crate was full of old sacking. A perfect hiding spot. It was itchy and stank of something alcoholic, but made for a good concealment for Penny as she hunkered down underneath the layers of hessian fabric. Penny listened as the lid was slid over the crate and it was lifted.

“You reckon this got heavier, mate?” a voice said from the outside.

“Nah, you just got weaker,” a second voice guffawed.

“Oh, give over.”

A jolt, and then they were being hoisted into the air. Penny felt a pit in her stomach open— this was really happening. She was leaving Brussels, stowed away on a merchant ship that was crawling with thugs. Another jolt. They were on the ship now. 

“Where’s this going?”

“Starboard. Don’t bother putting it in the hold, it’s just some old sacking.”

“Don’t feel like old sacking to me, it’s awful heavy.”

“Maybe you just haven’t been doing enough lifting.”

“Not you, too.”

The crate was lifted again. Five minutes passed of the men holding it grunting and grumbling directions to one another— ‘go left, no, my left, that’s my right you idiot’— and then the crate was set down with an inconsiderate jostle. 

“We sail in half an hour, so make sure you ain’t leaving anything behind, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Their footsteps and voices retreated. ‘I’ll wait until they set sail,’ Penny thought, ‘then get out and start having a look around whilst they’re occupied with running the ship.’ 

The half-hour passed by slowly. Then, with a blast of its foghorn, the ship chugged into action. 

Pushing the crate open, Penny looked out at the room around her. It appeared to be some sort of passing place in a corridor. A ladder with a closed hatch above it was just behind them to their left. The crate that they were in had been plonked unceremoniously, likely because its contents were not really merchandise or essentials. It was a quiet part of the ship, it seemed— she could not hear any voices or activity.

“All clear, I think,” she whispered. 

Climbing out of the crate, she took stock of her situation. 

Tintin and Snowy were somewhere on the ship, but she had no way of tracking either of them down; all she knew was that Tintin was in a starboard hold, and that he had been in a nondescript crate with no further identification. On a ship this size that could be one of many rooms, all of which could be occupied by men that would sooner toss her overboard than hear her out. Bloody hell— she got on this ship to help Tintin, and had inadvertently tied her own hands from doing so. 

“The one time you didn’t think something through, and it’s when it mattered the most. Think, Penny, what can you do?”

If Sakharine wanted the third model ship, then the Karaboudjan was undoubtedly on its way to Bagghar. Sabotage was an option, but Penny did not know the first thing about boats, and it would take more than a loose valve to stop a beast like the one she was on. Maybe she could get a message to the mainland— have Interpol meet the ship when it docks in Bagghar and stop them in their tracks. Every ship had a radio room, she knew that much.

“That’s the plan,” she said, “get to the radio room, message Interpol. Tintin’s got out of worse scrapes than this, I’m sure he’ll be alright until then.” 

If he was not— well, then at least the police would know who the culprit was. 

Penny could swear that her heart was beating loud enough to give her away. Something about the ship creeped her out; the seemingly endless, monotonous steel corridors, the constant distant dripping, the hum of the engine. It felt dead and alive at the same time. 

Bit by bit, she crept through the halls of the ship. Up staircases, down some. Right, left, left, right, forward, backward. All while she avoided the raucous laughter and coarse voices that come from seemingly every corner. 

“Oi, gimme that back!”

“Nah, it’s mine now.”

Penny hid behind a corner as she waited for the latest pair to walk past. Once the coast was clear, she padded out into the corridor, hurried forward— and ran straight into something. No, she realised with dawning horror, someone . She looked up. A hulking shiphand stood over her, menacing in every aspect from his massive hands to his broad, brawny shoulders. He grunted.

“A stowaway, eh?” He leaned down and looked Penny in her face. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He swiped. Penny ducked, narrowly dodging the fist that would have clamped around her neck. Another grab. She dodged that one, too, backing up into the corridor behind her. The man was herding her back— back— further back. Penny turned and broke into a sprint. A displeased grunt followed from the man. A moment later, his own footsteps could be heard, thunderous. 

“Get back here!”

The chase took them through a left turn, then a right, then another left. Penny looked behind. The man was a good few metres away— he might have been strong, but he was slow, and encumbered by the narrow corridors. She turned back. The beginning rungs of a staircase greeted her from the end of the hallway. An idea glimmered.

Coming to a stop at the top of the stairs, she turned to face her opponent. Bull-like in appearance and temperament, it seemed, he stopped, stared, blinked, and with a mean face readied himself. He charged. She held her position. Gripping the banisters either side of her, she waited until the very last second possible—

Three, she could see the sweat on his brow, two, she could smell his breath, one—

Channelling her high-school gymnastics, she leaped off of the ground, pushing up from the bars and sending herself into a handstand atop the banister. The man, bent double, went careening through the gap between her head and the floor. A series of crashes, bangs, and yelps could be heard as he barrelled down the stairs. 

Falling to the floor in an inelegant tumble, Penny, panting, looked down at her victory. He was crumpled in an unmoving heap at the bottom of the stairwell. If this were a cartoon, she thought, he would have birds tweeting around his head. 

Feeling rather proud of herself, she continued on her quest. 

Walking through the corridors, she tried to find a way up onto the bridge; that would be where the radio room is, most likely. The whole place was beginning to look more and more like a maze. If this was the last ship she was ever on, she thought, she would be grateful. 

Voices, again . Penny froze. They were up ahead, coming closer by the second. She turned back, wincing. If she went back that way, she would run into that man again, and she had no doubts he would have recovered from his mild concussion by now. 

“This place gives me the creeps, you know.”

“You work here.”

“Yeah, don’t mean I have to like it.”

Penny looked around. Nowhere to go except a room to her left. She opened the door, slipped inside, and ducked underneath the window. The sound of footsteps and chatter faded down the corridor. They had not spotted her. She sighed. 

“Wha’s’is?” someone slurred in a Scottish accent. “A spectre from the deep, eh?”

She turned with a gasp. A man with a scruffy black beard peered at her from behind a near-empty bottle of some sort of alcohol.

“Don’t’cha you know,” he hiccuped and pointed at her, “‘s bad luck for a woman to be on board.”

Chapter Text

With a hollow thud, the man’s head plummeted onto the table. Another hiccup followed. He started to mumble something under his breath— lyrics to a song, perhaps. 

Leaning forward, Penny smelled the contents of his bottle. She gagged and drew herself back so sharply that it almost gave her whiplash. Whatever was in that bottle, it was one percent away from becoming paint stripper.  How anyone enjoyed something that strong was beyond her; then again, she did not drink anything more potent than the occasional beer. 

Whoever this man is, Penny thought, he was so inebriated that he would likely not even remember this encounter. She was safe. And maybe she had a way in to finding the radio room. 

“Sir,” she said carefully, “I really need to call the mainland. Would you happen to know where I could do that from?”

“Oh, aye, the radio room ‘s’up on th’brid— hic — bridge. Wanna go right, right again, left, right, left, then’up. Though I dunno wha’a sylph‘s doin’ with radio.”

Right, right, left, right, left, up; Penny memorised the directions as best as she could.

“Thank you. Um— mind if I borrow this?” she said, gesturing to a black jacket that was slung over the back of a chair.

“Ahhh, go’head. ‘m sure it gets’bit chilly for mermaids on deck.”

“Many thanks.”

Hurrying out of the room, she shoved the jacket on and buttoned it up. It was large and thick enough that it covered any sign of her being a woman, and if she flipped the collar up and pulled her hat down a little— there, a decent enough disguise. Thank heavens she decided to wear slacks that day. She did not think any of the sailors were in the habit of going about ship in stockings and skirt-suits. 

Some men approached her in the corridor. Her heart seized. Now was the real test. 

“Alright?” one of them said as they walked past, tipping his chin up.

She made as low and disgruntled a grunt as she could. The men laughed.

“Feel you there, mate.”

They continued on their merry way. Penny did the same, undiscovered. A warmth flooded through her, excitement chasing away the anxious chill that had seized her bones. This, she realised, was fun. More than fun, it was exhilarating. Maybe Tintin was right— maybe she really did not have a choice in the matter. 

Knocked out by chloroform, locked in a crate, bound in a cage in the hold of a ship, interrogated, left to presumably rot until his captors wanted to try again, and reuniting with Snowy after he somehow managed to sneak onto the ship; the past few hours had certainly been eventful for Tintin. 

‘Wonder how Penny’s doing,’ he thought as he shoved a crowbar through the door’s opening mechanism, effectively locking it from the inside, ‘she must have found out that I’m gone by now. I hope she isn’t too frightened. Perhaps she will have gotten Interpol on the case.’

Even with Interpol on the case, he supposed it would not go far; there was no way of anyone other than him and Sakharine knowing where he was and where they were taking him. 

“Just us, eh boy?” he said to Snowy.

The picture of Penny sitting home alone, worrying, sent a cold spike of guilty concern through his heart. He grimaced and got to work. The sooner he got out of here, the sooner he could solve this mystery, the sooner he could reassure Penny that he was not dead in a ditch somewhere.

Snowy whined as he watched Tintin push a crate— one that snarled, clearly filled with a live animal— to one of the portholes. Opening the latch, he leaned his upper body out of the window and looked about. The ship was going at a fair pace. He could not see the shoreline or any signs of civilisation— though that did not come as a surprise. Salty spray and a cold breeze brushed his cheeks, a refreshing change from the damp, stagnant air that lingered in the hold, tainted by the faint combination of cigarette smoke, rotting seaweed and alcohol. 

A noise from above caught his attention. Slurred singing streamed from the porthole above his own. A shanty most likely, he thought, belted out in such an enthusiastic manner it almost made up for the obviously drunken state the singer was in. It did mean one good thing, though; the porthole was wide open.

Slipping back inside the room, he turned in time to hear noises from the corridor outside. Voices, he recognised; the two men from earlier who had searched his unconscious body for the scroll from The Unicorn . It had seemed, at first, bad luck that the wallet thief had stolen it back home. Now, it was divine providence. 

The door rattled. They were trying to get inside. Tintin felt a smug satisfaction at the success of his jerry-rigged lock.

“So you want to play it like that then, do you, Tintin?” one of them shouted.

Tintin approached the door just in time to hear, ‘get the TNT.’ He needed to come up with a solution, and fast.

“Broken crates,” he said, walking around the hold and looking at what it had to offer, “ropes, champagne. What else do we have, Snowy?”

“There are other ways to open this door! They'll be swabbing the decks with your innards when we're done with you!” the same voice shouted again.

“Well that’s not a very efficient way to clean, is it?” he muttered.

Staring at his options, a plan came to mind. He looked at Snowy. Snowy gave him a nervous glance reading, ‘what madcap thing are we going to do now?’

Ripping off two planks from a crate, he bound them together with rope. That would do for a makeshift grappling hook. Then, pulling the champagne to the centre of the room, he positioned them just so that, when the TNT went off, the heat from the blast would send a volley of corks into the midst of his attackers. 

“Not bad, eh?” he said. “Right, now for the tricky part.”

Hurrying over to the porthole, he leaned out and, swinging the planks like a lasso— which reminded him of his time in America— hurled them up towards the open window above him. Missed! He blinked. The planks plummeted back down and struck him square on the forehead.

“Owh,” he said, exasperated, holding his head— he should have seen that coming. 

A second go with a little more welly behind it saw the grappling hook lodging into the window and pulling taught. He grinned.With Snowy around his shoulders clinging on for dear life, he jumped out of the hold and abseiled up the side of the ship. Behind him, the TNT detonated. The sound of popping and yells of pain and surprise followed soon after. 

With only a few slips against the water-slicked hull, Tintin got himself up to the porthole. He nudged Snowy over the windowsill and into the room. Following behind him, he landed sideways on a cabin bend, rolling neatly off it and onto his feet on the floor. Snowy barked, dancing around on the table as if to taunt someone. 

“A giant rat of Sumatra!” the occupant was yelling, his Scottish accent more apparent after he had sobered up a bit. 

He was a grizzled-looking man— rough, black beard, drink-flushed cheeks, calloused hands and an uneven gait as he staggered out of the birdcage he had, somehow, thrust his head into, and snatched up a telescope as one would a sword. 

“So, you thought you could sneak in behind me and catch me with my trousers down, eh?”

He advanced, wielding the telescope. Glancing to the side, Tintin grabbed a boot hook and met him in the middle, parrying his lunge. 

“I’d rather you kept your trousers on, if it’s all the same to you,” he said.

The man struck again, one, two, three times. Tintin parried each, skirting around the table.

“I know your game. You’re one of them!”

“I’m sorry?”

“They sent you here to kill me, eh?” A swipe.

Tintin ducked under his arm and darted up onto a chest. “Look, I don’t know who you are!”

“That's how he planned to bump me off. Murdered in my bed by a baby faced assassin!”

‘Baby faced?’ Tintin thought. ‘Surely I don’t look that young.”

Another four strikes. Parrying again, Tintin hopped over the swinging, dilapidated telescope and landed lightly on the floor. Snowy, who had been trying to pull the man away from Tintin by his trousers, scrambled onto the table again. 

“Assassin? Look, you've got it all wrong, I was kidnapped by a gang of thugs.”

Tintin held his hands up and tossed the boat hook aside. A swift change in temperament came over the man. His aggression petered out into a countenance of grief. 

“The filthy swine,” he said, sounding like he was about to cry, “he's turned the whole crew against me.”

Throwing the wrecked telescope away, he stumbled over to the table to lean on it. Tintin took the opportunity to do a little snooping around the cabin.

“Who?” he asked.

“A sour-faced man with a sugary name. He bought them all off— every last man!”

“Sakharine!”

At the sound of the name, the man raised his head and glared at Tintin. “Nobody takes my,” he thumped a fist against his chest, “ship.”

“You’re the Captain?”

“‘course I’m the Captain, who else could I be?”

Tintin shushed him— he was beginning to get a bit too loud for his liking. The man returned to his former state of misery. It seemed his mood could switch on the flip of a coin. Best be leaving before he decided that Tintin was his enemy again. 

