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BREATHING BEGETS DROWNING Author: MaryGoneMad Disclaimer: --holds up lame cardboard sign-- Nope, still don't own anything except for a lovely DVD that has something to do with pirates, and my brain, which doesn't work right half of the time anyway. You can borrow both of them, but only on Wednesdays. Summary: You were prepared to go to your grave with most of your sanity mostly intact. Well, sorry about your luck. As fate would have it, you've managed to acquire something that doesn't necessarily belong to you. Shame, shame! With a simple set of directions, passages describing the Dead and the Damned, and Jack Sparrow hunting for treasure, you're about to find yourself in the thick of a mess that involves death, destruction, and complete chaos. Oh, let's not forget a healthy spot of romance, a drop of sacrifice, and something called unwanted destiny knocking at your door. And why stop there? Will Turner manages to find his way into the thick of this mess when it comes to his opinions, his place, and his heart. It's bound to be a bumpy ride, kids, and the author requests that you keep your Aztec gold and pet monkeys inside the vehicle at all times, and remember to hold onto whiskey bottles, compasses, and blacksmiths that definitely fear for their sanity. Author's Note: Here I am, presenting the first of a couple Pirates fics (and my first fanfic ever) that I have running through my head. I'm warning you now, this thing will be huge, I've got it broken down into two parts, just in case, but I plan on making this thing big. Just warning you. Yes, I've made it a 'you' perspective, but not because the general majority of POTC stories are in the 'you' format. No, I had planned long ago, way before I wrote anything, that if I continued this little experiment, I would have multiple viewpoints, with one of the main points being in the second person point-of-view. I'll have you know right now that this 'you' character does have name, she's got a history, and she's got a description. I'll make no half-truths about her, thanks very much. If you don't like that, then there's a Back button right up there in the left or right hand corner that is just waiting your clicking. Also, I'm Italian, and I like it, though I can't speak a lick of it. Expect some of the characters to be able to, though, and expect the language to pop up a lot, as I'm going to be treating it like Latin a bit, meaning it's going to be used a bunch. Also, a word on me: I'm American. Go ahead, throw stones, but that doesn't change the fact. I'm attempting to use the British spelling, but if I slip up, let me know. The computer doesn't catch everything all the time. * * * * * I didn't want to face the fact PROLOGUE - Pawn To Queen "Check," you murmured, resting your chin along the sharp bite of your knuckles. Your fingers curled ever so slightly underneath your chin, where they toyed with a white, polished pawn whose edges bit your skin like dull, useless needles. The fingers of your right hand drummed in a staccato beat against the grimy tabletop, chipped, uneven fingernails clicking softly against the wood. You smiled across the board at him, your eyes following the movement of his fingers as he quickly wrapped the chubby ends of two digits around the white queen and picked her up carefully, glancing around at the other pieces on the board. Black heavily outnumbered White. Ten pawns sat graciously off to your left, accompanied by one knight, a bishop, and two rooks. His queen, however, had managed to elude your tailing bishop, your charging knights, and your watchful, practiced eyes. Grumbling slightly to himself, he picked up his knight and knocked away your bishop. He picked it up off of the table and dropped it with your rooks and limited pawns. Your fingers continued to drum on the tabletop, and you felt yourself smile yet again. You sat the pawn down on the table next to the board, listening to its base rattle against the wood for a moment while you thought. The smoke his pipe produced was making you dizzy, but you kept your mouth shut after stealing a look at his light eyes, so concentrated on the task before him. Grinning, you moved your queen across the board and announced, "Checkmate." Leaning back, you let your grin spread into a smile, teeth flashing in the dim light. "What? Where?" he exclaimed, looking wildly at the board with his pipe hanging halfway out of his mouth. His fingers gripped the table tightly. A speck of spittle landed on your cheek. You could smell tobacco rolling off of his breath. Quietly, you glanced over at his companion, who had stood up from his chair a few paces off from the game board, where he had been watching. You crossed your arms over your chest and smiled the same, smug smile that had touched your face moments before. "There? That's not checkmate!" he cried, leaning in closer to the pieces to get what he deemed a better look. His companion leaned in himself, his blue coat touching the table. A piece of curly, blond hair reached down and touched one of the pieces as he bent down over the chessboard. He clapped his friend on the back and said to him, "Sorry, mate, but it appears that you've gone and lost to a woman." Glancing at you, he offered a slight grin. You raised your eyebrows at the gesture and picked up the pawn you had been toying with since you had claimed it early in the game. "I believe we agreed on two shillings," you commented, standing up and holding out your hand. A quick spark of relief flooded your chest as the man reached into his waist pocket and pulled out a small, leather pouch. In all truth and honesty, you didn't have two shillings to spare. In fact, you didn't have two shillings to your name. From inside the pouch, he pulled out not two but three shillings. You stared quietly as the silver gleamed in the faint light. The shillings clattered together as the man dumped them into your palm. Looking back at him, you muttered, "Thank you." He smiled softly and said, "That was the best damn game of chess I have ever played, ma'am. A game such as that deserves more than just two shillings. I say, you have talent." Gazing lightly at you, he looked down at your clenched fist. Saying nothing, he nodded to you and said, "Good day, lady." You nodded to him as well, and you turned to nod briefly to his friend as both of them collected their hats and muskets. Placing their hats on their heads and leaving a shilling a piece on the table for the barman, they exited the tavern, opening the door so that a draft of warm air filtered in. Sunlight stretched across the floor for a moment before the door fell shut and the muted light of burning lamps filled the room again. You began to pick up the pieces and put them back in their box. Black went first: winner's pieces always get laid to rest first. White followed, covering black with tiny clinking sounds of wood against wood. To your ears, it sounded like hammer against metal. You shut the lid softly, placing it on top of the board and pushing it to the side of the table where someone would come around to collect it. You reached down, then, and collected your red scarf off of the back of your chair. Draping the scarf around your neck, you clutched the pawn in your hand tighter, letting the face and back and sides and bottom leave imprints in your flesh. Not looking behind you, you pushed open the door and glanced up and down the street before taking the opposite path of the two men that were no longer in your company. You couldn't see them anymore, but you could hear their laughter from down the street, echoing against the cobblestones and the buildings on either side of you. Letting your scarf hang down to your knees, you turned down a corner, finding yourself trudging along Port's streets to a familiar alley. When you reached the window, you stood on your tiptoes to lay the pawn on the stone sill. Without meaning to, you glanced up to where the moon would be hanging in the night time sky. Only white clouds greeted you. In a swirl of tan and red fabric, you turned down the alley, your feet splashing in puddles as you went. * * * * * Look for me by moonlight CHAPTER 1 - Love Lies Bleeding It was cold that evening, cold for the Caribbean that is. The palm trees swayed in the wind like marionettes attached to wild strings. The town smelled of rain and ash, of decaying smoke from spent fires. The puddles scattered throughout the streets rippled slightly as feet passed through them and as random raindrops fell from the sky to splash against the cobblestones. The sky was grey, and thunder rumbled across the sea, pink lightning flashing along the eastern horizon. The wind that danced with the palm trees smelled of both rain and the sea, though the salt was far more overpowering. For the most part, however, the world was still. Shutters had been closed, and lamps had been turned down the slightest fraction. Most had retreated to the safety of their homes or into the confines of a tavern to see what the spirits could offer that evening. You stood in a puddle, staring at the sign as it swayed back and fourth with the wind. Your shoes were soaked through, but you scarcely noticed and didn't mind. Your hair was tangled and equally as wet as your shoes, but you didn't care. Your fingers trailed up and down the coarse fabric of your scarf, pinkie poking through a small hole that had resulted from a candle burn so many years ago. Your eyes travelled from the red fabric back up to the wooden, weathered sign. You sighed exasperatedly, reaching behind your head to tighten the small piece of fabric that kept your hair bound as it was. You had been by this particular shop at least five times that afternoon. Lucy Giovanni, tired of seeing and staring at the same sight for more than an hour, had left you standing in the shadow of the shop with your soiled shoes and sodden clothes. Once, around five, you had nearly gone inside, but a loud hammering from within had stopped you mid-step, and you had taken off running, back down the familiar alleyways and cobblestone streets. In all honesty, you had no clue why you were even standing there, your toes tapping against the soft leather soles of your shoes. Looking at the crack between floor and door, apprehension churned your stomach like disease. Memory told you not to be so silly, that you had a right to be standing here, pondering whether or not to speak with him, try to make him understand. The other, more rational part of you told the other half to shut its gob. After all, it had been only one conversation, such a long time ago it seemed. You could remember it, though. You remembered the moon and the stars and the smell of the sea all clashing against the smell of smoke and steam and stale sweat. "Isn't the moon beautiful?" There had been no reply, no answer to your question. It was only a conversation. You wanted another. Taking a step forward, your feet splashed in the puddle as you started for the door. For whatever reason, you stopped halfway there, your heart hammering against your sternum. When thunder cracked the world in half, you jumped and cursed yourself for being startled by something so simple. It was beginning to grow dark, though, and you knew that you'd be missed, in one way or another, if you didn't go on your way before long. Looking back to the door, you left your comfortable spot in the puddle and crossed the cobblestones, reaching forward and pushing the grainy wood back so that you could enter the small shop. You stood there for a moment, pausing once again, your fingers clutching the wood just as they clutched captured pawns and bishops. The smell of dirt and old hay was prevalent above the smell of smoke and iron and something like the smell of a wet dog. Pushing the door open further, so that it squealed on its hinges, you took a step inside. It was warm inside the shop; the large fire opposite the door nearly suffocated you with heat. You glanced around, dark eyes taking in the entire premises. Off to your right stood a donkey, his eyes blinking at you tiredly, his ears pressed down against his head. Across the room, where another fire was burning proudly, lay an anvil and various tools you knew nothing about. Dented swords, horseshoes, and chains were arranged in a very organized manner atop one long table. From your distance, you could make out the fashioning of a back entrance a short distance away: a possible escape route if you should lose your nerve. Then again, what nerve did you have, exactly? What right did you have in even setting foot in this place? The easy churning of your stomach replied that you didn't have a right. Such a fool, thinking that one conversation—if it could actually be called that—could give you the right to presume so much more. But modesty had never gotten anyone anywhere, at least in your opinion, and you weren't about to lose your nerve just because of something called anxiety. As it was, you forced yourself to jump off of the stone step, letting your feet pound against the hard ground. The donkey gave an indignant snort in your general direction, his ears twitching up a bit in either irritation or curiosity, but you ignored the thing and stepped forward, running your fingers over the smooth wood of a cart placed just beside the stone step. Stray pieces of straw cracked underneath your weight, breaking the already-weak stalks into smaller, more brittle pieces. Approaching an anvil, you wearily picked up a hammer, resting the handle against your palm. To your surprise, it was heavier than you'd expected, and you set it down softly, feeling heat singing your cheeks as you stepped closer to the fire. A long piece of steel rested gently in the coals, and you reached out to touch the end closest to you. Immediately, you regretted it. You shoved your burnt finger into your mouth, hoping that, somehow, the burn might simply disappear. With a glare, you glanced into the grate, watching the coals simmer bright orange, turning the steel into a soft stick of yellow and red. You felt claustrophobic in here. The walls seemed too close together, and you weren't sure if you were really breathing or not. It was hot, and the back of your neck sweated as if you had been in the sun all afternoon. The straw and dirt was clumping on the broken soles of your shoes, and it, combined with the sweat, made you itch and squirm as you attempted to feel a bit more comfortable in such a strange environment. But, really, it wasn't so strange at all, only new. Moreover, you were here for a reason, and you weren't about to let a simple sense of discomfort scare you away. Backing up slightly, your back just had to brush against the anvil, setting the crude beginnings of some sort of blade tipping slightly. You watched as the metal tipped back and fourth, much like the balances of a scale. For some unfathomable reason, you found yourself heaving a sigh of relief when the blade settled, lying flat against the anvil once more. Not bothering to spare it a second look, you turned away, but before you made it even five feet from the workbench you felt a sharp tug around your neck. Half a breath later, the anvil scraped against the tabletop, drug forward from your weight when it caught one of the holes in your scarf, and the blade, overbalanced by the sudden motion, clattered uselessly to the floor. Sharp, metallic echoes vibrated all throughout the bitter silence, broken only by the sound of fire popping and the donkey snorting as if it were laughing at you. You stared at the blade, as if expecting it to suddenly jump up and start screaming, and wondered in the back of your mind if you should