He asked his parents the next day. What does it mean? Libertalia. Neither of them knew. His father checked a dictionary, but it wasn’t listed.

“Sounds like the name of a rock-and-roll band,” said Mr. Dearborn. “Heh, heh. Why don’t we look on my computer?”

They did a search, but the results were confusing. There was a game called Libertalia, and there was also a long-ago place called Libertalia that may or may not have been real.

“A pirate haven,” said Mr. Dearborn, reading aloud. “It was mentioned in a book written in 1724 called A General History of the Pyrates. Supposed to be … let’s see … a kind of perfect society. A place where pirates could live as equals, in peace and harmony. Heh, heh. Funny idea, that. Pirates living in harmony? Says here that this Libertalia was on Madagascar. That’s an island, Lewis, just off Africa.”

“I know,” said Lewis. “So what do you think, Dad? Did Libertalia really exist?”

Mr. Dearborn shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He leaned forward to squint at the computer screen. “No proof of any kind. Just a legend. Good bit of fun, though! I remember, I used to play pirates when I was your age.”

No, thought Lewis. Not when you were my age. Nobody plays pirates when they’re almost twelve.

But he nodded and said, “Thanks, Dad.”

Lewis’s parents were ancient as parents go, so Mr. Dearborn had not been twelve for a very long time. He’d forgotten what it was like. He had also become a historian, which meant that he didn’t believe anything that didn’t come out of a book or museum.

As Lewis wandered away, he was more confused than ever. Libertalia. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He repeated the strange word to himself, like a chant, through Great-Granddad’s funeral. Which turned out to be nothing like he’d expected. For one thing, hardly anyone came. Aside from his family and Mrs. Binchy, there were just four people there, all old. Two women, one man and one he-wasn’t-sure. Nobody cried except Mrs. Binchy, who snuffled noisily into a ratty tissue. Lewis wondered if he was supposed to cry. He couldn’t. Not if he’d tried. The service seemed to be about a stranger—some guy who had once been chairman of the Library Building Committee.

“What?” whispered Lewis’s mother. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” said Lewis. Libertalia. He must have been saying it out loud.

“Yes, you did. You were mumbling again.”

Lewis pressed his lips together.

“Stop mumbling,” said his mother.

The next morning, when his parents went to see Great-Granddad’s lawyer about the will, Lewis asked to go along. Maybe there’d be a clue, something to explain those last words.

The lawyer’s name—Mr. Lister—might have made Lewis laugh if he hadn’t coughed hard instead. He recognized Mr. Lister as one of the old people from the funeral. A tiny man, he looked even smaller sitting behind his huge desk, surrounded by dusty files. He read the will aloud in a sandpaper voice. Lewis didn’t pay much attention until he heard his mother gasp.

“Surely you can’t be serious!”

“Yes, indeed,” rasped the lawyer. “Those are the terms of the will, Mrs. Dearborn. You inherit everything—the house known as Shornoway, all the property including the beachfront and all the furnishings. But your grandfather did, as I say, place a condition. Before you can inherit, your family—meaning yourself, Mr. Dearborn and young Lewis here—must live in the house called Shornoway for a period of at least six months.”

Mrs. Dearborn’s broad, pale face went as white as paper. “Live in Shornoway? That crumbling horror? Have you seen Shornoway?”

“Oh my, yes.” Mr. Lister broke into a wheezing chuckle. “But Mr. Douglas had strong feelings about the property, and I imagine he hoped … well, in any case, the will is clear. And quite in order.”

“In order” meant there was nothing to be done. Mrs. Dearborn argued for half an hour, just to make sure. If the Dearborn family wanted to inherit Shornoway, they would have to go live there. If they refused, the property would go to the Benevolent Association for Sailors Lost at Sea.

“There’s just one other small bequest in the will,” said Mr. Lister. “For Lewis.”

Everyone stared at Lewis. He sank deeper into his big leather chair.

The lawyer read aloud. “To my great-grandson, Lewis, I leave my ship in a bottle. He will find it in the tower room of Shornoway. The key is in Mrs. Binchy’s possession.”

There was a long silence.

“That’s it?” said Mrs. Dearborn.

The lawyer nodded.

“A ship in a bottle? A bottle? Lewis! Do you know anything about this?”

Lewis shook his head.

“However that may be,” said Mr. Lister, “that is Mr. Douglas’s entire will. Please let me know what you decide.”

Mrs. Dearborn was not happy as they left the lawyer’s office. For days, she was in what Lewis’s father called “a state.” Even though the Dearborns’ house was nothing special—in fact, it was pretty much identical to every other house on Maplegrove Crescent—she hated to be forced to move. And the list of things she disliked about Shornoway grew longer every hour. The damp. The dirt. The rot. The drafts. The mold. The spiders. The mice. And worst of all, the stairs, which would be “utterly impossible,” she said, for her arthritic knees.

Mr. Dearborn did his best to soothe her. He pointed out that Lewis could stay in his same school. He reminded her that oceanfront property was worth quite a lot of money. And six months wasn’t, after all, such a long time.

“It might not be so bad,” he said. “Perhaps we could even use a change?”

The look Mrs. Dearborn gave him after that remark sent him scurrying to his study.

In the end, she decided to do it—move the family to Shornoway. And then everything happened quickly. A FOR RENT sign appeared on the lawn of Lewis’s house. Moving men were hired, and the Dearborn family was thrown into packing.

Nobody asked Lewis how he felt about moving. If they had, he would have had trouble answering. He had always liked visiting Shornoway, and there was that strange something about the house that he couldn’t explain—that tingle of excitement in the air. Unlike his mother, he didn’t mind the mouse droppings or the spiders. And he loved the beach.

But it would be, as his father said, a change. Lewis wasn’t sure how he felt about a change as big as Shornoway. He had enough to deal with right now. Summer was almost over. In less than two weeks, school would begin.

The moment that thought entered his brain, he shut it out. He reminded himself not to think about that.

Not yet.

Not until he had to.