“I‘ve been locked in this room for days…” he keened.

Picking up the boat hook again, Tintin walked over to the door.

“... with only whiskey to sustain my mortal soul.”

With a simple push of the handle, the door swung open. Tintin and Snowy looked at the man. 

“Oh. Well I assumed it was locked.”

“Well, it’s not.” Tintin gestured outside. “Now, you must excuse me. If they find me here, they'll kill me. I have to keep moving…”

He looked around to check for any shiphands. The coast was clear.

“... try and find my way off this drunken tub ,” he said, and emphasised the last word with a pointed slam of the door.

“Tub!” could be heard from inside. 

Tintin walked forward a few paces. One of the aforementioned thugs rounded the corner, a tray containing a bottle in his hands. They looked at one another. The thug dropped the tray and swang for Tintin. Tintin blocked his hands with the boat hook. He grabbed at Tintin, wrestling him against the wall as Snowy yipped and sprang upon him, trying to pull him away. Tintin punched him. He listed to the side but did not let go. Pushing off the wall, Tintin tried to break free. The thug clung on. Tintin wrenched the both of them upright, landing a hefty elbow to his face— still he held on. 

“Tub!” could be heard again.

The door to the Captain’s quarters swung open. The Captain himself threw a fist into the thug’s face, slammed the door into him as he rebounded, knocking him clean out. Tintin caught him.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Pleasure!”

The two of them carried the man into the room and put him on the floor.

“I’m Tintin, by the way,” he said, offering his hand.

The Captain took it and gave it a strong shake. “Haddock, Archibald Haddock.”

Tintin stopped. Did he hear that right? Out of all the ships he ended up on, it was one that contained a Haddock?

“There’s a longboat up on deck, follow me!” Haddock continued to say as he slipped into the corridor.

“Hang on a second. Did you say ‘Haddock’?”

Penny had really put her foot in it this time.

Metres away, irate and giving the sailors a dressing down of a lifetime, was Mr. Sakharine himself. 

Finding it empty, she had slipped into the bridge to get out of the way for a little bit; the radio room had been occupied by a mean-looking man who seemed intent on having some alone time with a rather grim sandwich. There was no way she would have been able to sit down and send out a message without being questioned. Thus, she found somewhere to lay low for a bit. Or so she had thought. 

“How could you let them escape?” Sakharine slammed one of the sailors against the wall. 

Penny winced and tried to look busy. She had chosen a good spot to sit down— right in front of the radio navigation systems. She had listened to Tintin’s spiels on GEE often enough that she could pretend as if she was monitoring the ship’s course. Hunching over, she tried to seem as insignificant as possible. 

“Find them, find them both!” Sakharine ordered and released the sailor from his chokehold.

‘Them?’ Penny thought, ‘one of them is definitely Tintin, who was the other captive? Glad to know he’s out, though. I need to hurry up and get that message to Interpol sent soon .’

“Don’t worry, we’ll kill them, sir,” the sailor said.

“No, you can kill the boy...”

 Penny restrained the urge to laugh. Good luck with that— if Tintin had proven anything in his career, it was that he was practically unkillable.

“... not Haddock.”

Did he say ‘Haddock’? Penny’s hands froze over the navigation system. She blinked and resumed her activity. The name opened up a whole Pandora’s Jar of questions: was this Haddock the other escapee, then? had Tintin met up with them? how did a Haddock come to be on Sakharine’s ship? were they even aware of Sakharine’s quest to take their family legacy?

“Oh,” another sailor whined, “he’s just a hopeless old soak. We should have killed him long since.”

"You think it’s an accident that I chose Haddock's crew, Haddock’s ship, Haddock's treacherous first mate? Nothing is an accident…” 

There was something bittersweet about hearing that this Haddock was a captain, and of this very ship— before Sakharine took over, that is. It seemed the love of the sea had not left the Haddock line. And yet, he had still lost the vessel. Penny felt sorry for this unknown man. Whatever curse had been put upon that family had not loosened its barbs throughout the years. 

There was a woosh and the sound of feathers rustling— a falcon had swept over Penny’s head and landed on, presumably, Sakharine’s arm. “We go back a long way, Captain Haddock and I,” he drawled, “we’ve unfinished business. And this time I am going to make him pay .”

Back in Brussels, Professor Pseasold suddenly sat up in bed. Pepper squinted at her over her book. 

“Good lord, Pepper, I’ve just remembered where I’ve heard that name before!”

“What name, dear?”

“Sakharine. The Sakharine family is descended from the Rackhams . The pirate that attacked Sir Francis’ ship!”

“Jolly good, dear. We can tell Penny in the morning.”

“Mm.” Pseasold settled back onto her pillows and replaced a curler that had fallen out of her hair. “I’ve a feeling she’ll be halfway across the world by then, chasing after her reporter friend or something of that ilk.”

“Would you really be surprised if that was the case?”

“Not at all.”

Tintin peered around the dormitory door, and was faced with a gloomy room filled with drunken, snoring, nasty-looking crewmen in swaying hammocks and bunk beds. An apprehensive feeling pitted in his stomach— though that could be the remainder of the alcoholic fumes that Captain Haddock had breathed into his face moments earlier. 

‘This key better be worth it,’ he thought.

“Mr Jaggerman,” Haddock whispered, “top bunk in the centre. Keeper of the keys. Careful mind, he’s a restless sleeper on account of the tragic loss of his eyelids.”

“He lost his eyelids ?” Tintin grimaced.

Haddock chuckled. “Aye, now that was a card game to remember. Ahh, you really had to be there.”

Tintin began to creep into the room, Snowy not too far behind him.

“I’d do this myself, Tintin, but you’ve got a lighter tread and less chance of waking the boys.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Tintin watched the men slide about as the ship pitched and rolled. 

“Nothing to worry about. Provided they all stay asleep.”

Brilliant. 

Scooping Snowy up, Tintin approached the bunks. Haddock contributed a helpful— read ‘distracting and disconcerting’— commentary all the while.

“I wouldn’t get too close to Mr Hobbs. He's very handy with a razor.”

The razor in question glinted menacingly. Tintin tossed Snowy up onto a bunk and followed behind, climbing up the rickety metal frame.

“And I’d steer clear of Mr. Gitch. Sacked as a shepherd on account of his,” Haddock dropped his voice euphemistically, “ animal husbandry .”

Tintin clutched Snowy a little tighter to himself after that one. 

Climbing onto the highest bunk, Tintin reached for the keys hanging from Mr. Jaggerman’s hand. He stretched as far as he could go— almost there, almost, almost— he bit back a curse. Not close enough. Grabbing Snowy, he held him out towards the keys. Snowy stretched out, opening his mouth to grab—

“Not the sandwich, the keys,” Tintin hissed. 

Snowy ignored him and lunged for the sandwich. A yaw from the ship sent Tintin flying forward into a hanging taxidermied shark, then down, onto a bunk, and finally underneath a sleeping crewman as he tumbled from his own spot. He shoved the man onto the floor. He did not wake— clearly, all of the room’s occupants had drunk themselves into such a stupor that it would take hell itself opening for them to rouse. 

Mr. Jaggerman’s hand dangled down in front of Tintin, keys held loosely in his fingers. Tintin reached again. A crack— the bunk had broken. He plummeted to the floor. With horror, he watched as body after body of sleeping sailors piled onto him from above. 

‘Bloody hell ,’ he thought, then felt vague amusement at the fact that he had picked up the curse from Penny. 

Something cold brushed against his hand. He looked. It was the keys. Success was his. Grabbing them, he thrust his hand from the top of the pile like a hero bursting out of his own grave. 

Now to get himself out properly.

Penny slipped from the bridge, shoving her notebook back in her satchel. There had been a veritable treasure chest of information; one that she happily raided once she was alone in the room. Signals, navigation history, radio frequency. Everywhere the Karaboudjan had been, and everywhere it intended on going— though, as she suspected, the only destination in its navigation log was Bagghar, confirming what Pseasold had told her. 

She also wiped Bagghar’s port frequency from the log. It could be re-entered quite easily, she imagined, but it would slow them down a little. Besides, she wanted to do at least something to inconvenience the people who had kidnapped and were trying to kill her friend. After pushing the indicator to ‘slow,’ she left the room with a bit of a swagger in her step. 

Sidling up to the radio room, she noted that the first mate and another sailor were inside. They were at the radio. The shorter one with the blue jumper and flat cap had the headphones on and was jotting down something on a slip of paper.

“Message just come through, boss,” he said.

“What’s it say?”

“ The Milanese Nightingale has landed. Waiting in the wings for action. ”

Penny frowned. She knew that name— the Milanese Nightingale . 

Peering back around, she waited for the men to finish and exit.

Tintin listened from outside of the radio room as the two men discussed the message that had just come through.

“ Milanese Nightingale ,” he said to himself; what could it be— a piece of technology, a weapon?

He hoped the pair would vacate soon. Leaving Captain Haddock and Snowy by the longboat on their own for so long was making him a tad antsy at being split up whilst the ship was searching for them. Haddock had already proved himself to be a bit of a loose cannon— the quest for the keys turning out to only be a trip to the whiskey cupboard still smarted.   

“Now pray this cheers him up!” one of the sailors said, waving the message about in the air. 

Peeking over the window, he watched as the two disappeared from the room. He took the opportunity to slip inside. 

As Tintin shut the door behind him, the door on the other side clicked closed at the same time. He whirled around, ready for a fight, only to come face to face with the last person he would have expected to find opposite him in a radio room on a ship in the North Atlantic Ocean. Snowy woofed affectionately and darted over to give the newcomer some attention. 

Tintin blinked once, then twice, then his jaw dropped.

“Penny?”

Chapter Text

“Great snakes, Penny, you're supposed to be back home!” Tintin grabbed Penny by her shoulders, nearly shaking her, his face a picture of disbelief.

Guilt and embarrassment bled into Penny's features. All the fun and excitement drained itself from her, leaving behind only a cold feeling and one question: what if she had made the whole affair worse?

Tintin let her go. He dragged a hand down his face and began to pace back and forth.

“ Please , do not tell me that you followed the men that kidnapped me and put me on this boat.”

Penny looked at him; she was as real and as there as he was, and that was answer enough. She sheepishly adjusted her glasses.

“Right. Of course you did.”

Usually it was Tintin being the impulsive one— the one to just jump without even asking how high. He did not quite know how to react when it was Penny— Penny, the overthinker, Penny, the one who needed to plan a grocery trip, Penny, the patient one— doing the jumping. He damn-near relied on her proclivity to not do the jumping. Their dynamic was set in it; his quick thinking, her grounding presence. 

Now, looking at Penny so unmoored and far away from her books and notes, Tintin began to feel a little unstable. He did not like it.

“These are dangerous people, Penn. They’ve already knocked you out, who knows what they would do if you were discovered?”

“You don't think that twigged for me when I saw them shoving you into a box? No matter what, I'm not going to just sit by and watch as you're carted off by some thugs.” 

Penny felt rather like a child being scolded. She did not like it. She wrapped her arms around herself and glared.

“Besides,” she said tersely, “what do you want me to do about it now, swim back to Brussels? Oh, sure, let me go jump in …”

Tintin softened. He could see it from her perspective. In his mind’s eye it was Penny being chloroformed and bundled into a box before being carted off to some tanker to be shipped to who-knows-where; in that instance, what choice would he have had but to follow? 

What choice did she have? 

Perhaps a few years ago she might have sat back and called the police, but now— now, when she had watched him go back and forth to country after country, when she had orbited into his world little by little, when they were more to each other than any other person was, there was no world in which she could just sit by. Now, here she was, in the deep end. With him.

He supposed he could do the mooring for once.

Reaching out, he pulled her in for a brief hug. She stiffened, surprised, then returned it. What little tension that had built between them fizzled into nothing. An unspoken apology passed between them; ‘sorry for snapping,’ ‘sorry for getting cross.’

“You know,” Tintin pulled away, “I'm quite glad you're here, actually. It'll be good to have someone with actual sense around.”

Penny grinned— a little shaky, but her usual self. “Someone needs to keep an eye on you, might as well be me. Anyway, weren’t you the one who was just saying it was fate I got involved?”

Tintin rolled his eyes. “I said that we had no choice , not that it was fate.”

Penny gave him a look. He sighed.

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Never.”

For a moment, it was as if they were back at their apartments, chatting as they normally would over the breakfast table or a card game. Hard reality set in when something clanked outside and they were brought back to the radio room. 

“Right.” Tintin patted her on the shoulder. “Help me look around for clues, would you? Where we’re headed, messages, anything like that, anything useful.”

He turned and began to rummage through the room, flipping through papers and notecards. Penny’s face lit up.

“I know where we’re going.”

Tintin stopped and looked at her. “What? Where?”

“Bagghar, in Morocco,” she hurried over to his side, taking out her notebook and showing him what she had found, “there’s three model ships, three pieces to the puzzle to find the secret of The Unicorn . Sheik Omar Ben Salaad of Bagghar has the last one, it’s his prized possession apparently. Professor Pseasold told me, and I found it in the navigation logs in the bridge.”

Snapping his fingers, Tintin finished putting the pieces together. “Sakharine means to take it using the Milanese Nightingale !”

“Exactly!”

Snowy hopped up onto the table between them, a piece of paper in his mouth. Tintin took it from him. It was a travel brochure— a travel brochure to Bagghar. Flipping through it, he opened it to a page that displayed the third ship and showed it to Penny. 

“And this is why he needs a secret weapon.”

The Unicorn in Salaad’s collection was displayed, proudly, in a wooden case and kept safe behind a glass front; the glass had a particular warp to it, one that denoted—

“Bulletproof glass,” Penny said, frowning, “but what… oh!”

“What?”

“The Milanese Nightingale is another name for Bianca Castafiore! Professor Pseasold took me to one of her performances once.”

Tintin tilted his head with a frown. Penny shook her head, regathering her thoughts and realigning herself with the point of what she was trying to explain.