pick it up and set it back where it belonged. Something told you not to touch it, however, and you walked away, crossing over the threshold to examine an interesting display of swords. A snort. With a cold fist of fear clenching your gut, you spun around to see Joseph Brown himself reclining slightly in his chair, his head tipped forward and a bottle of some alcoholic drink or another pressed tightly against his portly stomach, the neck wrapped in stubby fingers. A larger fire than the one with the heating steel, to your right, cast a glow across the blacksmith's face. From your distance, you could see the steady rise and fall of his chest and the slight motion of his eyes rolling behind his eyelids. His fingers clenched and unclenched the bottle, but he didn't let it go, as if he were willing to take it with him to the grave. Taking a few steps forward as quiet as possible, you came to stand at the man's feet and gave his foot a small nudge with your toe. When he didn't stir, you turned your back on him, wandering off to the swords that you had spotted. When you reached the odd, little display, you sat yourself down on the ground, reaching forward to pull one of the swords out from among the others. Closer to you than it would probably have liked to be, the donkey snorted angrily, shaking its head with annoyance. For the most part, he ignored you as you ignored him, bending his head to munch at the straw beneath his feet. Casting thoughts of the donkey and Brown aside, you turned the blade over and watched the half of your reflection that, in turn, watched you. You noticed that your eyes had circles underneath them: dark, blue circles that couldn't have been normal. You yawned, covering your hand with your mouth, and noted the flush that covered your cheeks. A pleased, interested smirk, though, tugged at one corner of your mouth while you examined the piece of weaponry. Laying the sword in your lap for a moment and glancing up, you looked at a shuttered window and found that you could hear the quiet sound of rain beating against the cobblestones. A dull hum had started up against the roof of the shop, and water leaked in through the space between the shutter and the window ledge. There was a moment of anxious silence before thunder shook the ground you sat on, your legs crossed underneath you. With gentle care, you put the sword back with the others, reaching this time for a different, longer one that sparked your interest with a quirk of an eyebrow. You took it out from among the others, examining the hilt and the way the firelight threw distorted shadows across your dirtied face. Touching a smudge of dirt on your cheek, you smiled to yourself, thinking that the dirt added character. Yes, you mused silently, character. What other use would it be for? The door opened: a harsh screaming of hinges that you hadn't noticed before. You looked up from the blade with that cold fist of fear gripping your stomach again. Unsure of what to do with the sword, you left it pressed tightly between your fingers and your palm, secured in a tight fist. If you'd pressed any tighter, your palm would have been a bloodied mess. Still, you watched with some sort of eager uneasiness, not moving in the straw due to the fear of being discovered. His footsteps echoed loudly against the floor as he crossed the room, the sound pounding against your eardrums with all the intensity of drums at the gallows. He didn't look in your direction, thankfully, but only continued moving through the shop as if he owned it himself. He shed his sodden cloak, laying it on the table you'd been examining only moments before. You watched as he bent forward to check the steel in the small fireplace, clicking his tongue with satisfaction when he pulled back. From the workbench, he seized a strip of cloth and tied his dark hair back from his face. He glanced once to the man in front of the opposite fire and gave a small, almost imperceptible, tight smile that spoke more of irritation than it did amusement. You shifted ever so slightly in your position, your body making little to no noise against the straw. Already, you could feel your feet beginning to fall asleep. You wondered what he'd think when he found you sitting in the shadows, as he'd have to notice your presence eventually. As nerve-wracking as this thought was, you found yourself quite unable to move, despite your feet. It appeared that your body had suddenly decided to grow roots and make a home without your permission. What were you, a vegetable? If you hadn't been so bloody terrified of him finding you, the door would have opened and shut a long time ago, and you would be on your way home now. But your body, daft vegetable that it was, didn't budge. The donkey snorted at you again, almost as if he were laughing at your obvious discomfort just as he had at your clumsiness. You threw a quick glare at it, wondering if the apprentice would notice if you chopped off the end of the beast's oversized nose with the sword. You pressed your fingers tighter around the sharp edges to keep from doing something stupid, and, quite unexpectedly, you felt the sting of flesh giving way to metal. You had sliced your palm open in one, puncturing motion. The sword clanged uselessly to the floor. You wrapped your hand in your skits, squeezing your eyes shut against the pain. The apprentice turned in surprise, looking into the edges of the room with narrowed eyes, unable to see a mere two feet from where he stood. The shadows engulfed the room, only subdued by the soft light of the fire. You watched with the breath caught in your throat as he looked down, noticing the hammer you knocked to the floor earlier. He bent down, picked it up, and called loudly, "Not where I left you." A phantom smile curled around his mouth as he tightened his fingers around the handle. "Come out," he ordered, and his voice sounded nothing like what you had heard months ago. With a sigh, you reached down to grasp the sword in your good hand—your left hand. The sensation was rather awkward, as your right hand was the one you used mainly. Even so, you squeezed your sliced hand into a tight fist and pushed yourself to your feet, emerging from the shadows and stepping into the range of the firelight. Raising your chin and smiling slightly, you said pleasantly to him, "Hello, Will Turner." Immediately, he narrowed his eyes at you, dropping the hammer onto the table with a dull clunk. His glance flicked to the awkward way you held the sword and then to the tight fist you'd made and the blood that had to be staining your clothes. Your eyes watched his, noticing the way the irises moved back and fourth from your face to your hand to the sword and back again. His posture was rigid, as if he were expecting something to jump out of the shadows and maul him. You tightened the sword in your hand for reasons you couldn't begin to understand, hostility and embarrassment aside. "What are you doing here?" he inquired with a dark tone, raising an eyebrow in a manner of obvious irritation spiked with curiosity. He crossed his arms over his chest and did his best to look intimidating. He did a rather poor job of it. "Admiring your fine talents for crafting swords, it seems," you replied dryly, lifting the blade a bit so that you could stare at the smooth metal. Your arm ached from holding it in such a position, though, and you quickly let it drop to your side once more. You didn't let it go, despite the fact that the blade was much heavier than you had thought it to be. Holding it in your lap was one thing. Holding it up was another. You looked back to Turner, watching the way his eyebrows pinched together, forming a crease of confusion and annoyance in the skin between his eyebrows. "My master makes those, Miss. I aid him now and then, but…" he trailed off and said no more, leaving room for any sort of interpretation. You felt your small smile grow into a wide grin at his obvious, terrible attempt to lie. He swallowed, trying to look, it seemed, anywhere but at your face. If he hadn't been obvious about the lie before he certainly was now. He shifted uneasily, but the movement was almost unnoticeable. If you hadn't been watching him like you were, you might not have caught it at all. "Please, Will Turner, I'm not a fool, and you are a terrible liar," you responded easily, walking forward so that you were only a short distance away from him. If he'd reached out, he could have grabbed your arm and turned you away. He didn't, however, and it left you extremely baffled, just as it had that night, so long ago, in the alley. You stopped in your tracks, your shoes covered in bits of straw and dirt, although they'd been plenty dirty before your entrance. The silence was awkward, and tension hung thick and heavy in the air. You fiddled a bit with the ends of your scarf, searching for something, anything to say. Something came into your mind, though it was a pathetic attempt at conversation, and you raised your eyes to his, saying softly, "I don't think that we have been properly introduced, Will Turner." The sword at your side slapped your leg as you adjusted it, feeling your fingers yearning to give way under the weight of it. It was so heavy. Tightening your fist once before extending it, you shoved your bloodied, sliced palm out in front of you. Turner only stared at it, as if the wound meant nothing to him and as if shaking your hand was the last thing on his mixed-up mind. With a smile you stated, "Nanette Miller." He didn't take your hand but only looked at you as if you might be crazy. With the same, slight smile you told him, "You're supposed to give your name and return the handshake. It's called courtesy." Turner didn't even twitch. Instead, he looked from your face to your palm and then to the sword. He seemed to understand what he was seeing, finally, and his mind seemed to clear a bit when he shook it. "You cut yourself," he remarked blatantly, and you bit your top lip in an effort to keep the obvious grin off your face. Of course I cut myself, you daft twit, you thought merrily, but you said nothing in an attempt to be polite. "Just a bit," you replied, curling your fingers together to hide the affliction despite the fact that doing so made more blood rush out of the wound and the pain intensify. The red stain, however, had curved around your palm to drop to the floor, and your fingers were tinged with the bitter liquid. The two of you, however, said nothing. You concentrated on the gentle throbbing of the circulation beating under your skin. You could almost hear it in your ears. The donkey snorted in the silence, breaking whatever odd feeling had been creeping along the back of your neck. You looked up from the floor to find that Turner had done the same, his eyes resting thoughtfully on the fire. With an irritated sigh, the young man said to you, "Bring the sword here, and let me see to your hand." You obeyed wordlessly, your feet moving without your consent. You approached him, passed him, and lay the blade along the table. Red was splashed across the steel, but it was only a bit of blood, and it would come off easily enough. You opened your palm in curiosity, laying it as flat as possible. You immediately regretted it, though, as the skin separated and pulled taught. It felt as if your hand had been engulfed in fire. Relaxing your muscles, you looked down at the wound, gazing at the way the skin had parted, displaying nothing but a slender world of red. You closed your fingers, turning around to find Turner coming toward you with Brown's bottle in his hand. With his other, he untied the cloth serving to keep the hair out of his face. Wordlessly, he tipped the mouth of the bottle so that a bit of brown liquid rolled out, drenching the young man's hand, the tie, and the floor between the two of you. The air smelled of blood, whiskey, and sweat. You nearly gagged, and your stomach rolled unpleasantly. "Give me your hand," he ordered quietly, glancing over his shoulder at Brown. You eyed the dripping cloth warily and looked up at Turner. He didn't as much as glance at you. You extended your hand, laying it flat once again. Calloused fingers wrapped around your palm, drawing it closer. For a fleeting moment, Turner did look up at you, but you looked away, averting your eyes to the floor just left of you and squeezing your eyes shut against the pain you knew was coming. The first touch of cloth to wound was Hell. The strong mixture of smells made your head spin, but the feeling of liquid fire touching opened, raw flesh nearly brought you to gagging tears. Your body shook with trying to contain a pained shriek, your fingers aching to curl up and throw the piece of sodden cloth across the room. You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, watching the colours dance behind your eyes. Turner gripped your hand when you attempted to pull it away, but nothing was said. He wrapped the remaining bit of cloth around the gash and tied it tightly, eliciting a yelp of pain on your part. Before he could even drop your hand, you snatched it to your chest and exclaimed hotly, "Why did you not just slice the whole hand off?" Your eyes narrowed fiercely, dark irises overtaken by searing anger. "Would you rather it become infected and fall off on its own?" he countered, pushing passed you to take up the sword. From the workbench, he picked up a very dirty, stained rag, dipped it into a pail of water, and began cleaning the blood off his blade. You looked at the water angrily, unable to ignore the way your palm was still burning as if the cloth Turner had applied contained the sun itself. Without thought, you wiped your soaked hand along the fabric of your dress, looking down a moment later to see that the liquid had soaked into the tan fabric. Narrowing your eyes, you hissed, "Hands do not simply fall off by themselves, Will Turner." He paused in his motions, gripping the sword tightly in one hand and dipping the rag back into the water with the other. He scowled irritably at the blade before turning the look on you, and you returned the look with only a raised eyebrow, as if challenging him to say anything else about the subject. What he did say didn't surprise you in the least, though. "I think you should leave now, Miss Miller," he said easily, and, whether you meant it to or not, it forced you to turn your attention back to the sound of torrential rain beating against the rooftop. You noticed now that the blacksmith's hair was sopping wet and that his shoes and breeches were as drenched as the rag he held in his hand. It was silly, really, to forget that it had been raining, but you had. You heard thunder splitting sound in half, and you could imagine lightning setting the sky on white and pink fire. The sound of rain caused you to shiver, and the thought of walking home in the downpour made your bones feel cold. You clenched your injured hand in a loose fist, feeling an ache start to set in where it had only stung before. Saying nothing, you turned sharply on your heel, listening to the sound of your feet crunching the soft straw and dirt clots underneath you. Again, the donkey snorted as you passed it, and you smiled bitterly at the beast, giving it a farewell nod with hope that you'd never have to see it again. You lifted yourself up onto the stone ledge, nearly having to climb in order to pull yourself up. Your hand throbbed as you did so, and when you'd straightened yourself up, you cradled it against your chest, flexing the fingers a bit. You could feel Turner's eyes on your back as you reached for the door, pulling it open when you came to it. The scream of rusted hinges unsettled