imposing chin.
“I wouldn’t wish to be out in this,” he said darkly, watching the ships rise and fall in the docks, ten-foot waves crashing at their hulls. “It could ruin our plans if the
Flying Fox
fails to arrive.”
Lady Pettifogger approached Battersby, her diminutive size making him look like a giant. She was beautiful — she knew it too. She held a scarf loosely in her hands, and she played with it casually as lightning cracked outside and lit up the port.
“Drewshank has a solid ship. He’ll make it through,” she said confidently. “Don’t worry yourself.”
Lord Battersby looked pensively at her. “There’s a lot riding on that trumped-up privateer — too much if you ask me, Beatrice. We should never have agreed to all this so willingly. There must have been an easier way?”
Lady Pettifogger shook her head slowly, gave a sultry smile, and placed her hand on Battersby’s solid back.
“Lovelock knows what he’s doing, Alexander. Besides, Mousebeard never runs from a fight, and I’m sure he knows there’s a ship on his tail by now.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said sternly.
Battersby picked up a glass of wine and gulped it down. The storm was intensifying, making the window shutters rattle.
“I’m just not cut out for all this plotting and scheming,” he said, placing his hand on the wall. “Put me on a warship any day.”
He looked down at Lady Pettifogger and she smiled again, her enchanting green eyes flickering in the lamplight.
“It won’t be long now, Alexander. You have a whole fleet awaiting your command at Eiderbeck. You’ll soon get the battles you crave . . . .”
Hearing these words calmed Lord Battersby, and he placed his arm around Lady Pettifogger awkwardly. His shoulders lowered and a wry smile formed on his face, showing the lines of age around his eyes.
“And then the fun will really begin . . . .”
When the mist had cleared from Emiline’s eyes, she felt a sharp pain at the top of her head. There was a lump the size of an egg under her hair, and she pressed it gently, wincing with pain all the while. Her body ached with tiredness. She was lying on a bed in a strange and unfamiliar room. The walls were blue but slightly moldy, and there was a strange smell all around.
A draught was fluttering the moth-eaten curtain, and the dying rays of sun filtered into the room. At the end of her bed sat Chervil, the ship’s cat, and his forthright stare turned to a slight curled smile as he saw Emiline rise.
“Hello!” she said gruffly. She was surprised at how dry her throat was. Portly scuttled up onto her shoulder, ran under her hair, and squeaked.
And then Emiline remembered the sight of the mast tumbling below her. She remembered hitting the cold water, seeing the black murky deep consume her, and then no more. She was alive, at least, but she’d like to know where she was.
Pulling herself up further, she looked out of the cobwebbed window and saw a bustling sea front and harbor. There were street vendors and sailors everywhere — although judging by their colorful but dirty clothes, they were more likely pirates. Mouse traders and boat-builders all jostled for attention in the last minutes of the day, and it set her mind racing. For a moment it even stopped her head from hurting.
Emiline impatiently unlatched the window and leaned out to get a better view. The salty air filled her lungs, the caws of seagulls filled her ears and she got a much clearer idea of where she was. Unlike Old Town, the houses were relatively low and squat, and they were all uniformly constructed of gray, yellowing stone. They varied little in scale as they rose up both sides of the harbor, but their higgledy-piggledy arrangement created a shimmering patchwork in the dying rays of the sun. It definitely wasn’t Emiline’s home city, and it dawned on her that they must have reached Hamlyn.
Emiline would have been surprised if she had known how much this strange place was
“I wouldn’t wish to be out in this,” he said darkly, watching the ships rise and fall in the docks, ten-foot waves crashing at their hulls. “It could ruin our plans if the
Flying Fox
fails to arrive.”
Lady Pettifogger approached Battersby, her diminutive size making him look like a giant. She was beautiful — she knew it too. She held a scarf loosely in her hands, and she played with it casually as lightning cracked outside and lit up the port.
“Drewshank has a solid ship. He’ll make it through,” she said confidently. “Don’t worry yourself.”
Lord Battersby looked pensively at her. “There’s a lot riding on that trumped-up privateer — too much if you ask me, Beatrice. We should never have agreed to all this so willingly. There must have been an easier way?”
Lady Pettifogger shook her head slowly, gave a sultry smile, and placed her hand on Battersby’s solid back.
“Lovelock knows what he’s doing, Alexander. Besides, Mousebeard never runs from a fight, and I’m sure he knows there’s a ship on his tail by now.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said sternly.
Battersby picked up a glass of wine and gulped it down. The storm was intensifying, making the window shutters rattle.
“I’m just not cut out for all this plotting and scheming,” he said, placing his hand on the wall. “Put me on a warship any day.”
He looked down at Lady Pettifogger and she smiled again, her enchanting green eyes flickering in the lamplight.
“It won’t be long now, Alexander. You have a whole fleet awaiting your command at Eiderbeck. You’ll soon get the battles you crave . . . .”
Hearing these words calmed Lord Battersby, and he placed his arm around Lady Pettifogger awkwardly. His shoulders lowered and a wry smile formed on his face, showing the lines of age around his eyes.
“And then the fun will really begin . . . .”
When the mist had cleared from Emiline’s eyes, she felt a sharp pain at the top of her head. There was a lump the size of an egg under her hair, and she pressed it gently, wincing with pain all the while. Her body ached with tiredness. She was lying on a bed in a strange and unfamiliar room. The walls were blue but slightly moldy, and there was a strange smell all around.
A draught was fluttering the moth-eaten curtain, and the dying rays of sun filtered into the room. At the end of her bed sat Chervil, the ship’s cat, and his forthright stare turned to a slight curled smile as he saw Emiline rise.
“Hello!” she said gruffly. She was surprised at how dry her throat was. Portly scuttled up onto her shoulder, ran under her hair, and squeaked.
And then Emiline remembered the sight of the mast tumbling below her. She remembered hitting the cold water, seeing the black murky deep consume her, and then no more. She was alive, at least, but she’d like to know where she was.
Pulling herself up further, she looked out of the cobwebbed window and saw a bustling sea front and harbor. There were street vendors and sailors everywhere — although judging by their colorful but dirty clothes, they were more likely pirates. Mouse traders and boat-builders all jostled for attention in the last minutes of the day, and it set her mind racing. For a moment it even stopped her head from hurting.
Emiline impatiently unlatched the window and leaned out to get a better view. The salty air filled her lungs, the caws of seagulls filled her ears and she got a much clearer idea of where she was. Unlike Old Town, the houses were relatively low and squat, and they were all uniformly constructed of gray, yellowing stone. They varied little in scale as they rose up both sides of the harbor, but their higgledy-piggledy arrangement created a shimmering patchwork in the dying rays of the sun. It definitely wasn’t Emiline’s home city, and it dawned on her that they must have reached Hamlyn.
Emiline would have been surprised if she had known how much this strange place was
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