“She’s an opera singer, right? The sharpest soprano in the world, she’s won prizes and records. Apparently, she has broken glass with her voice .” Penny pointed to the picture of The Unicorn in its display case. “It's bulletproof, yes...”

“... but it isn’t soundproof ,” Tintin finished.

They looked at each other with matching grins. Something abstract clicked into place— a feeling of rightness, of belonging, of function. This is how it is meant to be. 

Hurrying over to the radio, Tintin set to sending a message to the mainland. The tapping of the telegraphy key filled the room a second later. Penny was rather thankful she bumped into him— beyond the obvious of reuniting somewhat safely with a dear friend, it would have taken a good few minutes for her to figure out the details of sending morse code.

Penny kept an eye out for anyone who looked like they might want to interrupt. Standing by the door, she took the opportunity to set herself to rights— no need for the disguise anymore, so her hat was tipped back up, the jacket was unbuttoned, and the collar turned back down.

A moment later, she spotted one of the sailors from earlier ambling down the corridor.

“Tintin, incoming.”

Tintin shook his head. “One more moment.”

“We may not have a moment.”

“Just hold on!”

Penny rubbed a knuckle across her brow, glancing between Tintin and the man in the hallway. “Sure, Mr. ‘You shouldn't be here, it's too dangerous,’ I'll wait to get jumped by— oh, bloody hell .”

Penny jumped away from the doorway. The sailor was just outside now. He was talking to someone behind him, laughing and joking, but his hand had settled on the doorknob; it rattled lightly, a harbinger of the danger that stood behind the door. 

“ Tintin !”

“Time to go?” he said cheerily.

“About that time, yeah.”

With little ceremony, the sailor burst through the open door. He paused. He glanced at Penny. The befuddled thought was clear on his face: ‘a woman?’ Then, his eyes landed on Tintin. He raised his hand. The barrel of a pistol glinted in the flickering light.

“In here! He’s in here!” He aimed at Tintin.

Heart pounding, Penny looked around for some sort of weapon; a crowbar, a rock, another gun maybe. Nothing presented itself. 

At that moment, Snowy leaped into the air from the table, latching his jaws around the man’s forearm. The gun went off with a sharp crack. Tintin rushed forward. Striking the man’s wrist, he knocked the gun to the side. He followed with a punch to the jaw. The gun clattered to the floor. The man stumbled back into another that had appeared in the doorway. Seizing the pistol, Tintin turned.

“Out, Penny, now!”

He snatched her wrist, tugging her through the other door to the radio room with him.

“Follow my lead,” he said hurriedly.

“Right!”

Outside, they both skidded to a halt— another man wielding a machine gun was waiting on the bridge.

“Get out the way!” someone yelled from behind them.

“Over the railing!”

Tintin dragged Penny across to the railing and, together, they vaulted over. Penny stumbled as she landed, but Tintin was quick to catch her and tug her along behind him.

“Get them!”

Dodging crates and rapid bullet-fire, they sprinted across the deck. They rounded a chimney and came face to face with a broad thug wielding another machine gun. The man turned. Tintin stumbled back. A fist was flung toward his face. He ducked. Hooking an arm over the offending limb, he shoved it down and away, then stamped down on the back of his opponent’s knee. A push sent him keeling over. Penny kicked the gun as far from his hand as she could. Tintin broke into a run again. 

“Come on, Penny!”

Gunfire sprayed behind them as they skidded over a rooftop. Penny yelped as a bullet whizzed by her ear, its trail burning hot. Down onto a landing they went. Tintin, the faster of the two, fell hard against the railing, and was forced to stop as the breath wooshed from his lungs. Penny was able to stop herself before she met the same fate. 

“ Blimey , Tintin,” she cursed, “go ten minutes without trying to break something, would you?”

Dropping down and landing without trouble, she held a hand out to Tintin. He took it and let her haul him to his feet.

“Thanks,” he said in a manner that befitted a polite interaction in the street and not a life-and-death chase.

“Welcome,” she said, feeling like they were in the eye of the proverbial storm.

Movement behind Penny caught Tintin’s attention. A man had popped his head up through the staircase to the landing they were on. Darting forward, Tintin was quick to kick him down and away. A series of yells followed— there were men beneath them.

Back into the storm.

Another sprint. They rounded the corner and the lifeboat came into view. It was hanging off of the ship by one pulley, the Captain and Snowy dangling from it like two fish hooked on a line. 

“There, Penn! Our escape!”

Bullets pursued them from the back as they charged along the deck. Pushing Penny in front of him, Tintin raised his stolen pistol and fired behind himself— once, twice, three times. The men on the bridge spotted him and began to fire. He winced and ducked, reaching out to make sure Penny's head was down, too. 

“Bleedin’ guns,” she hissed as she ran.

Tintin agreed.

Aiming, Tintin shot once and hit the lever of a spotlight. It blinked open and sent the men behind them dazed with the sudden blast of bright light. Their frantic footsteps stopped. An opportunity opened itself.

Dodging to the side, he tugged Penny with him and pointed her to the lifeboat. She understood. With a deep breath, she jumped, catching onto a seat and clinging tight. Tintin followed suit. Aiming again, he cut the last rope holding them to the ship with a bullet. They plummeted into the sea and landed upright, afloat, alive, and relatively unharmed.

They had gotten off of the ship, but they were not out of danger yet. The Karaboudjan plowed onwards. Bullets spattered into the water from above, none of them finding their mark. Together, Tintin and Haddock took the oars and put some distance between them and their enemies— not enough to escape them, but enough room to breathe and think.

“All safe and accounted for?” Tintin said, looking about the boat.

Penny nodded and Snowy, bundled in her arms, woofed. Giving them a quick once-over to ensure they were unhurt, Tintin's eyes landed on something and widened with horror.

“Penny, you’re bleeding.”

“I am?” She pulled back her sleeve. “Oh, I am.”

A bullet had just caught her, carving an inch-long graze across the back of her hand that was slowly seeping blood. She blinked at it. It really was not that bad. Looking up again, her eyes widened.

“Everyone, down!” she said.

A red flare was arching through the air from the Karaboudjan . Spotlights followed. Bundling themselves into the bottom of the boat, they all huddled down to avoid being spotted. Shouts could be heard across the distance; ‘there he is!’ ‘full speed ahead!’ ‘get them!’. Haddock peeked over the side. Penny glared— how eager could one man be to get them all killed. Tintin was quick to tug him back into hiding. 

“Captain, stay down!”

The four of them lay still, eyes closed, holding their breath as the roaring sound of the Karaboudjan plowing through the water grew closer. Penny’s nails pressed circles into her palms. Closer. Snowy whined in Captain Haddock’s arms. Closer.

A crack echoed across the sea. Wood creaked and splintered. Glass bottles smashed into pieces. Air bubbled as the two halves of a longboat upturned and sank into the depths.

“Heavens above,” Penny whispered shakily.

She looked across at Tintin, Haddock and Snowy as they peeked up and over the side of their boat— the Karaboudjan had swept right past them. There was another longboat. A decoy. Snowy ruffed.

They had escaped. 

Dawn came with a hot sun and a gentle breeze. 

The knick from the bullet hurt less now; in fairness, it was fairly low on the scale of Penny’s previous wounds— she had once fallen off of a ladder in the library after one too many late nights, and had spent six weeks with her ankle in a cast. Penny also put it down to Tintin’s expert first aid, though of course he did not take the compliment. He did, however, appreciate her saying ‘thank you, Boy Scout’; she had learned by now that if she wrapped up genuine appreciation in a little teasing, he was more likely to let her acknowledge his skills.

Snowy was huddled on Penny’s lap, alert and awake but not skittering about the boat in his usual active way— he acted as a sort of hot water bottle, keeping away the worst of the night's cold and providing some much needed home-comfort. Penny made sure to give him plenty of fuss and praise for the kind gesture. Snowy drank it in with a smug look. 

“How’re you feeling, Penn?” Tintin asked. 

He was rowing, and had been since the near miss the night before. Penny had tried to get him to let her take over. After the third staunch refusal, she gave up. 

“I’m ‘reet,” she said, “Snowy's good company, aren't you, boy?”

She gave Snowy a good scratch under his chin. His tail wagged furiously. 

“Any aches or pain? You aren't at all frightened, are you? Only, I know how you get—”

“Tintin, I'm fine. Really. I'm no wilting flower, a little graze isn't going to put me down.”

Tintin glanced back at her for a moment. “No,” he said wryly, “you’re more like a wilting cactus .”

Penny laughed. A rough chuckle reminded her of the fourth person in the boat.

Tintin's fellow escapee, Captain Haddock, turned out to be the very man Penny stole a jacket from when she hid in his room. It was sheepishly returned when they made their introductions a few hours ago. Haddock had been very good natured about it, joking that he thought he had lost his best jacket to the sea sprites, then taking great offence when Tintin suggested that there was no such thing. ‘Just wait, lad. Wait until you're alone on deck on a calm, clear night, then you'll see,’ he said. Penny did not doubt him.

“So, eh,” Haddock asked, “what exactly is the plan, here? Row until we get to land?”

“We have to get to Bagghar ahead of Sakharine,” Tintin answered.

“Ah.” Haddock nodded as if in total understanding. A pause. Then, “why?”

“It’s—”

“The—

Tintin and Penny spoke at the same time. They glanced at one another and laughed. Tintin deferred to Penny with a nod. 

“It’s where the final piece of the puzzle is. The Sheik collects old ships. He acquired the third Unicorn a month ago, there was a whole to-do about it in the papers, apparently. It's the prize of his collection,” Penny said.

Setting aside the oars, Tintin stood to show the travel brochure to Haddock. Snowy hopped off of Penny’s lap to get a closer look at the conversation happening in front of him. 

“Blistering blue barnacles!” Haddock's eyes widened in recognition. “It really is the Unicorn .”

Tintin nodded enthusiastically.

“Look, Captain, do you see the distortion around the model? It means that Ben Salaad exhibits it in a bulletproof glass case in his palace,” he said, pointing to the picture of the Unicorn .

“And Sakharine is going there to steal it!”

“Yes, he has a secret weapon. The Milanese Nightingale —

“Sharpest soprano in the world,” Penny added, “can break glass with her voice.”

“—but that won't be enough to solve the mystery, and that is why Sakharine needs you . That's why he made you his prisoner! There is something he needs you to remember.” Tintin pointed at Haddock.

“I don’t follow you.”

“I—” he turned and looked at Penny as he sat back down, “ we read it in a book. That only a true Haddock can discover the secret of the Unicorn .”

“The very last words of Sir Francis Haddock himself,” Penny said, peering at Haddock, “quite the striking Will. Surely something was passed through the generations?”

For a moment, it seemed as though Haddock was remembering; something dawned onto his face and set a glimmer to his eye. Tintin and Penny felt their hopes rising. Then, Haddock spoke.

“I don’t remember anything about anything.”

Well. That was to be expected, Penny supposed— if Professor Pseasold was right, and Haddock was the last of the final bloodline, then he was part of a legacy of failure. Of course he would not want to remember the last ‘great’ man in his family. No one ever liked to be measured up to an impossible standard. Especially when it seemed like your family was cursed.

Still, as much as Penny sympathised, she struggled to see the point in giving up. At what point did ‘I will never be as good as him,’ hold no weight? At what point did ‘I am cursed,’ start to feel like an excuse? At what point did you stop letting the dead breathe down your neck?

Then again— who did not carry their family with them wherever they went? Penny certainly did. 

“But you must know about your ancestor, Sir Francis,” Tintin insisted, “it’s your family legacy!”

“My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“Well, what did it used to be?”

Haddock shook his head. “I’ve forgotten.”

Snowy whined and slumped against the boat’s side. Penny sympathised. She took off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes.

Tintin tried again. “Captain, can you get us to Bagghar?”

“What sort of stupid question is that?” A flame lit under Haddock; he stood and reached for the oars. “Give me those oars, I’ll show you some real seamanship, laddie! Oh, and lassie, of course.”

Penny blinked at the Haddock-shaped blur. Where was this energy an hour ago, she wondered. 

Snatching up the oars, Haddock swaggered across the boat and swung them about. Tintin dodged his wild swinging whilst trying not to tip overboard. Sat at the bow, Penny stared down at her shoes and enjoyed a few seconds of seeing nothing but colours— goodness knows proper sight could be overstimulating at times— oblivious to the miniature hullabaloo Haddock was conducting.

“I'll not be doubted by some pipsqueak tuft of ginger, his irritating dog, and a four-eyes! I am master—” a swoop of the oars, and Tintin was stunned, left to collapse out cold onto a bench— “and commander of the seas!”

Penny felt the crack of something across her head. She had just enough time to register that Haddock had, unintentionally, delivered a knockout blow with the oar before she fell onto the floor of the longboat.

‘So this is how Tintin feels on a regular basis,’ was her last conscious thought before she slipped into darkness.

Chapter Text

Warm.

It, Tintin thought, was strangely warm. Too warm for a boat drifting in the North Atlantic. 

Slowly seeping into consciousness, he vaguely registered the up and down pitch of the boat, the sun glimmering on his skin, the brush of cold seawater against his dangling hand. He blinked. When had he fallen asleep? The last thing he remembered was— was asking Haddock if he could get them to Bagghar. Then, nothing other than a dream filtered through a memory; Penny’s lilac pyjamas, fresh pastries, the smell of coffee and the sound of Smokey purring. 

A bright glow was coming from somewhere in front of him. Smoke cut through the departing dreamt coffee. He blinked again and opened his eyes properly. A bolt of cold shock cut through his system. 

“Tintin! Come and warm yourself, laddie!” Haddock said.

A fire was blazing in the centre of the boat. One of the oars stuck out of it.  a grim pyre to their last chance at getting to land, let alone to Bagghar before Sakharine. Haddock was warming his backside against the blaze. Penny was slumped over at the other end, Snowy at her side and growling at the flames as they licked a little too close to Penny’s trousers for comfort. . 