you, but you didn't let it show on your face. Without so much as a word of goodbye to the only conscious human being in the room, you stepped out into the rain, letting the door slam shut behind you. * * * * It was quiet in the manor, and the stones underneath his feet were cold and bare. He sat in a chair by the fire, gazing at the flames as if he knew them personally. His chin was cupped in his hand, legs crossed at the ankles as he tried to clear his over-crowded mind. In his lap, he let the fingers of his right hand curl around the spine of a thick book, rough calluses against rough leather. From far off in the house came the sound of unbridled screaming. The sound wormed its way into his ears and stayed locked around his mind, grating on his sanity and his control. A loud chorus of laughter followed the screaming before it was punctuated with pleads to stop whatever it was that was being done. He really had no clue. He wasn't one to dirty his hands in that type of animalistic behaviour. With a defeated sigh, he leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers on the book's cover. "Nunzio," he called, waving his hand around the side of the chair. In a moment, a young man with dark hair, dressed in a simple peasant's uniform, came stumbling around to face him. The boy's cheeks were sunken, shadowed, and his eyes were hollow and empty. The simple effort it took to stand was enough to send him gasping for breath. The shirt and vest he wore engulfed his emaciated frame, though it probably would have strained to fit on any boy his age's shoulders. His trousers were held up with a tightly tied coil of rope. He was barefoot, and his soles were cracked and bleeding, so that when he walked he nearly cried out in agony. "Yes, signore?" the young man inquired, dropping to his knees from the effort of trying to stand. His shoulders heaved in pitiful gasps for air. The Master hated such weakness, but it was only to be expected. With a bored sigh, he reached forward and cared his fingers through the young man's hair. A few strands came free from his scalp, and the Master flicked them irksomely off his hand as he might flick off an insect. "Have you been fed, Nunzio? More than you are regularly?" he inquired, settling back in the chair to watch the boy swallow harshly. His Adam's apple scratched against the skin of his neck, like thorns scraping over silk. The boy's eyes looked away, ashamed, and settled on the rug in front of the fire. "Ah," the Master began, letting a faint smirk pull the corner of his mouth upward, "I thought so. Tell me, did that young woman—what was her name?—Gilda, did she feed you?" When silence was the only thing that filled the air, mixed with sharp, uneven breathing, the Master knew that he had his answer. "I told you to stay away from her, Nunzio," he stated simply, looking back into the fire. "She was not right, signore," the young man said with weight. "She was… the wrong one?" His thick Italian accent was somewhat infuriating, but the Master had learned to look past it. After all, what was more valuable than a messenger? Although, one that asked questions when he wasn't given permission to do so was a bit of a nuisance, but it was true that he had grown quite fond of the boy, in his own fashion. With a sigh of exasperation, he pushed himself to his feet, leaning against the mantle. He slid the book onto the cold stone, listening to the fire pop and to the boy breathe. "I am sending you on a trip, Nunzio," he declared, turning so that he was facing the boy sitting on the floor. With an air of haughty boredom, he said, "Someone has been arranged to pick you up from the island and take you to Hispaniola, where you will await instructions that will inform you what to do next. You will be looking for something of mine. Something that was lost a great deal of time ago." He curled his hand into a fist, and he felt a long, jagged scar brush briefly against his fingers. Memories tried to burn slowly to life, but they only died in the back of his mind, where they had been put many years ago. "What if I cannot find what you are looking for, signore? What do I do then?" he questioned, pushing himself to his shaking feet. When he stood straight, as straight as he could at least, he was nearly a head taller than the Master. But his body shook and his legs trembled from trying to support his weight. Without question, the young man leaned against the wall, his chest, again, heaving from each breath his lungs tried to hold. He stared at the Master out of dark eyes ringed with black circles. "Then I suggest you do not come back," he replied and looked quietly into the fire. * * * * * For I have known them already, known them all- CHAPTER 2 - Almost, At Times, the Fool "Put it back, Nan," Lucy Giovanni scolded you, looking over her shoulder to catch you in the process of dropping the apple into your pocket. Her dark eyes were flashing, menacing, and downright irritating, but you found yourself obeying her command nonetheless. With a sigh that said exactly how hungry you were and a glare at Lucy's back, you sat the apple back with the others, watching while children peaked out from across the street, daring one another to dart to the fruit stand and return with a red or green prize. Your stomach gave, right then, an angry rumble, beating imaginary fists against your ribs, but you ignored it with a scowl and followed Lucy through the market, watching to her tally up the total with rapidly moving lips. You felt incredibly inferior next to her, watching her eyes flash as she counted money and added prices. Your poor schooling had done little more than teach you to spell your own name, and it was a wonder that you had managed to hold onto that bit of information. Looking back at the apples over your shoulder, you asked, "Just one?" Without meaning to, you glanced at the basket she carried slung across her arm. Inside, it was filled with two loaves of bread, a few pounds of select salted meats, and various fruits, all of which smelled delicious. Your stomach lurched again, and you pushed your hand against your abdomen, looking away at the muddy ground, hoping it would distract you from the smell of fresh bread and ripe peaches. It was impossible to ignore, though, and you were either going to steal that damned apple or knock Lucy down and steal her basket, whichever came first. To keep yourself from doing just that, you turned away, looking over the crowd that had gathered. In the distance, your ears picked out the sound of chickens screeching and cattle bawling, all in mutual protest. Somehow, you could sympathize with them. Lucy shook her head as an answer to your already-forgotten question, and said, "Sorry, Nan. I can't have you stealing things on me." You scowled at the back of her head and looked up at the sky, noting the white clouds and blue expanse. Over the call of livestock, the sound of the waves lapping loudly against the shoreline could be heard. Though the rain had stopped the day after your visit with Mr. Turner, for the past two days the waves had been large and dangerous. You'd made no move even to glance in their direction, which didn't seem to be a problem. Swimming in the ocean would have been considered a suicide mission on your part. Leaving the thought of the ocean and swimming behind in favour of food, you followed Lucy down the street, observing the way men and women yelled and shoved. You ignored the majority of them, suddenly conscious of the stinging of your palm as you squeezed your fingers around your own meagre purchase. You glanced down, tracing the dark cloth with your fingers. The smell of heavy alcohol still lingered over the makeshift bandage, and blood had stained the cloth darker than its natural, dark grey colour. Curling your hand into a fist, experimentally testing the limitations of the healing skin, you glanced up just in time to catch Lucy eyeing you suspiciously. "You never did say what happened, Nan," she said quite clearly to you, looking over a small display of sweets. She cocked a dark eyebrow in your direction, the corner of her mouth pulled taut in an interested smirk. "I cut myself," you replied, looking down at the bandage, peeling it back a bit to see the gash beneath. You could remember Turner's cold attitude and his rather bad manners, but you could also remember all the softer things, even if you would have preferred not to. You squeezed your hand into a tight fist once more, ignoring the pain in favour of the memory. Lucy only widened her grin, which you ignored by turning around again. Your head felt strange and light, but you made none of these thoughts evident on your face. You had always been rather skilled in concealing your emotions, whether happy or sad, and you weren't about to falter in your long-practiced talent. You pushed a bit of tangled hair behind your ear and said, "Just a cut." Lucy straightened up, leaving the pleasant-smelling sweets alone with a bitter glance. She threw a look at you over her shoulder and asked, "And how, exactly, did you cut yourself? I've never seen such a cut from a needle, if that's what you're implying." Again, she gave you that same broad smile, dimples pinching her cheeks, and you began to realize that her happiness was annoying you. Her smile, while nearly always infectious, had now become one of your prime sources of aggravation, and you knew there was nothing you could say or do to satiate that smile. You'd tried before, and you had always, always failed. You might be an expert on concealing emotions, but Lucy Giovanni was the cream of the crop when it came to coercing you into revealing them, especially when she had that smile to back her up. "I'm saying nothing," you replied, walking on ahead of her with your chin raised, trying to look superior. Once you were a good distance away, you let your head fall back into its normal position. You kicked a pebble and watched as it rolled into a puddle, making ripples spread out like smooth spider webs. You glanced back over your shoulder, finding that Lucy hadn't followed you. She was bent over the sweets again, looking as if she were trying to find something of small price but great worth. You turned your head to the sky, squinting in the sunlight. A flock of sea gulls passed quickly above you, cawing at the people below them. You watched as the gulls descended into the streets, picking at pieces of dropped, stale food as they hobbled along. Ignoring the birds, you leaned back against the damp stone of a building, crossing your arms over your chest and your legs at the ankles. Your bag of bread swung uselessly against your side, reminding you of the small loaf secured inside. Your stomach growled unpleasantly again, and a young woman with sharp eyes glanced at you as she passed. You offered her a complacent look, the corner of your mouth hitching up in a warm smile. The woman moved along, and the wind began to blow, scattering your skirts about your legs, and pushing pieces of escaped hair into your face. You tucked the hair behind your ears and crouched down against the wall, deciding to wait for Lucy in a more comfortable position. You gathered your skirts up around your knees, letting the back slip down so that the fabric rested in a shallow puddle behind you. Observing your knees, you determined that it was, indeed, time for a washing. You weren't quite sure where to obtain the needed water, but that had never been a problem before. Licking your finger, you scrubbed at a bit of grime encrusted over your kneecap. Below the muck rested a long-closed scar from Lord knew how long ago. It was probably only a souvenir from one of the brawls you'd participated in as a child. Sighing, you threw the material of your simple dress back over your knees so that it, too, soaked the water from the puddle. You crossed your arms over your knees, resting your head against them. It was much too loud here. You'd always appreciated the quiet, and, though you felt like a fool for thinking so, you would have rather been in the security of the alleys rather than in the open market, where people could stare and make small talk about the state of your clothing and the condition of your hair. Like Turner's shop, the atmosphere made you feel claustrophobic. Though you'd grown used to the strong odours and unpleasant tastes that lingered in the air, you could still sense them floating about you, like moths drawn to a candle's flame. There were many, many people, not all of them clean like Lucy and the upper-class snobs. And everyone, at some point, touched. From simply being in the market for fifteen minutes, you felt dirtier than you had in a long time. You longed for hot water and the strongest soap you could find so that you could scrub every speck of dirt from your body. Trying to push these thoughts as far back as possible, you raised your head from your arms. Lucy, you could see, was walking toward you, her basket swinging merrily on her arm. A small smile was plastered across her face, but you watched as it quickly fell when she glanced passed you. Averting your eyes from Lucy, you turned your head to catch a flash of red and blue coming your way. Nothing was ever pleasant when they were around. Lucy was giving you a dark look, and you pushed yourself off of the wall and said, "I did nothing, Lucy, I swear it! So I don't want to hear any accusations!" The soaked, brown fabric of your dress clung to your ankles like burrs to your hair. You leaned back against the wall, and though your back was uncomfortable against the rough stone, you didn't make any indications that you were about to move. You pressed your fingers against that warm stone and watched as the men walked easily passed you, not pausing to give you a second glance. You nodded up at Lucy, who only rolled her eyes and wrapped her fingers around your wrist like an overbearing mother. "Come on," she stated bitterly, pulling you out into the street after her. Your shoes tripped through the puddle, and water flooded into them, soaking your stockings and feet. "If you did nothing then why are you attempting to melt into the wall?" She cocked that dark eyebrow at you again, a bit of colour coming into her fair cheeks. "Where's the apple, then?" she asked, pushing a bit of hair out from her eyes as she continued to search your face for any sign of a lie or half-truth. You, however, had nothing of the sort. Usually, you didn't lie, and this was no exception. "Apple! Lucy, I'm telling the truth! Don't act like you don't believe me," you replied coldly, yanking your hand out of her grip as hard as you could. In a wild motion of fabric and skin, your bag was torn from your arm, sailing a few feet behind you. Over the roar of the ocean and the talking of the crowd, you could hear the laughter of a small group of young women when a rather affronted "ouch" was spoken. You and Lucy turned: Lucy for the source of the amusement and you to discover the whereabouts of your bag. You regretted it, though, the moment you came face-to-glaring-face with one Commodore Norrington. With his lips compressed into a thin, white line, he extended the hand your bag was clutched in. With the other hand, he massaged the back of his head, his hat riding up over the crown of his head. At his comical appearance, it was all you could do to keep the laughter in your throat from escaping your throat. You bit your bottom lip as hard as you could, just in case the worst should happen and cautiously took the bag from the man's hand. "I must say," he began in that tight, constricted voice that spoke of complete sarcasm and insult rather than flattery and amusement, "that you have wonderful aim, Miss…" "Miller," you supplied him, ignoring his tone of voice and looking over his shoulder to find most of the crowd watching you. With a smile on your face, you said, "So sorry about that. I didn't mean to hit you, sir." You gave him a soft smile, noticing the way that he still rubbed the back of his head as if you had thrown stones at him rather than a bag of bread. On his part, the man's lips only got tighter, and you began to wonder if he really ever had lips at all. You opened your mouth to say something along the lines of another apology, this one a bit more sincere, but Lucy beat you to it, saying, "Excuse her, sir, she does not speak her place." Coming to stand beside you, you barely managed to catch the look Lucy shot at you out of the corner of her eye. