lady, pink and ripe.
“Well, ‘devoted sailor,’ I look forward to the trouble you will cause. Hook keeps things too quiet on this ship. But you’d best be careful, mate.” Yulunga bore his own marks, carved into his hide by the master’s iron hook. “It may be a long time before the captain lets her loose.”
Cecco pocketed the ring. “I have much time, my friend. Until then, I am not going anywhere.”
“The gypsy, settling down at last?”
“I will always be a wanderer, but my reckless days are over.” The dashing Italian gave his attention to the horizon then, cultivating his new habit of discipline, and concentrating on the compass. He had a goal to pursue.
Yulunga observed Cecco’s determination. “You are changing since our last visit to the Island, and since your whipping. But I always enjoy stirring things up. Let me know if I can help you, if only to save your scarry skin!” He strolled away, shaking his head.
Cecco attended his duty at the wheel, keeping the ship on course, and all the while another course mapped itself out in his mind. The most direct route to the master’s quarters, and it wasn’t as simple as the path he liked to imagine— up the steep steps of the companionway, through the door with its engraved brass plate, and into the cabin. All lit with candles and her beautiful face, and in the warm light, her red hand reaching out to him, to accept his pearls.
§ § §
The pirate queen sat enthroned upon her couch, the crimson curtain that usually shielded it drawn aside to admit the girl to her presence. Rubies glowed on her throat, and both the matching scar above them and the glint in her eye hinted of the lady’s willingness to engage in the fray. These signs were not lost upon the girl, who, upon entering, was sufficiently moved to extend the courtesy of a curtsy.
“Madam.” Tom Tootles, who had recommended that curtsy, nodded to the mistress and backed out.
The girl knew he was gone by the click of the door behind her, and by the sinking feeling that accompanied it. The little prisoner had disdained Tom’s companionship, but now acknowledged to herself that she missed it. Telling herself she didn’t care, she had nevertheless made an effort to gather her composure for this interview, smoothing the brown dress and pinning up her hair. She needn’t have bothered. Nothing would have steadied her. She stood squeezing her hands together, listening to the heavy tread on the carpet that told her that Smee, the big redheaded sailor, loomed behind her.
The lady observed, waiting for the bo’sun to take his place before she spoke. She kept her hands laid flat on her taffeta lap. Her seat was a reclining couch, a divan, and the wooden swan carved on its back seemed to bow to her, frozen in the act of opening its wings.
“I am Red-Handed Jill. What is your name, girl?” Her voice was clear and cool.
The captive heard the question, but her eyes couldn’t say the word.
“Very well. I shall call you Liza, after another servant girl I once knew.”
The girl’s eyes widened with surprise. The lady guessed her name!
Jill smiled, complacent. “You will find I know something of the story behind everyone who boards the Jolly Roger . So that is your name, after all?”
Liza’s vehement nod confirmed it. Peering over her shoulder, she looked up to witness the smug smile on Mr. Smee’s face. But the lady commanded, “Pay attention, please,” and Liza’s head snapped back to face her.
“I should regret to send you back to the brig. I’ve arranged for a nice, comfortable cabin to be ready for you…if you agree to my terms. Will you listen?”
Liza’s curtsy consented, but her gaze now wandered the quarters, taking in the velvet and carving, the swords, crystal, and shining woodwork. Through the open windows, she heard the swish of water as the hull passed through on its way— where? Beyond the scent of the sea hung a trace of tobacco, interwoven with lavender. Behind
“Well, ‘devoted sailor,’ I look forward to the trouble you will cause. Hook keeps things too quiet on this ship. But you’d best be careful, mate.” Yulunga bore his own marks, carved into his hide by the master’s iron hook. “It may be a long time before the captain lets her loose.”
Cecco pocketed the ring. “I have much time, my friend. Until then, I am not going anywhere.”
“The gypsy, settling down at last?”
“I will always be a wanderer, but my reckless days are over.” The dashing Italian gave his attention to the horizon then, cultivating his new habit of discipline, and concentrating on the compass. He had a goal to pursue.
Yulunga observed Cecco’s determination. “You are changing since our last visit to the Island, and since your whipping. But I always enjoy stirring things up. Let me know if I can help you, if only to save your scarry skin!” He strolled away, shaking his head.
Cecco attended his duty at the wheel, keeping the ship on course, and all the while another course mapped itself out in his mind. The most direct route to the master’s quarters, and it wasn’t as simple as the path he liked to imagine— up the steep steps of the companionway, through the door with its engraved brass plate, and into the cabin. All lit with candles and her beautiful face, and in the warm light, her red hand reaching out to him, to accept his pearls.
§ § §
The pirate queen sat enthroned upon her couch, the crimson curtain that usually shielded it drawn aside to admit the girl to her presence. Rubies glowed on her throat, and both the matching scar above them and the glint in her eye hinted of the lady’s willingness to engage in the fray. These signs were not lost upon the girl, who, upon entering, was sufficiently moved to extend the courtesy of a curtsy.
“Madam.” Tom Tootles, who had recommended that curtsy, nodded to the mistress and backed out.
The girl knew he was gone by the click of the door behind her, and by the sinking feeling that accompanied it. The little prisoner had disdained Tom’s companionship, but now acknowledged to herself that she missed it. Telling herself she didn’t care, she had nevertheless made an effort to gather her composure for this interview, smoothing the brown dress and pinning up her hair. She needn’t have bothered. Nothing would have steadied her. She stood squeezing her hands together, listening to the heavy tread on the carpet that told her that Smee, the big redheaded sailor, loomed behind her.
The lady observed, waiting for the bo’sun to take his place before she spoke. She kept her hands laid flat on her taffeta lap. Her seat was a reclining couch, a divan, and the wooden swan carved on its back seemed to bow to her, frozen in the act of opening its wings.
“I am Red-Handed Jill. What is your name, girl?” Her voice was clear and cool.
The captive heard the question, but her eyes couldn’t say the word.
“Very well. I shall call you Liza, after another servant girl I once knew.”
The girl’s eyes widened with surprise. The lady guessed her name!
Jill smiled, complacent. “You will find I know something of the story behind everyone who boards the Jolly Roger . So that is your name, after all?”
Liza’s vehement nod confirmed it. Peering over her shoulder, she looked up to witness the smug smile on Mr. Smee’s face. But the lady commanded, “Pay attention, please,” and Liza’s head snapped back to face her.
“I should regret to send you back to the brig. I’ve arranged for a nice, comfortable cabin to be ready for you…if you agree to my terms. Will you listen?”
Liza’s curtsy consented, but her gaze now wandered the quarters, taking in the velvet and carving, the swords, crystal, and shining woodwork. Through the open windows, she heard the swish of water as the hull passed through on its way— where? Beyond the scent of the sea hung a trace of tobacco, interwoven with lavender. Behind
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