Tintin got to his feet. “Captain. What have you done?”

At the sound of the shout, Penny stirred. She raised her head and squinted. Something was happening in front of her— what, she could not tell, her glasses having slipped from her hand to the boat floor whilst she was unconscious. She felt about the wood planks beneath her. Snowy whined. A moment later, his cold, damp nose nudged against her palm, guiding her to the thin wire frame of her spectacles. She patted his head. Picking up her glasses, she put them on. Her eyes shot wide open. 

“Heavens above, what on earth are you doing?” she cried out and stood.

“Oh, no need to thank me.”

Tintin and Penny turned to him with matching flabbergasted expressions. “ What ?”

“Well, you looked a little cold, so I lit you a wee fire.”

“A fire. A novel idea,” Penny said dryly and bent to scoop up seawater, dashing it over the fire in a vain attempt to put it out. 

“In a boat?” Tintin yelled. 

Panic set in. Tintin tried to stamp out the fire— it did very little. Haddock, enragingly unbothered, picked up the remaining oar. Penny went to grab for it, but he had already snapped it over his knee and tossed it into the fire. She, frustrated but determined, made a strangling motion with her hands and returned to trying to douse the flames. 

Tintin threw his hands up in despair, “no, those are our oars, we need those oars!”

“Yes, but not for much longer!”

“Have you gone mad?” Looking about, Tintin saw Penny’s efforts and was swift to follow suit. “Quick, Captain, help us. Captain, help us, quick!”

“He’s right!” Haddock began to flap. “What have I done? What have I done !”

Penny and Tintin shoveled water onto the fire as fast as they could. It seemed to be doing little apart from making hissing noises as the cold brine came into contact with the hot flames and burst into steam. Above them, Haddock flailed about, looking for something.

Tintin looked up. “No, Captain, not that!”

Penny raised her head just in time to see Captain Haddock tip a bottle onto the fire. Then— a woosh. Fire plumed. A shudder rocked across the boat. 

Tintin stood, gawping at the explosion. Haddock held an empty bottle, his beard singed and his clothing smoking a little. Snowy was remarkably quiet. The bottle had had alcohol in it. 

“Thundering typhoons!”

Penny sighed and dropped her forehead onto the gunwale. “ Lord, give me patience .”

“Well, this is a fine mess…” Tintin said.

Sat floating on the upturned longboat with nothing but the sun and the wind, land a far-off dream, Penny could not help but agree. Enthusiastically.  

The explosion from the alcohol had weakened the hull so badly that they had had no choice but to push the boat onto its front. If they had still had their oars there might have been a chance at making their way to land little by little. But, thanks to a certain captain, that was no longer an option.

“I’m weak,” Haddock blubbered. 

“... we’re stranded here…” Tintin continued.

“Selfish!”

“... no hope of rescue…”

“Hopeless!”

“... while Sakharine and his men are halfway to Bagghar.”

“Poor, miserable wretch!”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Penny groaned under her breath. Maybe if Haddock put effort into bucking up and thinking clearly, they would not be in this to-do. Really, out of the sailor, the journalist, and the librarian, it ought not to be the sailor who was falling apart when on the sea. 

Tintin turned and glared at Haddock. “Yes, alright! That’s enough of that.”

A despondent quiet reigned for a short while before Haddock started to blubber again. Penny cut him short with a stern look. She was rather reaching the end of her tether with him. 

“Look, if we hold out long enough, we’ll either drift to land or some sort of ship will find us. We’ve just got to… to cope until then. Which means,” Penny said pointedly, “less of the dramatics and more sense, yes?”

Tintin nodded— though he knew as well as Penny did that, at that moment, their outlook was quite grim. They exchanged a look. Penny was tired, Tintin could see it; see the dryness in her eyes, the subtle tremor in her hands.  Even so, she gave him her usual smile as she wiped salt from her glasses. Thank heavens she was here, he found himself thinking. 

Haddock continued to act out his melodrama. “It was his fault, you see. It was Sir Francis!”

“A three-hundred-year old dead man? Extraordinary .” Penny buried her head in her hands.

Tintin did not bother to hide his exhaustion when he said, “tell me, how did you work that one out?”

“Because he was a figurehead of great courage and bold exploits! No one like him ever existed in my family! Why do you think I drink? Because I know I'll never be like him.” Haddock shook his head. “No, it's far better that I end it now. Put us all out of our misery.”

Standing, Haddock took Tintin’s hand and shook it, before positioning himself as if he were about to dive into the sea. Penny watched him, aghast, disbelieving, and utterly fed up.

“Are you joking, Haddock?” she exclaimed. “Everything Tintin did to rescue you, and you just— no. No, no you don’t.”

Snowy whined, looking somewhere into the distance behind them. Tintin noticed. 

“What is it, Snowy?” he said, turning to look. 

“I’m going to lower myself,” Haddock continued, “into the sea—”

“Not on my damn watch, you aren’t.” Penny stood and seized Haddock by his jacket. “Now, listen here, Captain , I've had it up to here with your harbinger of doom act, so you are going to sit down and quiet down, you understand? It is far past the time for you to act like a damn adult.”

Meanwhile, Tintin narrowed his eyes, watching as a small speck on the horizon gradually grew closer— closer— closer— until it took the shape of a plane.

“Those are Portuguese markings,” Tintin muttered.

Turning back to Haddock, he said loudly, “where is the Karaboudjan registered?”

Both Haddock and Penny looked around. Haddock’s eyes widened in delight. Penny’s narrowed in suspicion— there had been a plane aboard the Karaboudjan . Sakharine did not seem the sort to leave their deaths to chance. 

“We’re saved.” Haddock clapped his hands, “we’re saved!” 

As the plane got closer and closer, he opened his arms and fell to his knees, “oh, it’s a sign from above!”

“Tintin,” Penny said quietly, reaching out to tug at his sleeve, “I don’t think that’s rescue.”

She was immediately proven right.

Bullets spat out from the plane’s nose. Seawater leaped up around them, spray shooting into the air. Tintin grabbed Penny and pulled her into a duck, holding her head down as he crouched beside her; Penny scooped Snowy up and kept him tucked under her until the bullets passed. The plane dived as it fired. It swooped low. The four occupants of the upturned boat felt its backdraft before it swung back up into the air and began to turn. Sakharine definitely did not want to leave their deaths to chance— they were coming back for another try. 

Haddock, still standing on the hull, boxed at the air. “Troglodytes!”

“Get down, Captain, for heaven’s sake, you’ll be shot!” Penny shouted.

“Slave traders! Mutant malingerers! Freshwater politicians!”

Pulling out the pistol he procured back on the ship, Tintin checked the clip.

“Bad news everyone,” he said, pushing the clip back into the gun, “we’ve got one bullet.”

Penny looked at him nervously. “Any good news?”

“We’ve got one bullet.”

Arm folded across his body, he rested his gun hand on his elbow, steadying himself. As the plane swept through the sky towards them, he raised the pistol. He waited— waited— waited. 

The plane dived towards them. Tintin pulled the trigger. A bang rattled across the sea as the bullet pierced through the plane's nose. Black smoke billowed. Spluttering and spitting, the plane wobbled and wavered its way onto the sea's surface a short distance away, forced to make a landing. Captain Haddock toppled into the water, set off balance by his own enraged flailing at the plane's attempted murder

Smiling, Penny patted Tintin's shoulder. “You did it! Good aim.”

He turned to her and smiled. “Thanks. I have had plenty of practice.”

“You'll have to teach me sometime.”

“Oh I am not putting a gun in your hand, Penn.”

“Whyever not?” she grinned, “it'll reduce late returns.”

“That,” he pointed to her toothy smile, “is exactly why not.”

Without further ado, he swung over the hull to join Haddock in the water. Following, Penny slid down and lowered herself into the water, hiding the four of them from the plane's occupants as they got out to look at the damage.

“Right,” Tintin said, “stay here, both of you.”

Without another word, he dove underwater. 

“Tintin? Tintin?” Haddock hissed and looked about for him.

Penny peeked over the hull. A telltale trail of movement on the surface followed Tintin as he swam the distance between the longboat and the plane— he was, of course, utterly inconspicuous, Penny simply had sharp eyes despite her glasses. 

A metre away from the plane his quiff sprung up through the water and cut through the sea, unnoticed by the two pilots. Clapping her hand over her mouth, Penny stopped herself from laughing. It looked as though a small, ginger shark was stalking the plane. 

Tintin burst out of the water. He raised the gun and trained it on the pilots. With a fierce, no-nonsense twist to his countenance, he shouted— 

“Put your hands in the air! Now!”

The pilots looked at one another, looked back at Tintin, and raised their hands.

Ten minutes later and the motley group were all bundled aboard the plane. Which, Penny thought, was probably not intended for five humans and a dog, considering the creaks and complaints it was giving. It would have to do. Tintin has insisted they could not leave the Karaboudjan ’s men behind. 

The two pilots were bound together and gagged, tossed to the back like luggage; Captain Haddock's doing— apparently the ‘amoeba-brained autocrats deserved nothing less,’ something which neither Tintin nor Penny felt inclined to disagree with. 

Tintin was in the pilot's chair, flicking through an instruction manual. Penny sat behind him. Haddock stood behind her, having insisted that the lady take the remaining seat (with a look that said he would rather be sitting himself). Snowy was perched on Penny's lap. He seemed to be still taking Tintin's instruction to ‘look after Penny’ from back home very seriously. Every opportunity, he was at her side. Then again— he was probably just relieved that it was not only him trying to talk sense into their reporter friend anymore.

“You— you do know what you're doing, eh, Tintin?” Haddock said, fidgeting about.

“Um,” Tintin flicked a few switches and pushed a few buttons, “more or less.”

The plane hummed to life. Penny gripped onto the side of her seat. She had never flown before. Rather fitting that her first time in a plane was with Tintin at the helm as they pursued some villain across the ocean to Bagghar. 

“Well, which is it, more or less?” Haddock asked.

“Relax. I interviewed a pilot once!”

They began to move forward. The bottom of the plane skimmed across the sea, sending up showers of saltwater through an open window. 

“Yes, and you've been shot by one, too,” Penny muttered.

“Oh, where's your optimism, Penn?”

“Back on solid ground.” 

Tintin laughed— Penny was not so afraid as she was making out, he could hear a slight laughter in her voice that cut through the dry anxiety. In fact, he sensed that her mild badgering was a (admittedly comforting) attempt to keep him at ease. It was working. 

“Here we go!”

The plane chugged, sputtered, then began to lift from the sea. Haddock yelled as they flew up, then back down, splitting through a wave before, finally, they were in the air. Tintin steadied their course. 

“Which way to North Africa?”

Haddock fumbled. “Anyone have a compass?”

“Here.” Penny rattled around in her bag and produced a compass— old, from at least the eighteen-nineties, but still very much functional. 

“Ta.”

There was a short pause whilst Captain Haddock muttered to himself and peered out of the window.

“Right!” he announced, “if my calculations are indeed correct, which they usually are, then we need to go,” he pointed, “that-a-way.”

With a push of the centre stick, Tintin steered the plane in the right direction. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Light chatter occupied the space in the plane as the ocean ran on beneath them, entirely blank except for the white specks of cresting waves. A dark speck appeared on the horizon. Flying closer, Tintin guided the plane down to get a closer look. It was the Karabudjan , plowing through the sea towards Bagghar at top speed.

“Look, Captain!” Tintin exclaimed.

Haddock ignored him, concentrating instead on containing his heaving to a reasonable level— it appeared that his sea legs did not translate to air legs. 

“We’ve caught up with them,” Tintin instead turned to Penny, who was looking out of the plane with wide eyes, Snowy doing the same from her knee. 

“Now we definitely know we’re going the right way,” she said. 

They exchanged a look, each smiling in the same hopeful manner. Now, finally at the same pace as their adversaries, attaining the third piece of the Unicorn ’s puzzle seemed much more achievable. Penny reached out and gave Tintin’s shoulder a brief squeeze.

“Well done.”

“ Wonderful ,” Haddock said, having successfully stopped himself from making their journey much worse, “but do you think we might find another way to North Africa that doesn’t take us through that wall of death.”

Everyone looked forward. The atmosphere dropped.

In front of them was a building storm. Menacing gunmetal-grey clouds billowed like ink being spilled in water; lightning arched in harsh lines, silver-white lancing through the grey as thunder rolled across the distance and sent the plane’s windows shuddering in their holdings. 

“We can’t turn back,” Tintin shook his head, “not now!”

Tintin twisted his head around to meet eyes with Penny. Her gaze flickered between him and the aptly named ‘wall of death’ that awaited them. Jaw set, she nodded once. He looked back to the front.

“Not now.”

They entered the storm.

A plane in the midst of a storm was little more than a leaf in the rapids of a river. They were buffeted and bashed about, feeling all too like tinned fish being shaken up as the plane swung this way and that. Tintin was locked in a desperate battle with the centre stick to keep them stable and airborne. Penny held onto her seat, watching the world around them as it went from mottled grey to blinding white. The way the lightning pierced the air next to them was beautiful— a terrible, mesmerising sort of beauty that caught her eye and kept it. 

There was a terrible beauty of another sort catching Haddock’s eye.

A bottle of medical spirits rattled next to a first aid kit  in a net attached to the side of the plane. Haddock slowly, quietly reached for the bottle. Before he could touch it Penny’s hand wrapped around his wrist in a vice-like grip.

“Don’t you dare ,” she said sternly, “those are for medicinal purposes only, if you get drunk right now you’ll only put us all in danger.”

Haddock smiled and shook his hand out of her hold. “Quite right, lassie, quite right. Sea gherkins, the lass has an iron hand .”

Lightning forked, striking one wing of the plane. It dipped into a barrel roll, sending the occupants inside screeching and yelling in surprise as they went belly-up. Penny found herself propped up against the roof. Her heart raced— the feeling of being suspended midair whilst the plane pitched and bucked upside down was not a comforting one. Snowy hovered next to her. Tintin wrestled with the stick. Captain Haddock bellowed. With a great yank, Tintin righted the plane. Everyone fell back into place with a thump. 