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her basket of sweet-smelling food pressed against her stomach. She looked from you to the Commodore, whose lips were still too tight to have possibly been good for him. You could imagine they were throbbing by now, all circulation cut off. He adjusted his position and, if possible, stood even straighter than before. Lowering his hand from his head and straightening his hat, Norrington murmured, as if to himself, "Perhaps, then, she is in cahoots with Mister Turner." You watched as something glinted in his eyes, but it disappeared just as quickly as it had come. At the mention of Turner's name, however, you glanced up, tightening your hand into a fist and ignoring the now-familiar bite of skin being torn open for the umpteenth time. What does he mean, in "cahoots" with Will Turner? you wondered to yourself, your thoughts more distant than they needed to be. Of course, everyone knows about the rumours involving pirates, but… what does that have to do with anything? "Pardon, Commodore?" Lucy inquired, taking a step closer to the man. You stayed where you were, looking back to Norrington from the wall your eyes had somehow locked on. Around your small conversation, people had begun walking slower so that they could catch what was being discussed so quietly. You could feel blood soaking up the dirty bandage, and you tried to hide the evidence in your skirts, for some reason embarrassed. Your cheeks were pink from men and women whispering. No, you didn't like the noise. Norrington, however, ignored the onlookers. He shook his head and said, "Nothing, Miss Giovanni. Do not trouble yourself with insignificant events of the past." A short, quiet moment passed in which Lucy watched Norrington, you watched Lucy, and Norrington watched the ground. After the moment was gone, the man looked up again. He smiled warmly, nodded to Lucy, and offered you a firm, albeit pleasant nod of your own. Turning on his heel, Norrington strode off into the market without a backward glance, a few of his men following dutifully behind him. Unconsciously, you unclenched your fist only to feel a hard, painful throbbing. Letting a great breath of air out of your lungs, you turned to Lucy, who asked, "Now, what's this about Mister Turner?" * * * * For being nearly abandoned, the docks were noisy. The sound of waves crashed against the shoreline like the thunder that had brought it to Port Royale. Overhead, a few melancholy gulls screamed in the wind, adjusting their positions on beams of wood and the tops of collapsed sails. You swung your bag as you walked next to Lucy, whose basket hung silent, the smell of fresh food not as fresh as before. The wind smelled of salt and decaying fish with an underlying sent of weathered, rotted wood. You looked out to sea, watching as white waves rolled back to reveal endless leagues of blue. You didn't like the sea. One could have gone so far as to say that you hated it. Water, the sea specifically, terrified you. It could have had something to do with the fact that you didn't know how to swim, but, then again, it might have been something all together different. Even so, the water sighed and called, luring the sailors and captains into its embrace. Lucy walked nearest to the water, and you trailed along beside her, your tattered, dirty shoes clenched in your fist, swinging back and fourth in an inattentive kind of way. Your filthy dress drug in the sand, collecting moisture and golden grains as you walked. Water was soaked all the way up to your knees, and the sand clung to the water, looking as if you'd been rolling around in it. Your feet were constantly sinking down deep, but you managed to pull them out, grains caught between your toes. Looking over at Lucy, who had also removed her shoes, you glared pointedly at the interested smirk spreading across her face. You could feel your cheeks flushing with remembered embarrassment, and your stomach rolled over with insane birds jumping up and down on it. "You cut your hand," Lucy began offhandedly, looking at the sky. "Yes," you replied, sigh with exasperation and looking at the sand. "Sitting in a dark corner," she continued, as though you'd said absolutely nothing, as if she were having a conversation with herself. She bit her bottom lip in a kind attempt to keep the amusement out of her voice and the grin off her face. You kicked a tuft of sand, sending clumped pieces scattering every which way. "Yes," you mumbled again, more forcefully this time. Your face was turning as red as the coats of the guards in the distance. "In the blacksmith's shop." She paused here, perhaps waiting for you to answer her again. When she received no echo from you, she continued with a chipper, "With a donkey sitting next to you, a sword in your hand, and Mister Brown's apprentice pouring whiskey over your palm." She stopped, completely unable to go on. "What a fairy tale," she said, her voice cracking with a snort. Quite loudly, she broke down into a fit of massive snickers. The hand over her mouth did nothing to hide her amusement. Her dark eyes were flashing, and you felt your own narrow at the sand, which seemed altogether angry that you were directing your anger at something that, obviously, didn't think for itself. Without expecting it, the sand, it had to be, reached up and tripped you. The motion, of course, sent your arms sprawling and caused your body to overbalance. The sand had never tasted so terrible. Spitting out a mouthful of sand, you yelled at Lucy, "It's not funny!" At your outburst, she only laughed harder. Shutting your mouth with a frown, you wiped your face with your hand, only managing to smear more sand over your skin. Unexpectedly, you sneezed so greatly that your head felt as if it might roll off your neck. A few curls fell out of your knot, leaning down to scratch your neck. Your clothes, now gritty and even dirtier than before, stuck to your arms and legs even while you tried to peel the fabric off of your skin. With an irritated grumble, you pushed yourself to your feet, sending a glare of shrieking death to Lucy, who continued to sputter as if she were suffocating. It wouldn't hurt to wring her neck, would it? you wondered with an evil smile. Without warning, you swung your arm around and felt great satisfaction when your bag slammed against the side of her head. The force of the blow knocked her over, and you looked down to see her sprawled in the sand, her hair mussed and filthy. Her simple dress was now every bit as dirty as yours was, and a few of the fruits in her basket had gone rolling away down the beach, toward the water. You watched a peach bob up and down in the waves before a group of gulls swooped down to pick at it. Looking back from the sea, you were quite surprised to find Lucy still laughing, one hand on her stomach, the other clapped over her mouth. Between laughs, she managed to say, "That's just like you to fight unfairly." You raised your chin and said, "I do my best." She laughed again, her eyes flashing with humour and her cheeks darkened with amusement. You felt a large grin pull at your face, despite wanting to be angry with her, and looked back up at the shore, where a group of guards seemed more than interested in your game. You held a hand out to Lucy, saying, "Come on, let's go before we do get into trouble." You shoved your shoes into the bag so that they were secured with your bread. You felt the sand between your toes when you took a step forward, your hand still held out to Lucy. "Just… give me a… moment," she responded, breathing deeply. She laughed once again and said, "My stomach hurts, Nan. Is that normal?" Against your will, you suddenly busted out laughing, clapping your hand quickly to your mouth. The ridiculousness of the situation seemed to have finally gone to your head, and you felt drunk on laughter. At your undignified shriek, the group of gulls nearby screeched and took flight, screaming all their rage at you. In all reality, you had no idea why you were laughing. It wasn't really that humours, and yet you couldn't keep the smile off of your face or the laughter out of your mouth. It felt good to laugh, more natural than breathing. Shaking your head, you said to your friend, "I have no idea, Lucy. None at all." You rolled your shoulders, shaking your head at the girl in front of you. Reaching forward again, you extended your hand to Lucy, the hand with the gash, and she took it, pulling herself to her feet. The stiff, gritty bandage scraped against the open wound, but you only winced, shaking your hand a bit when Lucy had freed it from her own. With the back of that hand—your right—you scrubbed at your nose, feeling the grains of sand scratch against the skin. "Can we please—" "Don't you think you should be getting back into town?" a voiced interrupted you, and you looked up to find green eyes underneath the brim of a wide hat glaring down at you. He wore an expression of amused boredom when he looked at the two young ladies in front of him. It was an expression he wore a great deal of the time, as far as you were concerned anyway. His arms were tense at his sides, but he appeared to be perfectly at ease. He adopted a grim smile that promised plenty of scolding if you didn't pick your words carefully. Not that scolding mattered to you, really. Not that you would have cared. "We were headed in that direction," you replied with your own grim smirk. His look of boredom didn't change. You ignored it, however, bending down to help Lucy into a standing position. She brushed the sand off of her dress as best as she could and picked up the discarded fruits that hadn't rolled down to float in the water. Her dirty hair, now falling around her face, she pushed behind her ears, and she sent you a look out of the corner of her eye that you couldn't read and didn't want to. The officer looked quite pleased when he said, "Town is in the opposite direction, unless you plan on walking through the poorer sections of it." His eyes moved to you then, as if he hadn't really seen you before. You watched irises of dark green take in your soiled, ripped dress, the condition of your dirty face, and the filthy bandage that was wrapped around your filthy hand. You dug your toes into the sand so that you could hide their poor condition from the officer as well. He didn't miss your movement, and you only lifted your chin when he looked back up at you, his eyes falling on a smudge of dirt that was smeared across your neck. "Oh," he said quietly, "my mistake." A smile curled his lips, but it was gone when you mimicked it with disdain. Ripping your feet out from beneath the sand, you lifted a side of your dress and said lightly, "Are you blind or just daft, sir?" With that, you made your way through the sand, picking your feet up so that you didn't fall once again. His words hadn't fazed you in the slightest. You'd been poor all your life, and one man's words didn't hurt or change that fact. You believed in Fate, even if she was a cruel mistress at times, and if Fate had dealt you the poorer hand, then you would just have to make do with what had been given to you. Dealing with the events that had come your way was only another one of your specialties, even if it could be a troublesome and lonely business. No, he hadn't hurt you, but he had made you bloody angry. Whether or not Lucy was following you, you made your way back the way you had come. True, the sky was beginning to fade to the colour of evening, and the air smelled wonderful and crisp, but you didn't care. For some reason, you just wanted to be far away from the sand and the sea. You climbed up one of the docks, lifting yourself up with only minimal difficulty. The pier, for the most part, was clear, and the weathered boards underneath your bare feet were warm from lying in the sun all day. A small child sat a short distance away from you, his crude fishing rod held before him, the line dipped carefully into the water below his feet. Not far off, the dock master was chatting quietly with a naval officer, whose eyes flicked quickly to you and back to the man in front of him. You sighed, pushing your hair out of your face and sitting down on the wood to dip your feet in the water. The sand washed off of your feet easily, and you quickly stood, shaking the water off of your skin. Switching your bag from your right hand to your left, you took off across the pier, looking up at the ships that surrounded you. Many of them were naval ships, but some of them belonged to traders and merchants that had docked to rest for the evening and night. Some tipped their hats politely at you as you walked by them, and you offered them kind smiles in return. Some of them leered and licked their lips, but you smiled at them as well, not really paying attention to the looks that you received and the men that sent them your way. Your mind was elsewhere, though you couldn't actually figure out where. Your eyes watched your feet when you reached the familiar cobblestones that had once, long ago, scraped your knees and stubbed your toes. Your mind didn't wander, though, as the progress of your feet over the stones seemed to become the most interesting thing you had ever witnessed. Your eyes hurt, however, and that usually foreshadowed the beginnings of a painful headache. Distantly, you thought you heard your name being called, but if it was you ignored it. You let your bag slam into your leg time and time again, thinking of nothing at all. Nothing. You worried your lip, chewing on it until you could feel the skin pulling back. Perhaps his words had fazed you. Nonetheless, something was bothering you, and you wouldn't be satisfied until you discovered what it was. You rubbed the back of your neck with the bandaged palm, feeling rough fabric scratching the smooth skin. Looking behind you, you thought you caught a glimpse of Lucy's face behind a group of people, but you turned away before you could really— Thud! A very warm, very human-shaped something ran into you, knocking you back a few steps and nearly knocking you clean over. Your bag fell to the ground in your surprise, and you nearly jumped out of your skin from your shock. Whoever it was that had run into you, he was just regaining his rather lost balance when you looked at him, noticing the bag on the ground that didn't belong to you, and the spilled wild flowers that now lay dirty in a puddle of brown water. He rose to his feet, and you didn't move to help him but only watched, your hands balled into fists at your sides. He rolled his shoulders, glancing down at the foodstuffs dribbling out of his threadbare bag. He whirled around to face you, his dark eyes blazing. But, surprisingly, they softened greatly when they fell upon you, only to have a look of distant memory and annoyed anticipation take over them. He pressed his lips together before