garments."
Thatcher’s discomfiture evaporated as he spun on his heels and proclaimed, "I have stolen nothing, madam! Do not include me in such activities!"
"You are a pirate, are you not?" she replied, hoping her smirk made it obvious that the question was rhetorical.
"Are you a pirate?" he countered.
"Don't be daft!"
"What are you then?"
She started to say, "A wife!" but realized that was no longer true. The implication of the question overwhelmed her. The one person that had made her important was dead. There would be no more tea parties masquerading as a woman born into wealth, no more servants to attend to her every whim, no more freedom of will. Thomas had made her someone, and now all of that was gone.
"If you’re not a pirate, what are you?" she exploded in frustration, her voice breaking.
"A surgeon," he replied with not the slightest hesitation.
Infuriated by his calm temperament, she aimed an accusing finger at him. "You sympathize with pirates therefore I deduce that you, sir, are a pirate!"
He chuckled slightly. It was a sad, sardonic sound. "Is that what I am?" She wasn't sure if he had directed the question at her or himself.
When she was finished cleaning her chest, the sponge was brown with dirt. She tossed it away. "This won't do. I require a proper bath."
"Oh really? In front of a hundred pirates?"
She scoffed. "Surely you have a private bath on this ship."
"If only," he exclaimed with an extravagant roll of his eyes that was decidedly feminine.
She shook her head in disgust. "I shouldn't be surprised. I shouldn't be surprised by anything anymore."
Thatcher nodded his agreement.
"If you're not a pirate, as you claim, how did you come to be on a pirate ship?"
"Right," he said abruptly, clapping his hands again. "You can take care of the rest, then?"
"Answer my question." She studied him narrowly. "You certainly don't resemble the others. Not physically, anyway."
"Why thank you, I think."
"Perhaps one day you'll feel inclined to share your story with me."
"Should we live that long," he quipped with a sad smile. He gave a curt nod and took his leave.
Katherine plucked the sponge from the floor and dipped it into the bucket. She hiked up her tattered skirt and scrubbed her legs until they were white again. She scrubbed her face as well, which drew the most dirt into the sponge, along with some crusty peels of skin. She had to rinse the sponge several times before it stopped coming away with dirt on it. When she finished, she wasn't quite spotless, but she was a good deal cleaner than when she had begun. However, she stank of rum.
She stood and wandered about the cabin, reacquainting herself. Her sore legs were unaccustomed to walking. She felt as though she had never used them, and they wobbled like thin planks of wood. She spent a few minutes steadying herself.
She caught her distorted reflection in a bottle of wine in the captain's liquor cabinet and was shocked at the redness of the face that stared back. She tried to adjust her hair, but it was an unsalvageable thick and greasy mess.
She walked to the painting of the brigantine on the wall behind the captain's desk. There were two hooks beneath it where the cutlasses had been. She doubted he would leave anything even remotely sharp within her immediate vicinity after what she had done to him. She also doubted that she would have the strength to try anything so rash a second time. It had nearly killed her the first time. If she failed at a second attempt, the captain would finish the job for certain.
She would have to bide her time. She wondered how long she could hold out. It seemed to her that time was a treacherous entity on this ship. There were too many deadly hazards, some of which she had already experienced firsthand and barely survived. How long before her luck ran out?
She was certain of only one thing: her crying was done. She had shed enough tears to cleanse the deck of the blood she had spilled during her
Thatcher’s discomfiture evaporated as he spun on his heels and proclaimed, "I have stolen nothing, madam! Do not include me in such activities!"
"You are a pirate, are you not?" she replied, hoping her smirk made it obvious that the question was rhetorical.
"Are you a pirate?" he countered.
"Don't be daft!"
"What are you then?"
She started to say, "A wife!" but realized that was no longer true. The implication of the question overwhelmed her. The one person that had made her important was dead. There would be no more tea parties masquerading as a woman born into wealth, no more servants to attend to her every whim, no more freedom of will. Thomas had made her someone, and now all of that was gone.
"If you’re not a pirate, what are you?" she exploded in frustration, her voice breaking.
"A surgeon," he replied with not the slightest hesitation.
Infuriated by his calm temperament, she aimed an accusing finger at him. "You sympathize with pirates therefore I deduce that you, sir, are a pirate!"
He chuckled slightly. It was a sad, sardonic sound. "Is that what I am?" She wasn't sure if he had directed the question at her or himself.
When she was finished cleaning her chest, the sponge was brown with dirt. She tossed it away. "This won't do. I require a proper bath."
"Oh really? In front of a hundred pirates?"
She scoffed. "Surely you have a private bath on this ship."
"If only," he exclaimed with an extravagant roll of his eyes that was decidedly feminine.
She shook her head in disgust. "I shouldn't be surprised. I shouldn't be surprised by anything anymore."
Thatcher nodded his agreement.
"If you're not a pirate, as you claim, how did you come to be on a pirate ship?"
"Right," he said abruptly, clapping his hands again. "You can take care of the rest, then?"
"Answer my question." She studied him narrowly. "You certainly don't resemble the others. Not physically, anyway."
"Why thank you, I think."
"Perhaps one day you'll feel inclined to share your story with me."
"Should we live that long," he quipped with a sad smile. He gave a curt nod and took his leave.
Katherine plucked the sponge from the floor and dipped it into the bucket. She hiked up her tattered skirt and scrubbed her legs until they were white again. She scrubbed her face as well, which drew the most dirt into the sponge, along with some crusty peels of skin. She had to rinse the sponge several times before it stopped coming away with dirt on it. When she finished, she wasn't quite spotless, but she was a good deal cleaner than when she had begun. However, she stank of rum.
She stood and wandered about the cabin, reacquainting herself. Her sore legs were unaccustomed to walking. She felt as though she had never used them, and they wobbled like thin planks of wood. She spent a few minutes steadying herself.
She caught her distorted reflection in a bottle of wine in the captain's liquor cabinet and was shocked at the redness of the face that stared back. She tried to adjust her hair, but it was an unsalvageable thick and greasy mess.
She walked to the painting of the brigantine on the wall behind the captain's desk. There were two hooks beneath it where the cutlasses had been. She doubted he would leave anything even remotely sharp within her immediate vicinity after what she had done to him. She also doubted that she would have the strength to try anything so rash a second time. It had nearly killed her the first time. If she failed at a second attempt, the captain would finish the job for certain.
She would have to bide her time. She wondered how long she could hold out. It seemed to her that time was a treacherous entity on this ship. There were too many deadly hazards, some of which she had already experienced firsthand and barely survived. How long before her luck ran out?
She was certain of only one thing: her crying was done. She had shed enough tears to cleanse the deck of the blood she had spilled during her
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