“The storm’s getting worse!” Penny shouted.

“Yes, I know, thank you!” Tintin replied as he exerted as much force as possible over the steering. 

“We might have a better chance if we dip below the worst of it?”

“Worth a try!”

Once again, the occupants of the plane were lifted into the air as gravity lost its hold on them. Penny clung onto her satchel as the sea’s surface, revealed by a gap in the clouds, grew closer and closer. She screwed her eyes shut. Then, with a jolt, the plane sharply bolted upward— inciting a yelp from Penny— before it once again plummeted. Tintin righted it above the sea, keeping it steady.

“Alright, Penn?” he asked. 

“I am never stepping foot in a plane again,” Penny muttered.

Tintin half-laughed and returned his attention back to the plane. A red light flickered next to the fuel tank. The sound of the propeller stopping sent a sinking feeling into his stomach.

“No, no, no .”

“What is it?”

“The fuel tank, it’s almost empty!”

“Oh, bloody hell .”

“Right, this may sound crazy but I’ve got a plan. The alcohol in that bottle may give us a few more miles. I need you, Captain, to climb out and pour it into the fuel tank.”

Penny looked at Tintin, aghast; was he really sending Haddock out into the storm?

“Christopher Columbus,” Haddock buckled the belt of the parachute together onto himself. 

He opened the door and, with less than a second of experiencing the uproar of weather outside, closed it again.

“There’s a terrible storm out there,” he said desperately, “and it’s— it’s raining.”

Tintin rolled his eyes.Turning around, he slung his arm over the back of his chair and turned to face Haddock. Penny, upon seeing his frustrated expression, quickly shuffled to the side to avoid his intense gaze. 

“And you call yourself a Haddock?” he snapped. 

All at once, Haddock’s nerves returned to him. With a rough glower, he scrambled out of the ship— and promptly disappeared from sight. 

“Captain!” Penny shouted, plastering herself to the window to try and spot him— however much he was irritating her, she did not want to see him swept away. “Captain, Captain, can you hear me? Captain!”

Haddock’s pale, drawn face appeared in one of the windows. He was clinging to the side of the plane, trembling like a leaf, the parachute on his back flapping in the wind. 

“You’re doing fine! Now, pour the bottle into the tank,” Tintin instructed, “we’re running on fumes!”

There was a muffled yell of ‘fumes!’ from outside. Penny frowned, confused. Why did that word light such a fire in the Captain? Something bumped against her foot. She looked down. Realisation flooded through her.

“Heavens above.”

An empty bottle rolled along the plane’s floor. Somehow, at some point in all the chaos, Haddock had gotten a hold of the surgical spirits— and downed the lot. 

“Penny?” Tintin asked, not wanting to look around for fear of the plane going off course, but anxious having heard the despair and anger in her voice.

Penny picked up the bottle. “He’s drunk the whole bottle. He’s out there with nothing!”

Snowy hiccuped guiltily. 

Penny went to stand— to get Haddock back in the plane to safety even if it meant dragging him by his parachute— but Tintin was quick to grab her. 

“No! You’ll be dragged into the storm in  an instant.”

“Well, what do we do? We can’t leave him out there!”

“Just— just let me think for a moment.”

Meanwhile, Haddock was clambering his way across the plane. He seated himself on the nose. Inside, Penny and Tintin watched as he unscrewed the cap of the fuel tank and bent over it. 

“What— what on earth is he doing?” Penny said.

With a spluttering jolt, the plane urged forward, the propeller spinning twice as fast as flames shot out of the vents, pushing the vehicle onward in the air. Whatever Haddock had done, it had worked— perhaps a little too well. Haddock was plastered against the window of the plane with the velocity it was now flying at. Tintin tried to look around him.

“Captain! I can’t see!” he yelled. 

“Land!” Haddock shouted. “Land!”

“We can’t, we’re not there yet!”

Penny looked out of the window. “ Crikey , he means land , the— the— the noun! There’s land ahead! We need to go up, now!”

As she spat the words out as quickly as she could, Haddock slipped to one side and revealed the dune rapidly approaching them. Tintin’s eyes widened. He yanked the centre stick down, pulling the plane up and over the sand. Pitching violently back and forth, the plane swept over the desert, avoiding dunes as Haddock shouted directions from the front, desperately clinging onto the outside. Penny bundled Snowy into her arms— the poor thing was being bashed about like a eight-ball on a pool table— and kept him close as he barked at the feeling of being tossed inside the plane. Haddock suddenly disappeared from view. Penny gasped, thinking he had been lost, and Tintin shouted ‘Captain!’, but the sound of his yells continued; he was clinging on somewhere. 

Movement behind Penny made her turn around. The two pilots— whom she had honestly forgotten about— were free and readying to jump from the plane. They froze. Penny looked at them. They looked at her. She gestured at the open door with a raised eyebrow. They did not hesitate to jump.

A snap sounded. Penny looked forward again. In Tintin’s hand was the centre stick— broken from the console. A sharp whispered curse came from one— probably both— of them. Tintin turned to Penny. 

“Get down! Hands over your head, make yourself as small as possible, quick!”

She did just that, hunkering as far as she could into her seat, Snowy curled in a ball in one of her arms whilst the other wrapped around her head and protected the back of her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the impact.

“Hold on, Penn!” Tintin shouted, “hold—”

With an almighty quake, the plane plummeted into the sand.

Chapter Text

Once, twice, thrice— the plane bounced from the dunes, spinning as it shot through the air only to drop over and over. Metallic crunches and groans conducted themselves into an awful racket that sent everyone’s nerves to pieces. Glass shattered. Shards and shrapnel flew through the broken windows and open door. Everyone kept their eyes closed and waited for it all to end. 

With a final, heavy thump and hissing of sand, the plane stopped. 

Penny blinked and raised her head. Snowy wriggled out of her grasp with a yip. There was a crack in one lens of her glasses. She was vaguely surprised that it had taken until now for that to occur. She looked around. Lodged in a sand dune, the plane was unmoving, stripped of everything but its body. The engine still ran, the feeling of it humming through the metal shell remaining even as it sputtered in the sand, sprays of it kicked up by the still spinning propeller. 

Then, she saw him.

“Oh, hell !”

Tintin had been flung out of the smashed front window of the plane. He was lying, knocked unconscious by the crash, on the nose. And he was slipping slowly, slowly, further into the propeller. Snowy was behind him, trying desperately to drag Tintin away from the cutting blades, but of course the little dog did not have the strength, not when he himself was tottering, half dazed from the impact.

Penny was moving before she could even think.

As she scrambled across the seats there was a distant familiar yell. A thump on the roof— then Haddock’s voice crying out Tintin’s name. Penny ignored the cacophony, threw herself forward, wrapped both arms around Tintin’s middle, and heaved him back into the plane, the force at which she did so sending them both tumbling into the pilot’s seat. 

Tintin woke just in time to watch as Haddock’s parachute caught in the propeller and he was flung onto the sand after being spun about like a human yo-yo. Snowy promptly fainted. There was a soft woof, and a dull thud as he fell onto the sand, snoring a moment later. Penny and Tintin looked at one another and grinned. They each took a moment to breathe, panting— Penny from exertion, Tintin from recovering.

“Alright, get off, you’re squishing me,” Penny patted Tintin’s side after a moment.

He tutted. “I was just getting comfortable.”

“ How do you even have the energy for backtalk right now?”

Tintin snickered. He had a cheeky streak a mile wide, one that was often hidden by his unerring politeness and good nature. It was nice to see it, even when it was directed at her— especially then. Especially now, when so far from home.

Squeezing out of the plane, they both collapsed onto the sand. Tintin stood and stretched. Penny bent over, hands on her knees, and breathed deep. 

In the aftermath of the whole affair, it seemed both hilarious and terrifying— they had survived one of the most ridiculous scenarios Penny could ever conceive of. One that she had only ever read about in Tintin’s reports. 

“So,” he asked, “how was your first plane crash?”

Penny looked at him incredulously. He shrugged with an unperturbed grin. She laughed, breathless, and shook her head. 

“Uh… five out of ten experience. The ride was a little bumpy but, um… the company was pleasant enough.”

“Only pleasant enough?”

She rolled her eyes. Tintin patted her back. She straightened up and rolled her shoulders. 

“Right. Time to walk?” she said, adjusting her satchel. 

Tintin nodded. “Time to walk.”

Haddock groaned. 

Bois de la Cambre. Sonian Forest. Parc de Bruxelles. Penny had been on quite a few walks with Tintin throughout the years. They were always learning opportunities. Penny would tell Tintin the English names of plants, and he would teach her the French if he knew it. Her pronunciation always made him laugh— it still does whenever her accent turns ‘bouilloire’ into something that sounds more like a curse than a kettle. 

This walk was not much different from the others. Except, of course, they were in the middle of the Sahara desert. 

Hair loose to keep the sun off of her neck, handkerchief tied around her head like the others, Penny plodded along next to Tintin. Haddock was on his other side, and Snowy darted about between them, eager to keep them all going as they slogged onward.

The sun was bruising in its intensity. Sand, sand, and more sand lay behind them and before them. Particles drifted on a slow moving wind, getting into every possible nook and cranny— and that was not to mention the fact that they all were bruised in an unspeakable amount of places. All they could do was keep walking. Keep walking, and hope they found help. 

“I spy with my little eye—” Penny started.

“Don’t you dare ,” Tintin said.

She snorted, “sorry, couldn’t help it.”

“ The land of thirst ,” Haddock said. 

They both ignored him. 

Tintin sighed. “Makes you miss the rain, eh?”

“Oh, I always miss the rain,” Penny tipped her head back and closed her eyes, “it’s home to me. The sound, the smell, the stillness it brings… heavens, I love it.”

“A poet even in the desert.”

“ The land of thirst .”

“I’m not a poet, Tintin.”

“Sure, and that column in Literature Weekly isn’t written by you, either.”

Her jaw dropped. “How’d you know about that?”

“You think I can’t recognise your writing? I’m hurt. Anyway, I wouldn't be a good journalist if I couldn't make these sorts of connections.”

“ The land of thirst .”

“Ass.” Penny swatted at Tintin with her jumper. “That was supposed to be a secret.”

“I can go back to pretending not to know, if you'd like?”

“Maybe. Problem is, I know that you know now. And I can't pretend.”

“You are a terrible liar.” He smiled and reached out to give her shoulder a little squeeze. “For what it's worth, last week's poem was beautiful.”

Penny grinned. “Thanks.”

“ The land of thirst .”

All of the little party restrained an exasperated groan; Haddock had been repeating the same damn thing over and over again since they started walking. He had stopped asking if Penny had anything to drink in her ‘bag of tricks’ a while ago, thank goodness. If he had asked one more time she might have just made him into a sandcastle. But that did not mean he had no other ways of making himself bothersome.

“ The land of thirst .”

“Will you stop saying that?” Tintin said sternly, having had enough of the dramatics.

With an agonised wail, Haddock draped himself over him. Tintin winced and held him upright.

“You don't understand. I've run out, I've run out!” He dropped to his knees and held his last empty bottle up. “You don’t know what that means.”

“Captain, we have to keep going. One step at a time, come on, on your feet!”

A burst of sympathy came over Penny; if not for Haddock, then for Tintin, who was trying hard to keep everyone walking. With a reluctant sigh, she hurried over and took Haddock’s other arm, sliding it over her shoulders and heaving him up onto two feet with Tintin. 

“Here we go,” she said, “lean your weight on me, that’s it.”

Haddock obeyed. Penny’s height and strength helped immensely and ensured Tintin had the least work to do keeping Haddock upright. Together, they staggered forward.

“A man can only hang on for so long without his vitals,” Haddock bemoaned.

“I’m not sure alcohol is considered a vital,” Penny said. 

“Captain, calm down,” Tintin added, “there are worse things than sobering up.”

“Namely dying.”

Tintin pointedly cleared his throat. 

Penny apologised, “bad timing, sorry.”

“Look!” Haddock suddenly stood up straight and pointed ahead of them. “We’re saved! Water! Water!”

Breaking away from Tintin and Penny, he sprinted forward— forward towards nothing but more sand. Snowy caught hold of his braces and tried to tug him back before he could do harm to himself, but it was to no avail. The braces unlatched, springing back with a ‘ping!’ and Haddock was released to tumble down the far side of a dune. 

“Stop, Captain!” Tintin ran after him, “it’s just a mirage.”

Penny crested the dune and looked down at the pair as they crouched together on the sand. The heat was getting to her— she could feel the way her muscles weakened under the glare, the dizziness addling her brain even as she fought against the oppressive weight of the sun. She blinked and scrubbed at her eyes. Shaking her head, she carried on; she had to be alright, she had to keep going.

“It was here, I saw it…” Haddock muttered.

“It was just your mind playing tricks. It’s the heat!”

“I have to go home.”

“What?”

Haddock stared at something no one else could see. Emotion filled his eyes. Whatever he was witnessing, it was something of great importance— something wondrous, something beautiful, something out of a story.

“I have to go back to the sea,” he breathed.

Tintin sighed, “Captain, you’re hallucinating.”

“Look,” Haddock pointed, “did you ever see a more beautiful sight?”

Coming to a stop beside Tintin, Penny looked ahead at the vast expanse of nothingness that Haddock was using as a canvas for his daydream. Tintin looked back at Haddock. He was slowly rising to his feet, a childlike elation on his face as he described what was before him in his mind’s eye.

“She’s turning into the wind. All sails set. Triple masted. Double decked. Fifty guns!” Haddock smiled.

Tintin stood quickly, eagerly; he recognised that description. “The Unicorn …”

Asbently, Haddock turned to him, still smiling in that dreamlike manner, “isn’t she a beauty?”

“Yes!” Tintin seized him by his shoulders, grinning wide. “Yes, she is! Tell me, Captain, what else can you see?”

