Cruz finally produced the lemon from her hair. “See? Real pirates don’t need maps. Just good hiding places.”
“You’re a terrible missionary, Philip,” Syrena teased, flicking water at him. “You can’t even convert a water bottle to stay dry.”
“I’m a man of faith, not a man of waterproofing!” he protested, shielding his face.
Depp looked up from his lemon. “Children, children,” he drawled, “the real treasure isn’t the Fountain of Youth. It’s finding a wig that doesn’t itch.” He tugged at his dreadlocks. “This one has developed its own ecosystem. I’ve named the ecosystem ‘Kevin’.”
Then came the distraction. (the serene, silent mermaid Syrena) emerged from her tank, dripping wet and laughing. She wasn’t mute at all; she was chattering in rapid French to Sam Claflin (the missionary Philip), who was blushing because his fake clerical collar had gone soggy.
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