"No," Erin admits. "We never met, and the man who might know has gone...missing. Captain Stede Bonnet, charming fellow." Grief shadows her face. "...Real talent for raising low spirits. People just. Disappear here, sometimes, but he was the first I knew. Here All Hallows, just...gone, All Saints."

That gunpowder haze fizzles, wetly. "My apologies. You've come at a bad time. Did you want to uh. Get into a bar with less chandelier? I'd need to ask you to pour."

Does Erin know the ghosts will make drinks? Technically! But others have always taken pleasure in making them themselves here.