Pointing into the distance, Tintin directed Haddock back to his hallucination. There was a patter of paws. Penny looked beside her to see Snowy dragging a femur bone. She shook her head with a fond smile and sat, petting the little dog as she returned her attention to Haddock’s tale. 

“She's got the wind behind her, look at the pace she's setting! Barely a day out of Barbados, a hold full of  rum and the finest tobacco, and the hearts of the sailors set for home !”

Eyes closed, Penny could almost see the picture he was painting, vivid as a story one would find amongst the library shelves.

The Unicorn , large as life and in her prime, sweeping over the seas as a storm swirled and brewed around her. Sir Francis Haddock on her decks, a carbon copy of their own Haddock friend, raising a telescope to his eye as he watches another ship draw ever closer. 

“The red pennant,” Haddock said, “the blood runs cold in every sea captain that looks upon that flag, for he knows he’s facing a fight to the death. But! Sir Francis is a Haddock, and Haddocks don’t flee...”

The hatches for the cannons fly open. Below decks, the crew hurry back and forth, readying the ship for a battle. Sir Francis is charging about, shouting orders, giving commands, rallying his men for the fight ahead. He is a fearsome sight— a true Captain, dedicated to his crew but bold, almost to a reckless degree, in the face of danger.

The Unicorn is brought about just in time for the men to watch as, up ahead, the pirate ship charges through the water towards them. A flash, then another, and two cannonballs rocket through a wave and pierce through the ship’s hull. Fire blazes. The Unicorn replies in kind. Half of the fifty guns unload. 

Back and forth the shot goes, ripping holds in sails, breaking masts, shattering the sides of each ship. Still the pirates draw closer, closer, closer, until the ships collide, their masts entwining. Sir Francis gives the order—

“Prepare to repel all boarders!”

Locked together, the two ships swing across the sea, the smaller pirate vessel heaved into the air by the grand Unicorn . It swoops through and across the ship, sending crewmen flying and giving the pirates a chance to leap onto the deck. Yells and whoops fill the air as the first face-to-face combat of the night ensues.

Sir Francis is as keen a warrior as he is a sailor— he fends off his enemy with a skill and ease unlike any other, dodging up the interconnected masts to cut ties with the lagging pirate ship, leaving it to sink into the deep. Back on board the Unicorn , he swings into the thick of the battle. A Haddock never runs from a fight. 

Then, through the flames, he sees him. His equal. His counterpart. The lord of his enemies.

“Like a phantom, rising from the dead,” Haddock said dauntingly.

“Who, Captain?” Tintin prompted.

Penny opened her eyes. Tintin stood close to Haddock, who held the empty bottle in his hand like a sword. A slow dusk came over Haddock's face— he had lost the tether to his memory that had temporarily tied itself.

Haddock blinked. “It’s gone…”

“What do you mean ‘gone’? What happened next?” Tintin said.

Bewildered, Haddock stumbled forward, staggering about and looking around as if the sand dunes would give him an answer to his confusion.

“By Jupiter, I have a beard,” he said, hand grazing over his chin, “since when did I have a beard ?”

“Captain, something happened on the Unicorn . It’s the key to everything, you must try to remember!” 

“The Unicorn , what? I’m so terribly thirsty,” Haddock swayed on his feet.

Penny scrambled upright, reaching out, ready to steady Haddock if he fell.  

“Captain!” Tintin said, concerned.

“Tintin!” Haddock swayed violently, and Penny braced him by his shoulders, gently keeping him upright. “What is happening to me?”

Hurrying after them, Tintin watched as Haddock fainted into Penny’s arms. She grunted and caught him, then guided him to the ground with Tintin’s help. Haddock lay down with a lost expression. Penny and Tintin looked at one another— they knew exactly what was happening. 

“And to think, all it took was a day in the Sahara,” Tintin patted Haddock’s chest.

Penny half laughed. Haddock stared up at the both of them, confused.

“Congratulations, Captain,” she said, “you’re sober.”

“Sober…”

Night fell. None of them could move after Haddock collapsed. Penny and Tintin tried to drag him a few paces, but it did not take long before Tintin succumbed to the heat and fell, half-conscious. Penny spent the rest of the day trying as hard as she could to keep her companions alive. Each was laid on his side in the recovery position; she had no clue whether it helped in this situation, but it felt useful, so she did it. She bundled their jumpers under them as pillows. Haddock’s jacket kept the worst of the sun from his head, and Penny’s jumper did the same for Tintin. 

Apart from that, it was all she could do to wait, watch,  and pray for help to come or for them to wake up. She did not know why she, out of all of them, somehow managed to resist fainting, but she was glad for it; at least this way, there was someone to take care of them. Even if she felt terribly, terribly alone.

Penny laid on her back between the pair. Snowy was padding around keeping watch, somehow still alert even after a day in the desert. 

The stars were beautiful. Crystal clear as she watched them crawl into the sky; galaxies revealed themselves as the sun gave way to the moon. Constellations had never been her strong suit. She could retell the myths about each one, but could never identify them. Tintin could. 

Getting onto her knees, she reached out to check on him. He was still warm— awfully warm, even as the night air dropped into cold. He was, however, still breathing. Shallow, rasping, but breathing. She tucked her jumper around his shoulders to ward away the chill a little. It would not do him any good to go from immense heat to immense cold.

“Please be alright,” she whispered, “please, please be alright. Lord knows you’ve been in more dire situations than this, but… just be alright.”

Her eyes stung. She squeezed them shut. 

There was a faint noise in the distance. A shout. A voice, maybe. With a gasp, she sat up— were those people? Yes, yes, they were; men on foot and on camels, dressed in military uniforms. Pushing herself up onto her feet, she raised both hands above her hand and waved as hard as she could. Snowy raised his head. Pattering up next to her, he peered at the figures in the distance. Then, he lifted his muzzle and howled. 

“Hello!” Penny shouted. “Over here!”

The figures stopped in their tracks. A pause. Then, there were shouts— ‘hello there!’ ‘goodness gracious, is that a woman?’ ‘what on earth is someone doing all the way out here?’ ‘hold on miss, we're on our way!’. With a renewed sense of urgency and speed, the party headed in Penny's direction. 

Penny could have almost cried in relief; she would have, had she not felt that all her water had evaporated during the day. Snowy jumped about barking in delight. She grinned and scooped him up to cuddle him close. 

“Look, Snowy, we’re saved!” she said.

He licked her cheek, then wriggled out of her grasp to circle around his friends, barking all the while.

Slumping down, the effect of a day trudging through sand under the sun and an evening keeping watch over her friends finally caught up to her. She blinked. The world tilted on its axis, her head spinning, a dreadful throbbing in her temples setting her teeth on edge as she kept herself upright. She looked down. Tintin still slept. Haddock, too. 

“We’re saved, boys.”

Footsteps and hooves against sand sounded close by. A man— their leader, from the looks of it— came over the other side of the dune. Penny staggered over to him and promptly collapsed. He caught her.

“Alright, miss, you’re alright. You’re safe now.”

“My friends,” she panted, pointing behind her, “help my friends, please , help them first. They haven’t woken up in ages, I—”

“Your friends will be fine, we have them,” the man said gently, nodding to his fellows as they surrounded the group and began tending to Haddock and Tintin, “here, sip this.”

A waterskin was pressed to Penny’s lips. Cold water, slightly tasting of salt, flowed from it into her mouth. She did her best not to gulp it down. 

“There you are. Right. Back to base!”

Once back at the military base, the two men were taken straight to the medical wing. Penny, however, put a spanner in the works— she was a woman, and there were no other women in the compound for her to bunk with, therefore things were more complicated for her. A solution was offered by the officer in charge, Lieutenant Delcourt; as the highest rank, had his own room set aside from the barracks. That would make for Penny’s board for the night. It had a lock, and the key was given to her, so no ‘inappropriate goings on’ could occur.

Penny had been tempted to say that if she had any inappropriate goings on they would certainly not be with any of the men at this base, just to see Delcourt blanch, but she was tired and in need of a bed to fall into.

After the doctor gave her a brief, awkward lookover (she could tell that he was used to dealing with soldiers, not librarians), Penny was settled into Delcourt's rather bare and impersonal room, and left to her own devices. 

There was a quiet knock only a few minutes later. Penny unlocked the door. Tintin was behind it, awake and looking quite the opposite of someone who had spent a day in the Sahara without food or water. He smiled and pressed his finger to his mouth in a shushing motion. She grinned and silently gestured him in. He closed the door behind himself and crept inside, taking a seat on her bed beside her.

“Breaking the rules are we, Miss Fable?” he said. 

“You're the one who knocked,” she laughed, “careful, Tintin, or you’ll end up causing a scandal. I think the Lieutenant was convinced we’d get up to no good if we were all in the medical wing at the same time.”

Tintin rolled his eyes at the notion. 

“Still,” she said as he settled himself, “you didn’t take long to find me. Last I saw you, you were unconscious and  being damsel-carried by a dashing soldier. How are you feeling?”

Tintin snorted. “There goes my dignity.”

“You don’t mind it when I lug you about.”

“You’re you , though.” He shook his head. “I’m alright. Little worse for wear, but not bad at all considering. How about you?”

She could feel his eyes on her; scanning her with the critical gaze of someone used to on-the-go medicine and healing. The worry was nearly scalding. She sighed and rolled her shoulders— they still felt stiff from the plane crash. 

“In the same position, in all honesty. Would kill for a brew right about now.”

Penny said so, without even a hint of tension, but Tintin looked as though it had sent him swimming in guilt. He cleared his throat.

“This— this hasn't turned out to be much of an adventure for you,” he said apologetically.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, so far, you've been shot at— twice —, stranded in the sea, been in a plane crash, then stranded in the desert.”

Penny shrugged, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hand. “Isn't that normal fare for you?”

“For me , yes. For you? Decidedly not.” He frowned at her— sternly, in his usual way of trying to parse out all information. “You will tell me if it’s too much for you?”

“I’m fine . Goodness me, Tintin, I’m supposed to be the one fretting, not you.”

“Forgive me if I’m concerned for my friend.”

It was the closest he had gotten to really snapping at her throughout the entire affair. Penny ducked her head.

“Sorry,” she said, genuine and soft. 

“I will. Tell you, I mean, if it’s too much,” she swallowed, “besides, if I… if I get in a tizz, I won’t be of use to anyone. I know what’s at stake here. It’s not just the Unicorn anymore, is it?” 

She caught Tintin’s eye. He grimaced, but acquiesced. Penny was right. She nodded.

“I can’t drag you down—”

Tintin was quick to interrupt, “You couldn’t. Not ever.”

“—but,” she continued, “I’d chase you across the whole damn world if it made sure you came home safe. That’s what’s important to me. Not adventures, you .”

Penny was not one to maintain eye contact. She did not have to most of the time— a lot could be said through a single glance. For a long moment, however, she kept looking at Tintin; as if by doing so she could convey the intensity behind her words, the ferocity with which she meant them. He smiled. He knew.

She dropped her eyes and, when she spoke again, it was quiet and calm. “I think that I’ve had quite enough of reading about you in danger and not being able to do ‘owt about it.”

A pause drew itself out, unspooling like wool, then Tintin said, just as quiet and just as a calm, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being you. Sometimes, I think I get lost in,” he made a vague gesture, “all this. You’re my tether.”

Penny smiled. Warmth flooded the space between them. Wordlessly, she shuffled over and, lifting his arm, slunk underneath it, winding her own arm around his middle. Tintin accepted the gesture without question, tightening his grip around her to bring her even closer.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For getting my nose out of my books.”

Penny leaned her head on his shoulder. Tintin rested his head on hers. A moment of silence stretched out; a comfortable one, pinpointed by the moonlight filtering through the window, the quiet bustle of the compound, the faint scent of woodsmoke and hot sand rapidly cooling in the night. Eventually, Tintin felt Penny’s weight go completely lax; breathing even, she slipped into a gentle sleep, content to doze against his shoulder.

Chapter Text

Sunrise came with the return of the desert’s blazing heat. 

At the touch of a sunbeam on his face, Tintin awoke from a shallow doze. He had not tried to sleep, not properly— his mind was whirring too fast for any real rest to be had. Besides, he thought, looking down at Penny still snoring against his shoulder, this was rest enough for him. 

Gently shifting Penny down onto her pillow, Tintin tucked her into the bed and left her to get as much sleep as she could; she would need it, no doubt, for the journey to Bagghar. There was no question of her accompanying him. Last night’s conversation was confirmation enough that she was sticking to this.

He let himself out of the room and started to make his way back to the medical wing. Thankfully, no one saw him— that would have made for an eventful morning, and not the sort that Tintin liked. As he walked, Snowy caught up to him, running in three circles around his feet. He laughed and bent to pet him; he had already received plenty of attention and fuss from the looks of it, his fur sticking up in odd directions. Tintin smoothed it down. 

“Already popular, eh boy?” he said, chuckling.

Halfway through the courtyard, the Lieutenant caught up to him. 

“Ah, Tintin! Good to see you up and about. You know, me and the boys rather enjoy your little escapades in the papers, you have quite the crowd of admirers here.”

“Oh.” Tintin blinked; he was not aware that his publications had reached quite this far. “Thank you, I’m glad I can be of some service to you, Lieutenant...”

“Delcourt. Welcome to the Afghar Outpost.”

“We owe you our lives. Did you find my friend?”

Delcourt nodded. “The young miss made certain of that. But he’s not in good shape, I’m afraid. He’s still suffering the effects of acute dehydration, quite delirious, you understand. Why don’t we pay him a visit?”

Footsteps from behind them caught both their attention; Tintin knew who it was before turning, and already had a smile for her as Penny jogged into view. She had a particular gait— sure, steady, but not heavy— that he had memorised, just as she had his own. According to her, he walked like a dancer.

“Morning,” she said as she approached, bright and soft. 