saying, "Excuse me, I did not see you." Clicking your tongue lightly and letting a very small smile fade away on your lips, you bent down to shuffle the lost foods into his bag. Five eggs of a dozen had been saved, and the fruit would be perfectly fine if he washed it before he ate it. Looking to the puddle not a foot from you, you mentally noted that the wildflowers were quite destroyed. Petals swirled in the murky water like fish in the ocean. Glancing behind his feet, you noticed a loaf of bread, dirty and ruined, lying in the sun. Above you, the gulls called again, and you wondered if they weren't following you. Standing up, you replied, "It's nothing, don't worry. Your bread, though, is… well, done for." A smile claimed your face, and you were surprised, very surprised, to see that he returned the ghost of it. "It's only bread," he said, glancing over his shoulder to find a group of women watching the two of you. You noticed them as well, and you noticed the way that he shifted uncomfortably underneath their scrutiny. With a sigh, you held out the bag to him, and it swung between the two of you just as the blade had done when you'd knocked it from the anvil. When he reached out to take it, your fingers brushed, and you thought you felt heat explode in your face, but it hadn't. You reached into your own bag, finding the loaf of bread still wrapped securely in a bit of parchment. You could still smell it, and your stomach, still empty from not eating anything all day, chose to growl quite loudly. You ignored it, though, and dropped the loaf of bread into his bag, smiling businesslike as you did so. "It's only fair," you remarked, not thinking of how hungry you would be for the rest of the evening. It didn't really matter, now did it? "I apologize for knocking you over; I was not watching where I was going," you said, nodding at him as if to close the discussion. You brushed passed him, already looking off in the direction of home as a cold wind blew through the street, forcing bumps to prickle your arms and legs. A little shiver ran down your back, causing you to shudder and hurry your pace along. "Nanette!" Will Turner called, and you turned around just in time to catch a green apple. It was large and warm, and your stomach cheered happily as your chipped fingernails roamed over the smooth surface. "Only fair," he declared, before offering you his own nod and turning to continue on the way he'd been going before you nearly pushed him over. Around you, someone began to whisper, but it ended when you made it obvious that you didn't care what was being said behind your back. Turner might have minded, but he wasn't there to decide. You stared at the apple before looking back up to find that he was out of your sight. You shoved the apple into your bag with your shoes and continued on your way, wherever it would lead you. Behind you, the wind whistled against the windows, and the gulls screamed at the sun. * * * * The humidity had crept into the cellar like the plague. It made beads of sweat gather on his skin, especially with the torch held so close to his face. The water in the floors that had cooled over night were now warm, soaking into his trousers and his boots and making the walk through the damp and dark an unpleasant one. It smelled of blood and sweat and sex down here. The halls were rank with all of it, and in the corners rats and insects crawled away from the torchlight, eager to escape back into the dark where the world was cooler and less terrifying. There was less to be afraid of in the dark, and yet he carried a torch with him anyway. The light bounced off of the walls, turning the stones a sort of tarnished bronze. The water reflected the light, and the shadows painted strange patterns across the walls and floor, all waiting to swallow the next unwelcome visitor whole. He turned a corner, knowing the way by memory. His boots resounded a practiced, even rhythm against the ground, the sound travelling down the length of the hall to bounce back against his ears. It was strangely quiet. Where there usually would be screaming, moaning, maddening curses spat out in Italian, French, English, or any other language on God's good, green Earth, there was now silence. Total, deafening silence only broken by the sound of his soles against the stones. As he continued down the corridor, however, the sound of soft breathing, punctuated by slight nightmarish cries, littered the air like some sort of odd tension. Though the door that these noises were coming from was a bit further down the hall, the dome-like architecture of the passageway made it seem as if the noises were right behind him, following him, and he suddenly felt the slightest degree better about having a torch. He knew better, of course, to think that they would come down here, but his thoughts and opinions didn't rule out the possibility. Without making even the slightest adjustment in his strides, he halted in front of one of the doors, letting the torchlight flicker dully against the wood. Producing an old, iron key from his pocket, he slid the thing into the lock, turning it sharply. The door swung back of its own accord, and the flickering light fell into the shadows of the cell. Straw littered the floor, abundantly so next to a pile of dirty, stinking rags that were obviously used as a makeshift bed. An empty plate and glass, both made of hardened, cracked clay, sat in the farthest corner, pushed up against the wall. There was a chair laying on its back, one of the legs broken off and missing. Swinging the torch around in the small space, it was obvious that the cell was empty. It hadn't been empty before. He stepped inside, searching all possible corners, every last spot of darkness that refused to recede unless he brandished the torch directly in its face. All corners were empty, the heap of rags was still, and the room echoed only with the sound of his harsh breathing and his boots against the stones. He let out a rather undignified shriek of rage, kicking the rags and scattering them all over the room. Spinning dramatically on his heel, he nearly ran out of the cell, slamming the door behind him so forcefully that it bounced back and refused to shut properly, swinging open again with a creak of rusted hinges. Back down the hallway he went, the torch painting angry tattoos of shadows across his face. He stepped in front of another door, this fashioned in the same manner as the other, save for the heavy block of wood that lay along it, barring entrance and preventing escape. Sliding the key into the lock, the block of wood safe on the floor, he pulled the door back, letting the sparse light flicker in to chase the shadows blindly away. Eyes blinked up at him like lost candles, but the body seemed to shrink. He only entered the cell with patient grace, placing the torch in a small iron holder next to the door. The light filled the room better at this position, and he stared down at the figure in front of him. "Where is he?" he asked, looking down at the small, huddled figure before him. She trembled like a child, hunched over with the vertebras of her back jutting against the fabric of the rags that she wore. When she looked up once more, he could see obvious trails of tears had cleared a path down a face dirtied from grime and blood. Her lips were chapped and cracked, swollen where they had been thin the day he'd met her. Her long, dark hair was matted, uneven in the half-light, and her thin arms desperately tried to protect a sunken stomach. Her hands, bound, of course, at the wrists, scrabbled for the walls, but they slid off of the wet stone easily. With no great gentleness, he reached forward, gripped the back of her head, clenching curls in his hand and yanking her head back so forcefully that her neck cracked. He watched her throat muscles work over and over again as she swallowed and swallowed. "Well?" he said, looking into dark eyes rimmed with red and completely bloodshot. She shook her head, eyes already filling with tears. "I do not know, signore," she said, her lips moving rapidly, her throat constricting around a sob. She blinked up at him, a picture of wasted, torn youth. She was too young. Whoever had the bearings now would be older than this young thing, if anyone had the bearings at all. With a disappointed sigh, he threw her head forward again. She wrapped her torn, dirty hands around it, curling into a ball against the stones. He stared down at her for a moment, fingering a piece of gold in his pocket. Looking at her made his lip curl, all while making his desire for lust and satiability grow even more. "When was the last time you saw him?" he questioned, crouching down so that his face was just inches from hers. From behind her hair, the girl peeked out, and he could see that her dark eyes were so bloodshot they looked red, so filled with tears that they looked like rippling glass. There was a deep, vicious cut on the side of her face, the skin around it bruised and inflamed. Blood had trickled down from her hairline, drying against her skin so that there was a red crust on her temple. With tenderness, he reached up and scrubbed the blood away with his thumb. The girl flinched but stayed still, holding her breath. "Well?" he said after she had not answered, putting his forefinger underneath her chin and turning her face so that she was looking at him. "I have not seen him, signore," she replied, her voice trembling like a child who has just woken from a nightmare. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her fingers clenching and unclenching the rags barely covering her body. "I have seen only," she swallowed sharply, squeezing her eyes shut, "the others. No one else, signore, I swear by it." Her small mouth, broken and bared, twitched down as water that tasted of saline travelled the curves of her face. She sniffed, huddling closer into herself as he slid a hand up around to cup her unwounded cheek. She twitched once more, moving toward the wall although it was basically impossible to be any closer to it. "And what of Nunzio?" he asked, stroking one soft cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. His other hand came up to brush the hair out of her face. It was matted and wet with blood. "Have you seen him at all?" he continued, his mouth curving into a fine, thin-lipped smile that already knew the answer to the question. "N-no, signore, I have seen only the walls and… the others," she said, and he knew that she was lying. It wasn't his place to punish, though. He would leave that to them and these others the young lady kept referring to. After all, it wasn't his job to bloody his hands to extremely often. Only on occasion, only when the desire was too great, or the time was right, or he had an inkling that this might be the right girl. Then and only then. This was not one of those instances, however, and when the girl presented her lie, he pulled away, wiping the blood from her hair on her rags and getting gracefully to his feet. "I do not tolerate liars, Gilda, so we shall have another chat when you are ready to tell the truth." He turned on his heel then, knocking the torch on the wall onto the floor with a careful flick of his hand. The little flame rolled into a puddle and sputtered briefly before dying. The world went dark. From inside the tomb, the girl gave a little whimper as long-dead laughter echoed through the hallways with glee. * * * * * The Music is successful with a “dying fall” CHAPTER 3 - Thorns in All the Roses The weather, it seemed, had finally decided to shape up. The sun was bright and hot in the mid-morning sky. Humidity had invaded the streets, making women sweat in their awful corsets and dresses that trailed the still-muddy ground. Birds other than the gulls were out, as well, and they were singing merrily atop buildings and perched in trees. The puddles were nearly gone now, though small ones remained here and there, splashing those unfortunate enough to be sitting next to them when a carriage strolled leisurely by. You paid no attention, walking along the street with your shoes kicking a pebble as you went along. In the back of your mind, a faint hint of a song hung about your memory like an annoying little pest, though you couldn’t remember it for the life of you. Even so, you couldn’t get the rhythm out of your head, and it was driving you mad. Your purpose wasn’t to remember songs, though. You had promised Mary that you would look for some sort of work today, even if you didn’t find it, and you were determined to keep your promise to the woman, for once in your life. That promise had been made three hours ago, however, and the sun was already inching toward noon. You had passed by countless shops: bakeries, bookshops, taverns, brothels. While you weren’t as inclined to stoop so low as checking yourself into the profession of prostitution, it was beginning to seem like the only career choice left. Thankfully, the seamstress’s shop was only a few blocks away, and you could put the dark prospect behind you. Your mind, however, was certainly elsewhere, like your stomach, which was, once again, growling. While the apple had lasted you throughout the remainder of yesterday, it certainly hadn’t tided you over until morning. Fortunately, the baker had set up a makeshift display in front of her shop, and you managed to nick a bit of bread and a pastry when her back was turned. If being a seamstress doesn’t… suit me, again, then I could always result to thieving, you mused with a smile, chewing the last bit of the pastry and beginning to break up the bread into little pieces you randomly popped into your mouth. Up ahead, you could see the smithy, smoke billowing out of the chimney pleasantly. Even from your distance and the loud chatter of the crowds around you, you could hear the hammer pounding against the steel, forging death and creating perfection. Turner’s words rang in your ears when you glanced across the street to see Mr. Brown strolling out of the nearest tavern with a slight weave to his walk and a bag swinging merrily from his hand. He only aids him indeed, you reminded yourself, snorting at the prospect. Sighing a bit and turning down a street still a block from the seamstress shop, you looked longingly at the sky for no reason at all. Around you, children played pirates, screaming like banshees at each other. You stopped on the street corner, one hand braced on the streetlight watching the makeshift war carry on in front you. On one side of the street, in a dark shadow cast by the tall buildings, a band of motley ‘pirates’ steered a ship made up of discarded, broken, empty crates that littered the edge of the walkway. The Captain, whose red bandana had fallen down to cover his left eye, screamed something that you didn’t understand and waved his wooden sword about, cursing up a storm. His crewmembers followed his order, though, and in a moment rocks were launched at the opposing ‘pirates,’ all of whom looked disorganized due to the ‘death’ of their Captain, who was lying in the street with his tongue hanging out of his mouth and a large rock clutched to his chest. You looked back at the other side, which seemed to have won for all the cheering they were doing, and looked at the Captain again when he pushed his bandana out of his bright, blue eyes. The eyes along with the wild, black hair were hard to miss, and you cupped your hands around your mouth to yell, “Peter!” He looked up, startled, and noticed you standing on the corner, watching him with a smile on your face and your hands crossed over your stomach. “Nanette!” he screamed, his bright eyes going wide as he realized that you were across enemy