hair; the rest is loose, wavy, bouncing just above her shoulders. “To what do I owe this great honor?” I prompt her delicately.
She remains utterly still but for her keen, roving eyes. Savior or not, I don’t care for the impudent way she’s staring at me, her gaze traveling up and down my finery, plume to boots and back again, as if I were a dish of flummery. No, I don’t care for it at all.
Then her mouth tilts upward. “Oh, I must be dreaming!” she titters, shaking her head. “That’s it! You’ve had dreams before, old girl, but this is a real doozy!”
Death dares to mock me again, his faithful servant for all these years? I am outraged, advance another step into the cabin, and the charge of my anger crackles across to her. In an instant, her expression deflates, her fingers clutch at the bedclothes.
“Good God,” she breathes. “You’re real. I thought you were … make-believe.”
“I am as real as daylight,” I assure her, stepping into the sunny rectangle leaking in through the skylight over her bunk.
“But—aren’t you supposed to be dead?” she blurts.
Breath catches in my throat as phantom hope races through my blood, and I step closer, all anger forgotten. “By all the laws of justice and reason, yes,” I whisper.
She stares at me, lips slightly parted. One hand flutters upward in a small, impulsive gesture, and my own gaze drops in humility and gratitude for that imminent benediction, a word, a touch from Death’s unholy angel that will end my suffering forever. But as I lower my eyes, I spy an old bailing bucket, warped and wormy, on the deck at the base of the bunk. A pungent stench distinct from all the other odors of decay and neglect in the cabin arranges itself in my nostrils: human waste. And hope curdles within me. Even were Death’s minion to partake of a convivial meal for form’s sake, why subject herself to the lowly business of voiding it?
Whatever she is, she follows my gaze. “I beg your pardon, Captain,” she begins carefully. “I’m … sorry for the mess, I couldn’t get outside. I found a bucket over there.” Her hand waves vaguely toward the debris still cluttering the far corner of the cabin. “I had to empty it out,” the reckless creature babbles on, indicating a little pile of objects heaped on the foot of her bunk. “I didn’t know where I was, or what I was sup—”
“Silence. Woman.” Shamed that she has seen me so exposed, I ward off further scrutiny with terse words “Your name, Madam.”
“Perish.”
“Liar!”
She jumps where she sits, fingers braced against the wall. “That’s my name. Like a church district, but with two—”
“I can spell,” I grimace. Parrish. Wine alone deluded me last night. She is something far less kindly than Death, and more terrible, a grown woman of unknown provenance aboard my ship. I’ve given too much ground already, come in as an abject supplicant, not the wily gamesman I must be to gain the advantage. “Who are you, Madam Parrish,” I begin again. “Where are you from?”
She eyes me cautiosly. “Name, rank, and serial number, eh?” she murmurs. “Well, last thing I knew, I was in London.”
Of course, that’s where he always goes to round up new confederates, although I should have expected the sun to rise in the west before he would ever ally himself to a grown-up, especially a woman. Noticing the bottle of excellent madeira I sent in to her, of which she has sampled less than would sustain a gnat, I affect a congenial tone. “I fear my hospitality does not agree with you?”
Her gaze follows mine to the bottle. “It’s a little early in the day, even for me,” she says tartly. “You wouldn’t happen to have any strong, black coffee, would you?”
“I might,” and I raise my hook to scratch thoughtfully at my beard, “would you consider answering my questions.”
She peers at us both, my hook and myself, her expression unreadable. Then her mouth tilts up again.
She remains utterly still but for her keen, roving eyes. Savior or not, I don’t care for the impudent way she’s staring at me, her gaze traveling up and down my finery, plume to boots and back again, as if I were a dish of flummery. No, I don’t care for it at all.
Then her mouth tilts upward. “Oh, I must be dreaming!” she titters, shaking her head. “That’s it! You’ve had dreams before, old girl, but this is a real doozy!”
Death dares to mock me again, his faithful servant for all these years? I am outraged, advance another step into the cabin, and the charge of my anger crackles across to her. In an instant, her expression deflates, her fingers clutch at the bedclothes.
“Good God,” she breathes. “You’re real. I thought you were … make-believe.”
“I am as real as daylight,” I assure her, stepping into the sunny rectangle leaking in through the skylight over her bunk.
“But—aren’t you supposed to be dead?” she blurts.
Breath catches in my throat as phantom hope races through my blood, and I step closer, all anger forgotten. “By all the laws of justice and reason, yes,” I whisper.
She stares at me, lips slightly parted. One hand flutters upward in a small, impulsive gesture, and my own gaze drops in humility and gratitude for that imminent benediction, a word, a touch from Death’s unholy angel that will end my suffering forever. But as I lower my eyes, I spy an old bailing bucket, warped and wormy, on the deck at the base of the bunk. A pungent stench distinct from all the other odors of decay and neglect in the cabin arranges itself in my nostrils: human waste. And hope curdles within me. Even were Death’s minion to partake of a convivial meal for form’s sake, why subject herself to the lowly business of voiding it?
Whatever she is, she follows my gaze. “I beg your pardon, Captain,” she begins carefully. “I’m … sorry for the mess, I couldn’t get outside. I found a bucket over there.” Her hand waves vaguely toward the debris still cluttering the far corner of the cabin. “I had to empty it out,” the reckless creature babbles on, indicating a little pile of objects heaped on the foot of her bunk. “I didn’t know where I was, or what I was sup—”
“Silence. Woman.” Shamed that she has seen me so exposed, I ward off further scrutiny with terse words “Your name, Madam.”
“Perish.”
“Liar!”
She jumps where she sits, fingers braced against the wall. “That’s my name. Like a church district, but with two—”
“I can spell,” I grimace. Parrish. Wine alone deluded me last night. She is something far less kindly than Death, and more terrible, a grown woman of unknown provenance aboard my ship. I’ve given too much ground already, come in as an abject supplicant, not the wily gamesman I must be to gain the advantage. “Who are you, Madam Parrish,” I begin again. “Where are you from?”
She eyes me cautiosly. “Name, rank, and serial number, eh?” she murmurs. “Well, last thing I knew, I was in London.”
Of course, that’s where he always goes to round up new confederates, although I should have expected the sun to rise in the west before he would ever ally himself to a grown-up, especially a woman. Noticing the bottle of excellent madeira I sent in to her, of which she has sampled less than would sustain a gnat, I affect a congenial tone. “I fear my hospitality does not agree with you?”
Her gaze follows mine to the bottle. “It’s a little early in the day, even for me,” she says tartly. “You wouldn’t happen to have any strong, black coffee, would you?”
“I might,” and I raise my hook to scratch thoughtfully at my beard, “would you consider answering my questions.”
She peers at us both, my hook and myself, her expression unreadable. Then her mouth tilts up again.
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