She caught Tintin's eye and gave him a look, her eyes flicking between him and Delcourt, before tilting her head to the side. ‘Suspicious?’ she asked silently. He replied with a wrinkle of his nose: ‘not really, but with my track record we might as well be careful.’ A smirk tempted at her mouth: ‘gullible.’ Narrowed eyes: ‘trusting , thank you.’

“How's Haddock?” Penny said quickly before Delcourt could catch on to their wordless conversation. 

“Well, madam, quite well. Though as I was just saying to your friend here, it seems the dehydration has, ah… affected him more than the two of you.”

“We were just about to visit,” Tintin added, “coming with?”

“Of course.”

When the three of them— four, Snowy included— entered the infirmary, Haddock was sitting up straight on one of the cots, holding a glass of water and sipping at it like it was a fine vintage wine. Penny, Tintin, and Snowy glanced at one another; this was Haddock’s delirium? Perhaps he had been worse during the night. Even so, the sight was a tad off.

“Feels odd to see him so…” Penny said.

“Settled?”

“Yes,” she nodded at Tintin’s suggestion, “settled.”

At the sound of shuffling footsteps and low voices, Haddock looked up and spotted the small troop making their way towards him.

“Ah, Haddock, you’re awake, good! I’ve got some visitors for you,” Delcourt announced around his pipe. 

“Captain.”

Tintin stepped further into the room, Snowy trotting alongside him, and greeted Haddock first. Penny followed with a nod. 

“Hello!” Haddock says with far too much pep and far too little recognition, “oh, I think you’ve got the wrong room.”

Ah. There was the delirium. 

Tintin tried to jog Haddock's memory. He approached amiably, gesturing to himself and his companions.

“Captain, it’s Tintin. And—” he gestured behind himself to Penny, “and Penny? Our plane crashed in the desert?”

“Don’t you remember?” Penny said, lingering by the doorway. “You got yourself into a bit of a tizz with a parachute and the propeller.”

“I certainly wouldn’t forget that myself,” Delcourt muttered. 

“A plane? No, no, I’m a naval man myself. I never fly if I can help it,” Haddock turned to Delcourt, “they’ve got me confused with someone else. What is this peculiar liquid? There’s no bouquet, it’s completely transparent…

“Why, it’s water!” 

“What will they think of next…”

Penny and Tintin exchanged a suffering look. 

Delcourt addressed Tintin and Penny next, talking over Haddock as he admired his glass. “We suspect he has concussion. Heatstroke. Delirium. That, ah, plane incident might account for it. Such a jolly great shake or blow does things to the brain, you know.”

“Quite,” Penny said.

She gave Tintin a heavy look. He winced sheepishly. It was one of Penny’s many concerns how often he found himself with a concussion. 

The delirium, Penny thought, could also be accredited to the ‘cold turkey’ approach to sobriety. Penny knew first hand from watching a colleague abandon smoking (her lover had insisted, saying it made it impossible to have any intimacy when the only taste was nicotine— an awkward conversation induced by one too many Pink Squirrels on the couple’s part) that simply up and quitting anything had inadvisable side effects. She had never, however, known it to improve someone’s behaviour; not in the first stages, anyway. 

“He’s sober,” Tintin insisted and, taking a seat next to him, plucked the glass of water out of Haddock’s grasp, “now, Captain, out in the desert—”

“Desert?”

“— you were talking about Sir Francis—”

“Sir who ?”

“Maybe now’s not the best time, Tintin,” Penny said, “he still needs to recover—”

He ignored her. “Sir Francis!”

Haddock thought deeply, stroking his beard and staring up at the ceiling. 

“You were telling us about what happened on the Unicorn .”

“The Unicorn !”

“Yes!”

“Ah,” Haddock beamed, “the stuff that dreams are made of…”

Penny groaned and dragged a hand down her face. “Lord, give me strength…”

“... wee childrens’ dreams…”

“No, the ship ,” Tintin was starting to become desperate— frantic, even, to the point of panic, “ please try to remember, Captain, lives are at risk!”

“Right. Tintin .”

Penny’s voice snapped like a whip in the room. Tintin turned to look at her. That tone was all too familiar to him— the same tone emerged when he did not eat for days, or got too snappy over the phone, or neglected to sleep for the sake of just one more piece of information in one of his many puzzles. It did not make a frequent appearance. Tintin was an adult, and most of the time Penny left him to his decisions, bad or good. Most of the time.

Tintin looked as if he was about to protest but another firm look from Penny, and his own good conscience, put a stop to his tongue. He nodded and sat back. Hackles lowered, Penny gave him a small smile and returned the nod. Then, her eyes widened.

“Bloody— Snowy, no —”

Snowy had, whilst their attention was elsewhere, snuck off and stolen a jug of medical-grade spirits. A jug that Haddock was raising to his lips.

Gulping down the liquor, Haddock let out a long sigh. A gasp. He froze. His eyes, somehow, cleared. ‘Oh dear,’ Penny thought. Tintin stood with a calm and resolved expression. Clapping his hands, he addressed the room. 

“I’d stand back if I were you.”

Haddock’s satisfied sigh grew steadily louder and louder until it became a raspy yell. He grasped at his neck and leaned forward on the bed, seemingly choking on the dense fumes that clouded his throat. Tension flooded the air. It was like watching a bomb about to go off. Tick— tick— tick—

Tintin seized Penny’s hand and yanked her behind him as he hurried everyone away. 

“Out! Out of the room,” he shouted. 

Snowy was cowering on a rug. Penny scooped him up and under her arm with her free hand as she was dragged along. Behind her, Haddock was standing on the bed, riling himself up to jump. With a shove, Penny found herself in the next room over, Tintin a hair’s breadth behind her as he barrelled inside and slammed the door shut, blocking away the sight of Haddock working himself into a frenzy. The yelling suddenly got louder— closer. It was as if…

“Is he—?” 

Penny’s unasked question was answered quickly. With a sharp crack, the door splintered, shattered, and gave way beneath the bulldozer that was Haddock in that moment. He leaped into the room, slammed into one of the soldiers, and seized the sabre at his side; he wielded it, swinging it about with reckless abandon. A lantern burst into shards of glass, shattered by the blade.

“Show yourself, Red Rackham!” Haddock  roared.

Tintin looked at Penny with a grin. “He’s back in the story,” he said, boyishly excited. 

Penny gave him a despairing look, “so are we!”

In Haddock’s mind, the room had become a ship’s deck, the features of the outpost falling away and replaced by a stormy night sky and a raging sea. He was Sir Francis, standing tall in the midst of a fearsome naval battle. The outpost’s soldiers? the pirates of Red Rackham— and his enemies. 

Springing onto the desk, Haddock sent its contents spinning to the floor. Penny kept a hold of Snowy and tucked herself into the corner, two soldiers diligently placing themselves in front of her as Tintin tried to keep up with the marauding sailor. 

“If it’s a fight you want, you’ve met your match!”

“Fight with who?” Tintin dodged a cup. 

“To the death,” Haddock glared at his apparitional opponent, “ Red Rackham .”

Back and forth Rackham and Francis went, and Haddock with them, fully engaged in their battle as if he were there himself. A whirlwind in human form, his sword flashed about in cutting spirals and arches that kept all those who tried to come close an arm’s length away. 

“The fan!” Penny pointed.

One of Haddock’s blows had landed. Somehow, the fan above him was coming loose. It dropped squarely on top of him and sent him careening to the floor; Haddock landed on his backside against the desk,  but Sir Francis was pinned by pirates, defeated at last. 

Reinforcements burst into the room; the ruckus had spread across the courtyard, catching the attention of the guards. They surrounded Haddock, pinning him at the end of their guns.

“Wait!” Tintin shouted.

He wriggled through the soldiers, shoving muzzles down to get to Haddock. Penny followed; she pushed through her entourage and hurried to her friends’ sides, kneeling down to heave the fan off of Haddock. He did not even notice. 

“Captain?” Tintin said, voice dropping to a gentle, concerned tone.

Dazed, dreaming, he stared vacantly at Tintin with a smile.

“I remember everything now. Everything Granddaddy told me. The Unicorn was taken. The pirates were now masters of the ship.”

“The crew surrendered?” Tintin asked.

“What choice did they have?” Penny said quietly.

“Granddaddy said that Red Rackham called Sir Francis the ‘King's Dog,’ a pirate hunter sent to reclaim their hard won plunder,” Haddock continued.

“But it was a cargo vessel?” Penny prompted.

“Aye, it was. Rum, tobacco, molasses, and dates. But there was another cargo on board, a secret, valuable one… Rackham threatened Francis’ men, told him that he would kill them, one by one, until he gave up the location of the hidden hold…”

Haddock reached for the desk, steadying himself on it as he heaved himself upright— Penny was there, a hand under his other arm, lifting him to his feet.

“To save his men,” he walked to a bookshelf, “he would give up the secret cargo.”

“Where was it?” Tintin said.

Saying nothing, Haddock reached out and took hold of a book. He pulled it out of place just the slightest bit. Penny had read enough books to know what happened next those centuries ago.

“A concealed pulley system.”

Tintin looked at her with a grin. “A secret trapdoor!”

He was certainly well-acquainted with those.

“Indeed, indeed it was. And in it, four-hundredweight of gold, jewels, and treasure.” Haddock turned to Tintin, setting a hand on his back. “But Rackham had lied. Those sailors were sent to their depths in the deep blue. Sir Francis knew he was doomed. That he would be hung from the highest yardarm…”

Pacing around the room, he rounded the desk and leaned on it, grinning, “... but they didn’t reckon on one thing! Sir Francis was a Haddock , and a Haddock always has a trick up his sleeves.”

He plucked a quill from an inkpot. One of the feathers from Sir Francis’ hat— a grand, dyed ostrich plume, but with yet another hidden value to it. A knife, small but sharp, perfect to cut Francis from the ropes that bound him to the mast. 

“And with that, he hurls himself forward—”

“On the pirates? Like that? Unarmed?”

“No, on a bottle of rum rolling across the deck, and he opens it up, puts it to his lips, and…”

Haddock snatched up a bottle from the desk. The soldiers in the room readied their guns again. Tintin quickly intervened. 

“And then he stops. 'This is not time for drinking,' he says, ‘I need all my wits about me.’ With that, he puts down the bottle and…” he gestured for Haddock to continue with one hand, discretely sliding the bottle towards Penny with the other.

“Yes, yes, he puts down the bottle, and…”

Penny took the bottle and promptly dropped it out of the window. Relaxing, the soldiers lowered their guns, at ease for only a moment until—

“... he seizes a cutlass!”

Picking up the sword again, Haddock brandished it with a vengeance. 

“He makes his way to the ship’s magazine where they keep all the gunpowder and the shot!”

“He blew them up?” Tintin said. 

“Well, he tried to, that is until Rackham found him…”

With that, another mirage of a duel formed; Haddock danced back and forth, swiping at the phantom figure of Red Rackham as he recreated his ancestor’s battle. Blind to the real world, he went for Tintin, driving him back until he tripped and fell against the desk, clutching onto its leg for support. Snowy growled. 

“Captain!” Penny shouted, reaching for his sword arm. 

“Pen, don’t!”

“You…” Haddock breathed, coming to an abrupt stop.

The blood dropped from his face, leaving it ashen. Something had dawned on him. Something terrible. 

“Captain, what is it?” Tintin said urgently— Penny could see the fight on his face between getting away from the wicked edge of the blade and sating his curiosity. 

Haddock lowered the sword. “How could I be so blind?”

“What are you talking about?” Tintin said, standing.

“This isn't just about the scrolls or the treasure that went down with the ship—”

“It’s you,” Penny interrupted, staring at Haddock, “it’s you he wants. It’s not just money, it’s blood .”

Haddock looked at her, nodding, “he wants vengeance!”

He turned. Running towards Tintin, he grabbed him by the shirt. 

“Hurry, Tintin—”

“What?”

“We’re out of time!”

Haddock shoved Tintin into the windowsill. Tintin followed, if only to make sure Haddock did not strangle him by his collar. Then, Haddock pushed. Tintin found himself leaping out of the window and plummeting towards the ground. He could hear Penny’s yell behind him—

“What on earth are you doing, Haddock?”

—before she, manhandled in much the same manner, was also thrown from the window. With a thump, they mercifully landed in a cart brimming with hay, breaking their fall. Haddock followed behind them.

“It’s not over, it was never over!” Haddock cried out, emerging from the hay next to Penny and Tintin. 

“I don’t understand, who’s after your blood?” Tintin said.

“Sakharine, of course,” Penny answered, spitting out a strand of straw. 

“Sakharine? Why?”

“He’s Red Rackham’s descendant!” Haddock said. “He means to finish it!”

The pieces began to fall into place. “That’s why he did it…”

“Did what?”

“Sank his own ship! Sir Francis sent that treasure to the bottom of the sea…”

“He would be damned before he let Rackham have it,” Penny finished.

Tintin grinned at her.

“And he was!” Haddock added.

“But he couldn’t let it lie.”

“No!”

“He left a clue! Three clues wrapped in a riddle, concealing a secret.”

“But only a true Haddock will be able to solve it.”

Haddock looked between Penny and Tintin, half lost. “What secret?” 

“The location to one of the greatest sunken treasures in all history,” they both said at the same time. 

Realisation bled into Haddock’s face. “The wreck of the Unicorn . He means to steal it. The third scroll!  Billions of blue  blistering barnacles, I swear, as the last of the Haddocks, I'll find that treasure before him!” 

Tintin offered his hand. “To Bagghar!”

Haddock spat noisily into his palm. “To Bagghar!”

They shook and turned to Penny. She nodded and, reaching out, placed her hand on top of theirs. Beside her, Snowy barked.

To Bagghar it was.

Chapter Text

Bagghar was undoubtedly beautiful. 

Penny had little experience of other countries. The furthest she had ever gone from home before she moved to Brussels was the occasional trip to Scotland; her grandmother had family there, and family was important, important enough that her parents had to drag her and her siblings up to the Highlands during the winter holidays. 