lines. “Over here, quick!” he shouted, waving his hand at you. You, however, made no move and only glanced at the enemy ‘pirates’ not five feet from you. The one that appeared to be the oldest looked as if he only reached to your navel. Not a very threatening pirate, as far as you were concerned. They were all slumped over their crates, looking like they enjoyed the game as much in death as they had in life. A few eyes were beginning to peak open, though, and the movement of arms and legs displayed boredom at having to lie still for so long. A quick tug on your skirts brought you back to reality, and you looked over and down to find Peter craning his neck back to get a good look at you. “What are doing, Nan?” he began, beaming at you. You noticed that there was an obvious gap where his two front teeth had been. “Did you hear what I said, about the enemy pirates?” If possible, Peter widened his smile even more, brandishing his makeshift swords at an imaginary foe. Images of swords flashed through your mind, and you raised your hand to your face to lift the bandage and peer at the wound. Moving the cloth just a bit, you noticed that a great deal of the blood had dried on your skin. Around the slice, the skin was enflamed and red, too tender to be healthy. There was no scab to speak of, and mixed in with the blood were strange strings of yellow, which looked a great deal like puss from an infection. Just thinking of the damn thing made it ache. The smell of whiskey was nearly gone now, but you didn’t remove the bandage, as that probably would have only made things worse. Lucy or her mother would clean it properly for you, no whiskey involved. Speaking of Lucy… “Is your sister at home, Peter?” you inquired suddenly, looking down at him again and finding that he was more interested in the gash on your hand than you were. “Of course, she’s got nothing else to do,” he commented distantly, standing on his tiptoes to try to see. His English was little worse than yours and it made you smile to hear the son of an established father talk like the lower-class fiend he wanted to be. He was so much like Lucy. “Where’d you get that, Nan? Did you run into a pirate?” he asked, looking down at the slice along your palm again. His eyes lit up, and that only meant one thing: you would be here for hours. Peter didn’t seem to mind, however, and he went right on as if he’d never stopped, saying, “You know, there was a pirate here once, not very long ago. A great pirate. Captain Sparrow! Have you heard of him, Nan? Did he cut your hand?” He nearly bounced on the balls of his feet when he spoke. A wide smile split his face, and you couldn’t help but grin along with him, though you really didn’t have a reason to. Yes, you remembered the stories of Sparrow’s arrival in Port Royal, and of his rather… creative escape, to say the least. As one of the poorer citizens of the town, you hadn’t exactly been invited to the pirate’s hanging, but that hadn’t bothered you in the slightest and it still didn’t. You had never seen the man, but the women in the town talked high and long, and you had gathered that he was flamboyant and outspoken, if not a mischief-maker and uninhibited. That, however, was a pirate in a nutshell, and you personally didn’t mind the stereotype. Peter seemed insistent on his answer, though, if the way he was watching you was any indication. So, to humour him, you shook your head and said, “Of course a pirate didn’t cut my hand, silly. That was my own fault.” Looking at the children scampering around, you commented, more to yourself, “I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been.” He nodded, as if he understood completely. You knew better. “But,” he began, toeing at the ground with his bare feet, “you know of Captain Sparrow?” His eyes were hopeful, and you only wanted to find Lucy so that she could help you waste the day away. After you found a job, of course. Right, job came first. “Yes, Peter,” you replied casually, looking down at the small child with one of your odd smiles, “I’ve heard of him.” You bent down, then, taking one of Peter’s shoulders in each of your hands so that you could look steadily into his eyes. “Now,” you began in your roughest, most adventuresome voice, “where’s Lucy? We’ve got to find her before the other pirates do!” You glanced over your shoulder and found most of the other little boys (and some girls, you noticed with a smile) were standing up and brushing themselves off, looking ready to battle again. You looked back at Peter and saw his eyes glowing with imagination and determination. Who knew what he saw in his world? Most likely, it was very different from what you saw in yours. A world of paintings to a world of shadows. A mind of colours to a mind of black and white. Sun to moon. Breathing to drowning. It was all the same. Peter, however, knew none of this, and none of this knew Peter. Perhaps one day he would look back and understand, but today wasn’t that day, and tomorrow was very far away indeed. Raising his chin and setting his jaw, living forever in the moment, he merely said, “Quick, this way. I’ll show you the way through the alleys, so they can’t follow us.” He took your bandaged hand and led you quickly away, yelling some command over his shoulder to one of his crewmates, who gave the order to split up and search for ammunition. Once around the corner, Peter looked back over his shoulder to say to you with a grin, “No one knows the alleys like me.” I do, you thought, but remained silent. * * * * The trek through the alleys with Peter had been well rewarded indeed. To your left sat a glass of cold milk, sweating faintly on the wooden table underneath you. With a fork in your right hand and a piece of buttered bread in your left, you managed to work out some sort of system so that you could pile as much food into your mouth without choking on the lot. First the eggs, running all over each other, then the bread that had been smeared in the yokes. When the fork was set down on the edge of the plate, a bite of an orange followed, the pulp running down over your chin until you swiped it away with a napkin. You hadn’t touched the sausages yet, as you were saving the best for last. Your stomach tried to tell you that it was full now, thank you very much, but you told it to shut its gob and let you continue doing just what you were doing. “Slow down, my dear, you’ll hurt yourself,” Carmella Giovanni said softly, drinking the last of her tea in a sharp swallow. You looked over at her, your eyes the slightest bit ashamed, and she smiled and laughed, reaching over to pat your hand. “Don’t worry, Nanette, eat as much as you like. Just take your time!” She laughed richly, and you couldn’t help but smile despite yourself. Setting your fork down on the edge of your plate, you took a careful gulp of milk, letting the rich taste run down the back of your throat. The prospect of finding a job had been forgotten when Peter had thrown open the door of the home you had nearly come to call your own. Ida, one of the two maids of the household, had promptly sat you down in front of what remained of breakfast, gotten you an orange and a peach and your glass of milk, and had brought Carmella inside from gardening to make sure you ate every last bit of what had been given to you. The Giovanni’s had heard no argument from you. Presently, Carmella reached over and patted your hand gently, watching while you sunk your teeth into the peach. The older woman said softly and sincerely, “You’re welcome to eat with us any time you like, Nanette, you know that.” You did. It was common knowledge that the poor girl who roamed the streets with her red scarf was Lucy Giovanni’s closest friend. The Giovanni’s had a history of acting civil toward those who were less fortunate than them, and they possessed a peculiar manner of thinking when it came to people and class: they were fair. For as long as you could remember, your cuts and scrapes had been cleaned right along with Lucy’s, if not with more care and sympathy. The fabric you used to make your and your aunt Mary’s clothing had often been given to you by Carmella, who had only insisted on it with a smile and a gentle laugh. They were good people, the Giovanni’s. “Thank you,” you replied to Carmella’s statement, giving her your best smile, though it was probably littered with bits of peach. Her cheeks flashed pink, and she snickered behind her hand. You looked down at your plate to shove your sausages around in the remaining yoke. Without meaning to, you reached forward to grip the glass of milk with your right hand. As soon as your palm touched the smooth surface, the whole thing roared with pain. You snatched it back quickly, shaking it a bit to try and get the sting to go away. There was no doubt in your mind that Carmella had noticed, and your suspicions were only reaffirmed when the woman said, “Nanette Miller, what have you done to yourself now?” A moment later she was in the chair next to you, reaching down into your lap to unwrap the bandage and survey the damage that had been done. “Oh, my dear…”she trailed off, her slender fingers stroking the skin around the wound. She dropped the bandage—Turner’s—on the table, and you, unconsciously, picked it up and crushed your left hand into a fist, the fabric balled up inside. “Don’t worry about it,” you commented, trying to draw your hand back into your lap so that you could wrap it back up. Carmella’s fingers tightened around yours, though, arresting you mid-movement and forcing you to look up at her with eyes that nearly demanded your hand be let go of. She was used to your stubborn pride, all the same, and only drew your hand closer to her eyes for inspection. It was all so routine. You could remember times when you couldn’t have been more than five-years-old, and Lucy’s mother would pick you up off of the ground, march you right inside the house, and clean your dirty, bleeding knees with soap and water, despite your rather vocal protests. Over the years, you’d grown a bit more quiet in protesting, namely because screaming at the top of your lungs for the Queen to hear and sobbing as if you’d broken something rather than just had some stinging soap dabbed against your knee was, well… a bit immature for a young woman of nearly twenty-one. That didn’t stop you from wanting to scream sometimes, though. You looked up to see the other maid, Sarah, setting down a bowl of steaming water. The surface was murky, betraying the soap that lay hidden underneath it, and you looked up at Sarah in a sort of betrayed, affronted way. She only grinned and poked her tongue out, saying, “Saw that dirty bandage on your ‘and the moment you walked in ‘ere. I figured you’d be wantin’ it cleaned, Ma’am.” She looked at Carmella, who gave her an amused smile. The two both grinned at your obvious discomfort and irritation, but you knew you had little choice but to sit there like the good, little girl Carmella wanted you to be. With a disconnected sigh, you laid your hand flat in Carmella’s grip, your fingers lax and your palm stretched as far as it would go without aching. “Do your worst,” you commented dryly, plainly ignoring the look of amusement that flittered across Carmella’s face as she fished around in the clay bowl, brining out a rag, frayed and greyed from years of use. The murky surface rippled and bubbled, splotches landing on the table as Carmella wrung out the rag. When she touched the piece of cloth to your hand, soap and all, it hurt a great deal less than when Turner had poured whiskey all over it. She worked up a steady rhythm: dipping the cloth in the water, scrubbing the dried, crusted dirt carefully away, and then wiping away the puss from the infection that had to have settled in. The skin around the slash was very nearly purple and was enflamed, though the pain was now worse than it had been before, but you supposed that had something to do with the way it was being handled. “Why does it look like that?” you asked, your thoughts getting away from you. Carmella sighed a bit, the corner of her mouth twitching in a way that you had never truly been able to place. It was a mixture between amusement and downright anger and irritation. Dipping the rag back into the bowl and squeezing the water out, she said, “I am not entirely positive, dear. It may be infected, but it may have just been dirty. The bandage certainly needed changing.” She looked down at your clasped fist and raised her eyebrows. “You cleaned it with alcohol, I assume?” she questioned, looking up at you while her cool fingers stroked the sensitive skin around your cut. “Yes,” you replied, not wanting to include Turner’s name in the situation for some reason or another. “I was careless with scissors,” you lied, looking down at Carmella’s fingers against your hand. You didn’t like to lie. It made for some difficult situations in certain instances that ended up being murder to get out of. This time, though, you didn’t feel like telling and explaining the truth. The matter between Turner and yourself was just that: between Turner and yourself. No one else needed to know about it, and you were sure that he had the same attitude on the subject, though, probably, for different reasons. “Well,” Carmella said, snapping you out of your thoughts, “do try to be a bit more careful in the future, Nanette. We would not want you losing a finger next time.” She reached back by the bowl and picked up a piece of clean, white cloth that looked like it had been ripped from sheets or old clothing. She tied the bandage around your hand tighter than you would have liked, but significantly looser than Turner had tied his, or so it seemed. After the first was tied and covering the slash, Carmella picked up another and bandaged your hand with this one as well. When she had finished, she asked you to flex your fingers and make a fist. You obeyed, and, though the sensation wasn’t exactly the best one to feel, it hurt much less. “Thank you,” you said, giving the older woman a smile that she flushed at, waving a hand between the two of you as if to dismiss the matter. She smiled and laughed and stood to take the bowl and rag and remaining bandages through the dining room and into the kitchen, where Sarah had retreated to when she’d left earlier. You turned back to your breakfast, which was now rather stiff and cold, and took to eating the rest of your peach, which tasted better than you had remembered. The big pendulum clock in the foyer tolled twelve times, and you looked up just as you heard the door in that room open up and swing shut. Footsteps echoed in the hallway, walking back and fourth, here and there. The door behind you that led from the hallway to the dining room opened a moment later, and you turned to catch a very tall, handsome man standing in the doorframe. Alonzo Giovanni was as Italian was you could get without crossing the line. He even had a bit of an accent hidden behind his normal manner of speaking. His longish hair was dark and wild, always in his face even though he always had it tied back. His eyes were dark as well, and there were deep laugh-lines around them that spoke of smiles and jokes. He had an easy smile, one that split his face with such intensity that one couldn’t help but smile along with him. You had known him since the moment you had set foot on the ship that would take you to Port Royal. You had been travelling alone, and he had been the captain. You had met your Aunt Mary at the docks, but you had also met a five-year-old Lucy, who was waiting for her father to return from England. The rest of it, really, was history, as cliché as it sounded. Upon entering the room, Lucy’s