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“Us, us, ui, um, u, us, uum, ibus, us, ibus.” Bates cheerfully rattled off the Latin fourth declension, then lifted the bottle and took a generous swig. “Carpe diem.”

“This is the rum you swore on,” Ellie quickly deduced. “When you—ah…”

She trailed off with a flush.

“Promised not to look at your underwear,” Bates filled in cheerfully. “And I didn’t, did I?”

He extended the bottle to her.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Ellie quickly countered. “I don’t partake in spirits.”

Bates’s expression grew serious.

“This is—beyond all doubt—the finest rum in the world,” he pronounced solemnly. “For all I know, it may very well be the last bottle of it. I had it off a grandma in Jamaica who kept a still in her barn. Tried my damnedest to pry the technique out of her, but she swore she’d take it to the grave. She was ancient then—and that had to be six or seven years ago—so I’d be surprised if she’s still bootlegging.”

“You’ve had this bottle forseven years?” Ellie asked.

“Been saving it for a special occasion.” He took another sip, obviously relishing the taste. His eyes closed with an expression of pure pleasure.

“You are drinking it now,” Ellie pointed out. “This hardly seems like a special occasion.”

“Sure it is.” He raised the bottle in a salute. “To not being dead.”

He took another sip as he leaned against the tree behind him.

“You should at least give it a taste,” he urged. “Can’t be any harm in that, can there? Unless you’re one of those hellfire-and-damnation temperance types.” He cracked a wary eye at her.

“I am not atemperance type,” Ellie returned neatly. “I have simply never seen the appeal of spirits.”

“Some spirits are terrible,” Bates agreed. “And some spirits are sancte. This is the sancte-est of spirits.”

Ellie eyed the bottle warily. The golden liquid inside of it shimmered in the firelight.

Dusk had settled thickly around them as the tropical forest dimmed into gloom. When Ellie looked back in the direction of the river, the pieces of the sky that she could see were streaked with purple and rose.

What harm could there be in one little taste?

Before Ellie could think better of it, she snapped out her hand for the bottle. She tipped it up to her lips and took a sip.

Her mouth flooded with gold. The liquor was all warm spice, caramel, vanilla, and fruit. It tasted like sunshine on Christmas morning.

“Dear God!” she exclaimed wonderingly.

“Gloria in excelsis Deo,” Bates comfortably agreed. “Have another.”

She shouldn’t. Ellie was not a teetotaler, but she had always believed that spirits were generally best avoided. What could they offer, really, that a bracing cup of strong tea could not?

She was a hundred miles from civilization with a belly full of lizard. Ellie took another sip. It was most certainly not tea, and it was wonderful.

Reluctantly, she handed the bottle back. Bates took a swig of his own, and then planted the rum on the ground between them.

“How did you learn to do this?” Ellie asked.

“What—roast an iguana?” he replied.

“No.Allof this,” she countered, waving her hand around the camp. “I frankly wouldn’t have known the first thing about how to keep us alive out here.”

“Why the hell would you?” he returned easily.