It was not all bad. If Penny could ignore her better-off cousins’ gawping at her patched trousers and glued-on soles, then she could lose herself in the forests, the fields, and, of course, the library. That was where she got her first taste of librarianship— nurturing the long-neglected shelves back into a worthy archive. 

Scotland and its windswept heather moors was a far cry from the sight that lay before her now.

The desert sloped and slid into a modestly sized port city. Tiers of houses and streets formed great steps that headed into the bay, where ships of all shapes and sizes swayed on the gentle swell of the ocean. A market bustled on one of the lower layers— people, as big as a grain of rice from their vantage point, swept around one another with an ease that only those acquainted with the hustling of daily life in such a place. Tourists were easily distinguishable from the locals; their parasols bobbed in awkward, mistimed steps as they weaved clumsily through the crowd, unable to quite find the rhythm that everyone else seemed to know by heart.

Behind the city, penned in like a vast herd of wild beasts, was a river pushing at the strong walls of a dam. A palace sat next to the dam. The Sheik’s no doubt— standing out from the warm reddish tones of the sand around it with green foliage and marble buildings, one of which stretched into the reservoir, acting as a sort of peninsula and adding a final touch of grandeur to the already splendid complex. 

“Look,” Tintin said from beside her, seated on a camel just as she was, “that'll be Ben Salaad’s palace.”

Penny half wished she or Tintin had thought to bring a camera with them. The view was certainly worthy of capture, and her moderate skills with a sketching pencil would do little to truly encapsulate the staggering difference between the palace and the city; marble next to sandstone, greenery next to desert, swathes of water next to a trickle. Poetic, Penny thought, in a way that invoked Percy Shelley’s Ozymandias.

Rousing herself from her literary thoughts, she turned to her friend. “Wonder if we’ll be able to see the gardens up close? They’re beautiful.”

Tintin grinned. “Perhaps I ought to take you to Syldavia next time. They have some wonderful gardens.”

“Next time?” Penny glanced at him curiously. 

He shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound, to borrow one of your phrases.”

She shot him a look— was that deliberate? The look of expectant cheek on his face said everything. Penny snorted.

“Been sitting on that one for a while, eh?”

“Just the last three years.”

“Well, don’t include it in your report,” she said teasingly, “it was terrible.”

“You write it, then!”

“Look!” The Captain's voice cut through their bickering.

They turned. He pointed down where, slinking like a raggedy fox hunting through the alleyways, the Karaboudjan sailed into the harbour. 

“Right,” Tintin said with narrowed eyes, “let's not waste any time, eh?”

Leaving the camels to make their own way home— as instructed by the soldiers— the trio ventured down into the centre of Bagghar. 

It was a whirlwind. The market that they had seen earlier lined the streets, busy with buyers, sellers, browsers, and wanderers— not to mention the few pickpockets eyeing up their next marks. Bright colours, strong scents, ornate textures filled every corner. Anything and everything you could dream of was available to buy; books, jewellery, food, antiques. There was even someone offering personalised weaponry. 

The streets themselves were tight, narrow, paved with cobbles. Any time a camel, a car, or a wagon needed to come through, the entire crowd had to press itself against the walls of the buildings around them; then afterwards, it was like watching sand fall into a glass the way the gap formed in front of the intruder was so quickly filled. 

Tintin, Haddock and Penny wove between the crowds, keeping an eye out for any clues as to what exactly Sakharine had planned for Bagghar. 

“Look,” Penny kept on saying, pointing at anything that caught her eye, utterly caught up in the wonder of the place.

Tintin indulged her, nodding at her little discoveries, but was quick to take Penny's hand and loop it around his elbow after she got a little too distracted admiring one vendor’s calligraphy.

“Remember why we're here,” he said warmly, not scolding at all. 

“Sorry,” she grinned, “it's all just so— so…”

Beautiful. New. Overwhelming. There were a thousand words, none of them adequate.

Titin nodded. “It is, isn't it? You get used to it. Somewhat. I often wish I had the time and opportunity to slow down and admire it all, properly. The way it deserves.”

“You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t haring after some adventure or other,” Penny said knowingly.

“I like a holiday as much as anyone else.”

“The last time I tried to take you on one, you took down a smuggling ring in Chicago. We were meant to go to Wales.”

“When duty calls…”

“This,” Haddock suddenly announced, “is going nowhere.”

Penny and Tintin exchanged a look. He was right. An hour of wandering and they had little to go on. None of them spoke the local language, so asking vendors about the Milanese Nightingale was fruitless, and any of their fellow Europeans turned their noses up at three sweaty, scruffy travelers. 

“We could split up?” Penny suggested.

Tintin frowned. “Is it safe?”

“Is any of this safe?” she countered.

He sighed. She had a point— and they might get further along if they covered more ground. Besides, she had done reasonably well on her own beforehand. He trusted her to keep herself out of trouble. Somewhat. 

“Alright,” he reached out and squeezed her shoulder, “but don’t confront anyone, yes? We’ll meet back here in an hour.”

“Got it. Take care.” She darted forward to press a kiss to his cheek, then she was off, walking up a side street towards what she judged to be a vantage point. 

Penny had only been walking for a short while, when trouble managed to find her.

“Oh!” 

A smarting backside and what would become a bruised tailbone greeted her as she found herself half sprawled on the ground. Someone had bumped into her. 

“As if I hadn’t gotten enough bruises for a lifetime,” she mumbled to herself as she picked herself up.

“Oh, I do apologise, my dear, dear girl,” a shrill voice sang from beside her, “are you quite alright? Irma, brush the lady down, she has dust and sand all over her, the poor thing!”

Finding herself assaulted by a straight-faced woman determined to swipe away every speck from her with a clothes brush, Penny blinked, feeling rather like she was in the storm again. 

“Oh, that’s alright—”

“Nonsense, nonsense, it is the least we could do.”

Penny looked up. Her eyes shot wide open.

“Bianca Castafiore?” she exclaimed.

The woman in question pressed her finger to her lips with a dramatic flair. Clad in plainer clothes than all her pictures, with a headscarf hiding her signature platinum blonde coiffured hair, and cat eye sunglasses, her attempt at blending in did very little to hide the operatic glamour that oozed from her every pore. 

“Ah, I’ve bumped into a fan, I see. I am quite the universal figure,” she preened.

“Indeed. I believe you’re acquainted with a friend of mine. Professor Pseasold?”

“Oh, the darling Cordelia, of course!” Castafiore pressed a hand to her cheek. “We met in my hometown. Of course, we were both much younger back then. She, the dashing sailor. I, the emerging debutante, ready to spread my wings and fly into the world of opera. We’ve been friends ever since. You must be…?”

“Uh, Penny. Penelope, I mean. Penelope Fable.”

“Ah, her dear little Penelope! I am so glad to meet you, my sweet. Oh, you must let me treat you to a little tea, it would be my absolute honour.”

“Remember we must be at the palace for twelve, signora,” Irma said flatly.

“Of course! My performance. You must come, Penelope,  dear, I shall be singing for the Sheik himself!”

Penny’s brows shot up. The pieces were coming together. 

“I would be delighted,” she said, carefully controlling the excitement building in her voice.

“Luckily, I have a few tickets to spare. Just the one, or…?”

“Three, if you would be so kind, signora. I’m here with friends.”

“But of course! The more the merrier. Now, about that tea…”

Soon, Penny found herself seated at a little table on the veranda of a European-style cafe, the only one in Bagghar, according to Castafiore. It seemed to be a hub for the European visitors to the city; most of its patrons were dressed in high fashion and most looked stuffy in the heat, faces red and sweat dripping down their brows that was dabbed away with dignified, subtle gestures. Really, Penny thought, the insistence to experience only one’s own culture when abroad was mystifying. 

Even so, she was glad of the tea that was brought out. And of the little cakes that accompanied it. Soon, she and Castafiore had struck up a lively conversation about opera. Castafiore talked of little else, and Penny had written a fair few collaborative essays on the conjunction between music and literature with her colleague in the musical department, so really it was the only option if any conversation was to be had. 

“I must admit, Bizet’s Carmen was my first foray into opera, so it's quite dear to me,” Penny said.

Castafiore’ eyes lit up. “Carmen! Ah, bellissima, I am very fond of it, it is perfect for beginners. I shall see if I can persuade my dear manager to find a chance for me to perform it, you could come—”

“Signora,” a vaguely familiar voice came from behind Penny, “I must insist that you come to the palace at once, there is much to be prepared.”

“Monsieur Addeitiff!” Castafiore exclaimed. “But surely, there is at least another hour before I must go, and I was just getting to know my dear new friend—”

“Signora, if you please. I shall entertain your guest in your absence.”

Castafiore relented. With an apologetic look in Penny’s direction, she stood and bustled out with Irma, singing her goodbyes as she went. The mysterious Monsieur Addeitiff rounded the table and took the seat opposite Penny’s. A bolt of shock went down her spine. Rigid with tension, she gripped the arms of her chair and got ready to run.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Sakharine smiled, sitting back in his chair. “Wouldn’t want to upset the other diners, now would we?”

‘Damned polite society,’ Penny thought. Gritting her teeth, she sat back.

“What do you want?” she said.

“What, no ‘hello’? No ‘how do you do’? No ‘I apologise for my interference, dear sir’?”

“The day I call you ‘sir’ will be the day I drop dead.”

A nasty gleam bled into his eye. “That can be arranged.”

“What,” Penny said slowly, “do you want with me?”

Sakharine hummed. He looked Penny up and down. The feeling of his eyes on her was like what she imagined a bird caught in an oil slick would feel. There was no doubt about the dynamic in this situation— even the other diners shot nervous looks towards their table. Predator and prey. Penny knew which she was. 

“Work for me,” he said finally. 

“What?”

“Assist me in this endeavour, and you will be greatly rewarded. You would do very well,” he said, “there’s more of a chance at success, too.”

“I’m sure you say that to every gullible fool you come across. You've got a whole ship of them. They couldn't see past a coat and a hat. Hardly the most elaborate disguise.”

Displeased by the reminder of how easily she, an amateur, infiltrated his ranks, he waved away her words and pressed on.

“I’m quite serious. You see, I do my research.” He leaned forward. “Don’t underestimate your intelligence. You’ve already stumbled across something quite significant, if my sources are correct.”

Penny drew back. He could not mean— not that. She had not told anyone about that. Not even Tintin. 

Sakharine smiled. He reached out and poured himself a cup of tea with all the ease of someone who knew he was winning.

“Does the name ‘Percy’ ring a bell?” he said over his teacup.

With an attempt at a poker face that fell miserably short, Penny pursed her lips and frowned at the man opposite her. That had shaken her; not only because he knew her little secret, but also because he clearly knew someone, or someones, back in Brussels who was keeping an eye on her. She was a recluse, by most people’s standards, and beyond Tintin and her coworkers, had very few acquaintances. So who could it possibly be?

The thought of any of them betraying her made her feel ill. 

“What I research in my private hours is none of your business, Mr Sakharine. Let alone your sources’,” she said sharply.

“I’m afraid it’s very much my business. You see, this is what I do.”

“Sniff out lost treasure like a truffle pig, you mean?”

The comparison made his nose wrinkle. “I look for opportunities.”

“And are you usually so personally involved in these opportunities or is Haddock a special case?”

“That’s one thing to call him,” he said with a snide chuckle.

“Have some decency, Sakharine. Or should we discuss your sordid history? I’m sure the nobility would like to know a pirate’s family is in their midst.”

“Oh, please. My class is chock full of sordid histories. But, of course, you would know, wouldn’t you?”

Penny’s eyes narrowed. “My grandparents worked in the mills, and my parents are greengrocers. I know nothing of your class.”

“You are keen to deny your discovery. Very well, I shall play along. You may know nothing of my class, but you could in the future. You have great potential. If you allow me to tap it.”

She laughed humourlessly— Sakharine could not take no for an answer in any situation, it seemed. “For the last time, no. None of your persuasions could possibly cause me to betray my friends. Haddock included, but Tintin most of all. I will not be your spy.”

At Penny’s staunch refusal, Sakharine’s face fell. He dropped the pretence of polite conversation. 

Sighing, he sat back and steepled his fingers together. “Well, that is disappointing. I expected more from you, my dear.”

“Lower your expectations. I am just a librarian after all.” She tilted her head. “One question, though. Why approach me like this? Why not just eliminate me, like you tried to do with Tintin?”

“Simple, my dear,” he smiled sardonically, “you’re not a threat. You overestimate yourself by the comparison to your young interfering friend. Yes, you might have given me the slip by sneaking on and off my ship—”

“Haddock’s ship.”

He gave her a poisonous look. “— without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ but you’re no reporter. No, you’re ‘just a librarian’ who went too far from her books and are now riding on the coattails of a greater man.”

That hurt. It showed on her face; narrowed eyes, pinched brows, a twist to her mouth. Sakharine looked smug, satisfied like someone finally swatting an errant fly. 

“What happened to ‘great potential’?” Penny said quietly, knowing full well that all that little compliment was was a scheme to pander to her ego.

Sakharine, scoffing, stood and went to leave— but was stopped by a firm grip on his arm. Penny had risen to her feet and seized him. With a face like stone, she pulled him back, nearly nose to nose with him as she stared him down.

“I may not be much of a threat to you right now, Mr Sakharine,” she said, all grimness and quiet anger, “but believe me when I say that that will change should you harm my friends. Keep your hands off of them, you understand?”

Sakharine sneered. Shaking her off, he walked out of the establishment.

Penny let out a shuddering breath. Perhaps his curt dismissal of her would be embarrassing, even humiliating, in front of such a crowd, but the point of her little display was not a successful intimidation. Looking down at her tightly clenched fist, she prayed desperately that she had retrieved the right thing and not just a banknote. She opened her hand. A grin spread across her face.

There, wrinkled but whole, was a Unicorn scroll. Sakharine’s Unicorn scroll. She resisted a laugh in case he was still watching and, with a casual hand in her pocket, slipped her satchel over head before leaving to find the others.