father caught sight of you and simply beamed. “It is good to see you, Nan. Been a while, if I do say so myself,” he commented, crossing the room in three long strides to take up the chair directly across from you. From his pocket he produced a pipe, which he laid on the table before rummaging through what seemed like twenty other pockets, all while looking directly at you, waiting for a response. You only shrugged, saying, “I suppose I’ve been busy.” Having a conversation with Alonzo wasn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world to do. The man was regal and intelligent and always had time for awkward silences in which he would puff on his pipe and stare off into nothing, thinking of things your mind couldn’t hope to comprehend. It made one feel rather put out when they attempted to have any sort of discussion with the man, but that didn’t make you like or appreciate him any less. Just as Carmella played mother to you, Alonzo had stepped in at some point to play father. To your reply, he only clicked his tongue and nodded. He seemed a bit curious, though, and, still digging through his pockets, he asked, “How is your aunt?” The question forced an amused smile to cross your face, and you said, “She is well, as far as I know. Her eyesight fails her more and more every day, but she manages.” You put a piece of sausage in your mouth and chewed thoughtfully, wondering about the woman in question. Mary was certainly a character, if one could call her that. She was a liar and an extremely excellent one at that, and you despised the very ground she walked upon. However, she was your only remaining family, even though you considered the Giovanni’s more of family than you considered Mary. At this thought, you only shrugged your shoulders and replied offhandedly, “I don’t particularly care how she is, sir. I do my best to stay away from her.” “Why’s that, my dear?” he inquired, raising a dark eyebrow. Lines appeared around his mouth and eyes, creased his forehead. The door behind him that led to the kitchen swung open, and Carmella paused in the doorway, carrying a plate with a sandwich and roast potatoes. She hesitated a moment, apparently trying to give you time and space to finish your conversation with her husband. You smiled thoughtfully at her and looked down at the tablecloth, which was still a bit damp from the bowl that Carmella had set there. To Alonzo’s question, you only pushed your plate back into the centre of the table, saying, “I don’t appreciate liars.” With that, you pushed your chair back as well, listening to the wooden legs squeal against the wooden floorboards. You nodded to each of them, smiling gratefully at Carmella. You turned, then, and made your way into the hallway and then to the foyer before grabbing the banister to head up the staircase. On the way up the stairs, you passed Ida and gave her an enthusiastic greeting, which she returned pleasantly while toting a basket of laundry off to be washed. The first door you came to was wide open, revealing the possessions of a young boy. Peter was nowhere to be found, having run wildly off to rejoin his crew the moment he had seen you were safely inside. His window faced the ocean, and a strong wind was blowing in from sea. Lace curtains rustled gently, expanding like ship sails against the sky. A rocking horse stood in the corner adjacent to the window, tilting back and fourth in the breeze. There was a chest you knew to hold toys and old clothing at the foot of the bed, which was currently made, blankets folded into perfection. Trailing your fingers along the wall, you continued down the hallway until you came to another open door. Peaking around the corner, you found Lucy sitting on the window seat, her long legs stretched out in front of her, a book in her lap. You rapped harshly on the doorframe to get the girl’s attention. She looked up, startled, but her face melted into an easy smile when she saw you step into the room, your scarf hanging off of your shoulders like the remains of a victor’s flag. “Finished, are we?” she said smartly, her smile turning into a smirk that made you snort. She marked her place among the pages with a piece of parchment and set the book on the seat, standing up to give a mighty stretch. She wore a simple blue dress, a bit too short for her long-limbed figure. She didn’t seem to mind, though, and you certainly didn’t object, noting your own plain, tan dress you had worn when you’d gone to the blacksmith’s shop to hide in the shadows. The stain of blood was still splashed across it near the middle pocket you’d randomly placed when you’d sewn it. “It’s about time,” Lucy commented, sliding a pair of old shoes out from underneath her bed. She worked her feet into them and stood up, watching you fiddle with the trinkets on the bureau. You looked in the mirror, taking in a much fuller appearance than you had received in the dim light of the blacksmith’s shop while looking into a sword. The dirt was still smudged across the highest point of your left cheek. It looked like soot, but you hadn’t been sleeping in fireplaces. You hair was messy and needed a washing, the curls tangled and matted, but it would have to wait until you spoke with Carmella again. The most noticeable thing was that you looked tired, strained, and stretched. The dress was too big for you, that much was obvious, and it probably had something to do with the fact that you only ate when it was absolutely necessary. You couldn’t change your lifestyle, though, and this was every inch of you. It wasn’t a bad look, really. “Are you listening to me, Nan?” Lucy called, and you looked over your shoulder to find her holding out a box to you. It was tied tight at the top with a black ribbon fashioned in a bow. Flowers were drawn all over the yellow background. You didn’t ask questions but took a step up to Lucy, raising your eyebrow as if to ask if the box was for you. “Of course it’s for you, silly!” Lucy exclaimed, pushing it roughly into your hands. She grabbed your shoulder and sat you down on the edge of her unmade bed. For some reason, your face was red. Inside you found a pair of new, simple shoes, shoes that would not hurt your feet or hinder your movement throughout the street. Lucy was practical, and she had never been a simpleton. What good would it have done to buy you an extravagant dress, a fancy pair of shoes, something of great worth? It wouldn’t have made sense, and Lucy was a good friend of logical conclusions. The shoes were black leather and had good, strong soles. You glanced down at your worn, brown ones that you’d had for what seemed like forever. They were tied together near the toes with bits of fraying string. The soles flapped when you ran, and water always managed to soak in through the worn leather. These… these would last you the rest of your life if it killed you. “Lucy…” you trailed off, unable to produce words due to the constricting of your throat. Lucy had always been good to you, but this was different. “You’re welcome, Nan,” she said simply, letting a pretty smile grace her face. “Come now,” she began, sliding to the floor and sitting on her knees. She reached behind her into the wardrobe and rummaged around in the bottom drawer, pulling out a pair of stockings and waving them about with a laugh. “Off with those shoes, we’ll burn them in the stove later.” She grinned and yanked the shoe off your right foot. Heat flooded your face at the sight of your dirty feet, and she glanced up at you with a look of mock disgust. You shoved her shoulder and ripped the stockings out of her hand, sliding the new one up as far as it could go. Even in the humidity, your feet felt pleasantly warm. You wiggled your toes a bit and slipped the new shoe on. It felt wonderful. The other followed, and you stood up, pacing back and fourth around the room to get used to the new feeling. “Do they fit alright?” Lucy questioned hopefully, watching you from the floor. “They’re a bit big,” you said, noticing that you had more than enough room to wiggle your toes around. “That’s alright, though. I’ll get used to it,” you finished, plopping yourself down on the window seat and picking up Lucy’s discarded book. You flipped through the pages, looking for pictures. If there were pictures, you might have been able to figure out some things. But, of course, the pages were filled only with words that meant nothing to you. You marked Lucy’s place again and looked out the window, watching the men scurry around at the docks, loading and unloading and doing Lord knew what. The sun was warm on your face, and the wind smelled good to your nose. “Lucy,” you said, not looking at her, drawing your knees up to your chest and holding them there. She sounded uneasy when she said, “Yes?” You heard her footsteps against the wooden floor, the boards groaning underneath her weight. She stopped a safe distance from you: close enough for an embrace but far enough to stand her ground. It was a routine distance, one that she had kept as long as you had known her, and you were grateful for it. You exhaled sharply and said, “Will you teach me to read?” You looked over at her, your eyes hopeful. You wanted to read. You wanted to know everything that there was to know about the world, and if the only way to do that was to read about it, well… then you needed that skill. You needed something, especially when the only thing you had was a name that meant nothing to no one. Someday, you thought, someday it might mean something to someone. Looking up at Lucy, you watched as her face broke into a soft, relived smile. She was the closest thing to family that you had, and it felt good to have her sit down across from you, take one of your hands in hers, and say, “Of course I will, Nan. Of course, of course, of course.” She smiled, grander this time, flashing you a surprisingly white grin. You gave her a bashful one in return, proud of your teeth considering your class rank. Your teeth you had always taken of, no matter the cost. The thought of having a dirty mouth made your stomach churn. At Lucy’s promise, though, you couldn’t help the huge grin that spread across your face, no matter how hard you tried. No one, not even Lucy’s parents, had ever offered something that carried such a great amount of weight. You swallowed a surprising lump in your throat and ran your hands through your hair, inhaling the smell of the sea. In quiet companionship, the two of you leaned out the window, your elbows resting in the dirt of the flowerbed, and looked out over the city. The streets were moving and laughter was bouncing up and down every alley and every street. From far off, you could hear a rousing, loud cheer that said, “My bonnie lies over the sea!” A loud chorus of gruff, laughing voices echoed up to meet your ears. Across town, you could see smoke rising from a chimney, and the fine smells of the food from the pub down the street were carried on the wind to meet you. You picked a bright oleander from Lucy’s little garden and spun it around in your fingers, watching white turn before your eyes. Smelling it once, you let the flower go, watching it fall down to the cobblestones in front of a young man who was busy hurrying along his way. Next to you, Lucy snorted as Will Turner picked up the flower, glanced up at the window, and put it in his pocket. * * * * You were breathing heavily, laughter pushing in and out of your lungs. Your hands slapped the door of The Thirsty Dog ages before Lucy’s. You bent over, your hands on your knees, your face and body sweating and heaving as you looked up to find Lucy in quite the same predicament. She leaned back against the wall, her hands pushing the dark hair out of her flushed face. She looked down at you and gave a breathless laugh, closing her eyes and trying to catch her breath. You were both filthy, having run around the town like hellions all afternoon. When the mud puddles and dirty streets had become boring, you had humoured Peter and his friends in a long game of Capture the Castle in the woods a short distance from town. That explained the rips and tears found in the fabric of you and Lucy’s dresses, the snarls and brambles caught in your hair, and the cut across Lucy’s shoulder. When the sun had gone down and Peter had been dropped off at home, you and Lucy had asked permission to eat in town at one of the taverns. It had… escalated a bit into a contest at who could beat the other from the Giovanni’s to the tavern. Needless to say, you beat the girl by a mile, even if that was the distance from the Giovanni’s to the tavern. Of your few skills, being fast was one of them. Now, though, you were regretting your quick decision, as your chest burned every time you attempted to breathe. Wiping your sweaty face with the back of your hand, you pushed yourself into a standing position, still breathing a little harder than normal. You said to Lucy, “Are you alright?” She nodded, her chest heaving, and smiled. “Yes,” she stated, smiling and laughing, “I’m perfectly fine, and yourself?” She looked back at the horizon, watching the colours of ocean and sky melt into each other and explode in sparks of pink and orange. With your close proximity to the docks, you could hear the boats swaying back and fourth on the waves. Somewhere, the muffled sound of a bell clanged against the sigh of the sea. You nodded, looking at the sunset as well. “Right as rain,” you replied with a smile, and you pulled the door open to step inside. The Thirsty Dog wasn’t one of the clichéd taverns that were littered all throughout the seedy Caribbean. It was pleasant inside, well lit, and it smelled wonderful, the slight mix of spices and tobacco coming together to start something that made one’s mouth water. Scattered in front of you were many tables, four chairs each, all of which had a burning lamp on them. To your left, on either side of the bar, were two booths, the seats made of leather and the tables of polished mahogany. You had never sat there, and you doubted that you ever would. On the right, opposite the bar, a large fire roared, making the back of your neck sweat in the humidity and from the sensation of running. Through a door by one of the booths was the kitchen, which seemed quiet at the moment: a rarity. The smell of food and the comforting sight wasn’t what caught your attention, however. It was Will Turner, sitting at a far table with a young man you didn’t know. Starting to wonder if the young man was following you, you took a step forward, Lucy looking at you oddly as you did so, having already pulled out a chair for you to sit in at another, closer table. You tried to hide the grin that was spreading across your face, but it was difficult to contain this kind of amusement. You pushed chairs out of your way, only pausing briefly to study a chess set that lay on the edge of the bar. Not even chess could hold you back from saying something to get him riled up. You didn’t know why, but you enjoyed aggravating him, and you enjoyed seeing him smile even more, on the rare occasion that he did so. His back was to you, thankfully, but his friend had noticed you. The young man’s eyes were blue, and his hair was the colour of cornflowers and littered with cowlicks. He looked up when you were nearly at the table and said in a soft-spoken voice, “Can I help you?” You stopped, watching him with a look of irritation. It had been your intention to speak first, but it didn’t matter. You would just pretend as if the man hadn’t spoken at all. “I’d like my flower back, Mr. Turner,” you said, thinking back to the oleander you had dropped at his feet, unintentionally. True, you had meant to drop the flower, but you’d had no idea it would land at his feet. The smithy was on the other side of town, in fact, so you had no idea at all as to what he’d been doing by the Giovanni’s. Turner, flinching a bit at the sound of your voice, turned around in his chair, leaning his weight on one elbow. He was in his vest, his brown coat hanging on the back of his chair. In one of the pockets, you could see the flower leaning out. His dark hair had dried in messy waves, and his eyes looked both tired and alive. “What flower?” he inquired, pinching his eyebrows together so that a crease formed in the space between them. You both knew what you were talking about, but if it was Turner’s intention to play games then you would play games. “The flower I dropped mid-morning, out of the window I saw you walking underneath,” you replied, crossing your arms over your chest and looking down your nose at him. He stared right back, and you blinked and looked away, gnawing on your bottom lip with impatience, amusement, and exasperation. Lucy had come to stand next to you, a glare spread across her face at your obviously rude manners, at least in her opinion. When push came to shove, however, you weren’t simply going to stand around and be jostled here and there. You didn’t mind Lucy’s obvious annoyance. You thought that your manners were just fine the way that they were, thank you very much. If she was bitter about having been brought up to be a lady then that was her own prerogative, not yours. “I was not on the other side of town mid-morning,” Turner said, looking up at you with a very no-nonsense expression. If he was trying to prove to you that he was a good liar, then he was failing miserably at it. If he couldn’t lie about something as trivial as a flower, then he couldn’t lie about anything. He was honest to a fault, and, as admirable of a trait as that was, it probably didn’t help him any. You rolled your eyes and said with weight, “I told you I was not an idiot, Will Turner, and I can honestly tell you that I hate liars.” Your voice was cold, but you managed to pull off a pleasant smile to go with it. He eyed you oddly, apparently not threatened in the slightest by your tone. That hadn’t been your intention, but you had managed to get your point across, which was what you were aiming for. He opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off, saying, “Just give me the flower and then maybe I’ll play one of you in chess.” You held out your hand. It took you a moment to realize that it was the one you had cut. The two of you looked at your hand for a moment, staring at the way the new, white bandages contrasted sharply with your skin, different than the way the grey cloth had just simply been there. It was almost like a certain sort of betrayal. Swallowing, you looked up at the same time he did, meeting his eyes for what felt like the first time. You felt your face grow hot, blamed it on the fire, and looked away, curling your hand into a fist and looking over at Lucy, who said, “I’ll go get us something to eat, Nan.” She put a hand on your shoulder and was gone, leaving you with Turner, who was looking at the corner, and his friend, who was glancing between the two of you with a raised eyebrow. You shifted uncomfortably, looked at the young man, and said, “Nanette Mi-” He cut you off, saying, “I know who you are.” He looked you up and down: from the tip of your messy head to the new shoes that were already covered in mud. His eyes lingered on the bandage, flicked back to Turner, and then locked on your face again. He gave you a polite nod and said, “Christian Banister. You said something about chess?” Turner looked up and over at his friend, settling back into his seat and stretching his legs out underneath the table. His shoulders were tense, though, as if he were agitated in the simplest of ways. You ignored him. At Banister’s question, your face lit up and you said, “Yes, I did. Would you like to play?” You raised an eyebrow in silent challenge, watching a catlike, patient grin spread over his sharp features. He nodded and looked at Turner, who only rolled his eyes and slid further down into his chair. You felt like saying something about his downcast mood, but you only turned on your heel and stalked off to the bar, collecting the box of chess pieces and tucking the heavy board underneath your arm. Unexpectedly and for no apparent reason at all, you remembered the pawn you had put on the window in the blacksmith’s shop over two weeks ago. Now wasn’t the time, but you definitely needed to have words with Turner, most of which would be highly amusing if not completely irritating. You returned to the table and found that Banister and Turner had cleared the silverware off of it and moved the lamp to the edge so that an odd sort of light was thrown across the board whenever you set it down. Turner left his seat and threw himself down in the one next to it so that you could sit across from Banister. As you sat down, your back pressed against the chair and against Turner’s jacket. You saw him glance at you out of the corner of your eye, but you ignored him again, helping Banister set up the pieces. “Black or white?” Banister inquired, looking at you through a fan of cornflower hair. “Black,” you said resolutely, setting up your pieces so that they faced white. You waited while Banister meticulously put his pieces on the board, digging around in the box for a moment. He bent down, looked under the table and behind his chair. He wore a look of confused annoyance as he looked everywhere for something you already knew was missing. “What’s wrong?” Turner asked, sounding interested for the first time. You looked over at him, finding his arms crossed over his chest and his posture rigid. He straightened up a bit when Banister shot him a look that clearly ordered him to relax. You pushed your hair irksomely out of your face and caught his eye, looking away before he could say anything. “There is a pawn missing,” Banister remarked, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. From the corner of your eye, you caught Turner’s gaze and latched on. You imagined the little pawn sitting on a shelf in the shop, and Turner studying it with those eyebrows drawn together to form a point of irritated confusion in the centre. Then again, maybe he had left it on the windowsill in hope that you, or whoever had left it, would come back and take it back. You never had gone back for it, though you had intended to at least go by and see if he had taken it inside. Now, though, it was obvious that Turner knew who set the pawn on his windowsill. His eyes relaxed, and he looked at the ceiling, sighing exasperatedly. “No bother, we’ll just take one of yours off the board,” you told him, removing one of his pawns and sitting it next to your left hand, the side Turner was sitting on. As Banister declared that ‘ladies went first,’ you moved one of your pawns across the board, watching the young man’s hands and his eyes. He followed in suit, and, after five minutes, you had humiliated him in seven moves. Lucy had returned and handed you a cup of what you hoped was wine but turned out to be water. You pulled a face and said to Banister, “You call yourself a chess player, Mr. Banister?” He cleared the pieces from the board and set them up again, looking at you, and saying, “Christian, please, and I have only just begun.” He pushed his hair out of his face, helping it to stick up more than it already was. His eyes flicked again from your face to Turner’s, but you paid him no attention, turning to Lucy who had managed to catch one of your pieces before it rolled off the table. “I think you will be surprised,” Lucy said to Christian, who turned to look at her with a hint of colour in his cheeks. Lucy blushed obviously and said, “Nanette is the best chess player in all of Port Royal and probably the whole Caribbean.” She raised her chin and smiled proudly. You took a drink of you water and rolled your eyes. Flattery tended to make you feel embarrassed, as if you knew that you deserved no such praise. “That only goes to show that she has nothing better to do with her time,” Turner replied with a smirk hanging about his lips. Everyone looked at him, you especially, and he only sighed and shook his head, running a hand through his hair. You smiled, looking back at the board, absent two pawns. Underneath the table, Lucy’s knee nudged your leg, but you ignored it, reminding yourself to ask her about it later. Across from you, Christian picked up a pawn and moved it across the board two spaces. You took another gulp of your water, moving your pawn its permitted distance. Pulling a face at the sour taste of the water, you leaned back in your chair, Turner’s jacket softening the harsh bite of wooden rungs against your back. Behind you, you heard the door open, and you turned around to find a wizened man with far too many layers of clothing on slink his way over to the bar. On the counter, he slammed down a weathered journal, pages sticking out here and there. The sound made you jump, and you nearly dropped the rook you were playing with at the noise. “Nan,” Lucy called, touching your arm, “it’s your turn.” You swivelled around and selected a bishop to capture Christian’s rook. * * * * “Checkmate,” he said, laying his chin along the curve of his hand. In front of him, White heavily outnumbered Black. A pawn lay face down on a white square where he had knocked it out of the way. The king seemed to cower in the corner, yet the young lady in front of him did not cower in her chair. In truth, she was a wonderful chess player, better than many he had seen in years. Had he not been so arrogant, he might have said that he was only winning now by sheer luck, which he was. She was too well trained in the game to lose on purpose. She was distracted today, her eyes distant and her mind elsewhere. He could see it when he looked at her, when he watched her long fingers pick up pieces and set them down again on squares that not even Nunzio would have set them down on. She was unfocused, and it was irritating him. With a quiet shrug, she said, “I suppose there is a first time for everything, no?” Reaching forward to pluck the pieces off the board, she gave him a cheeky smile, her dark eyes glinting with sardonic contentment. Those same eyes seemed to hold all the complexities of his universe, and though they watched him often enough, she had a way of not looking at him at all, as if she were seeing through him. His presence had never threatened her as it had so many others, but it had bored her. It had always bored her, and that infuriated him so far beyond belief that, most of the time, the only thing he found himself able to do was slouch back in his chair and brood quietly at the fire, thinking of all the ways that he would break her when it was finished. Presently, he was doing just that: leaning back, his arms crossed leisurely over his chest, his head tilted to one side. He would get no gratification out of breaking her now. As impatient as he was, he would have to wait until the right moment, the one that would benefit him the most. It was close. He could feel it underneath his skin like a drug. “Perhaps my astounding intelligence has finally managed to bless me with skills at this silly game, hmm?” he said, an air of boredom much like the one in her eyes hanging around his tone. He watched her small figure move about the room, pushing her chair in and picking up the chessboard and the box holding the pieces. “Now that would be astounding,” she said, crossing the room to place the board and the box of pieces in the cabinet next to the fire. “You know what they say, though,” she continued, smiling over her shoulder at him, “there is a first time for everything.” She moved with liquid grace, as if she had no care about what she was doing, what she was saying. He followed her movements easily, darks eyes trained to every motion, every breath, every last shift of certainty because she had never been uncertain or doubtful or anything of the sort. Her confidence, like the air of nonchalance that she held so well, was just as enraging, but it was oftentimes what drew the moth to the flame, so to speak. He leaned his head against the high back of the chair, narrowing his eyes at the young woman in a thoughtful manner and asking, “You’ve not seen the old man about, have you?” His tone was highly accusatory, though he hid it well with flattery, amusement, and complete reverence that had always made her flash him that simple, small smile that spoke of many more things than just delight. She allowed the corner of her mouth to tilt upward just as he had suspected she would. Raising an eyebrow and pushing her dark hair behind her shoulders, she inquired, “And why do you ask this? You’ve not lost another one, have you?” Her own tone made his stomach quench in anger and in a shattered form of embarrassment. He stretched his legs out in front of him as the young lady went about searching through the cabinet for something he was unsure of. With her back to him, she gave him ample time to study her figure, just as he had for many, many months of monotony. She was tall for her family, he had seen that with his own eyes, and her hair was wavy and dark, though lighter than his own. Her eyes were dark, he knew, but he couldn’t see them at all, obviously, from the way that she was standing. She had a slender torso: small breasts, a narrow ribcage and hips that spoke more of heritage rather than malnourishment, as he had never allowed her to go hungry. Her legs were long, though he had never actually seen them save for fleeting, stolen looks and when he was feeling particularly vengeful. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. There was a steady ache beginning in his sinuses, which either indicated that he was growing frustrated with her games or simply frustrated with the whole situation he had been dealing with for nearly five years. “You do enjoy being a constant thorn in my side, don’t you Esperanza?” He offered her a bittersweet smirk, which was truthfully much more bitter than sweet, but she only looked carelessly over her shoulder, brushing the hair out of her face with a certain flair that forced his stomach to twist in want. “That is my plan, yes,” she replied, turning back to the shelves and letting her fingers run along the spines of books. “After all,” she continued after a moment, “there is nothing else to do in this God-forsaken place. How would I amuse myself if you ceased being such an easy target, hmm?” There was the soft sound of quiet laughter, like glass tinkling together. She selected a book with the tinkling sound still on her lips and turned around, her mouth open to say— The door banged open, rattling on its hinges and make the mirror above the vanity shake as if it were going to fall. The lamps quivered on their tables, the flames inside flickering. Inside the doorway, one hand clutching the stitch in his side and the other bracing him against the doorframe, stood Nunzio, a look of either betrayal or downright anger etched into the deep lines on his face. Either or, they seemed the same thing, at least in Nunzio’s eyes at that moment. His longish hair stuck up haphazardly, and his thin shoulders moved far too much with deep, unsteady breathing for a boy of his age. His eyes, however, looked ready to spit sparks, and his lips were so tightly pressed together it appeared as if he had never had lips at all. He swallowed sharply, once, twice, until he had the breath to shout, “What have you done with Gilda?” From the corner, the Master heard Esperanza take a step forward, and he glanced over at he |