((collaboration with AmongHeroes and Igraine))
"De rien," she had replied, just as softly, over her own shoulder - though of course the rogue's response was not necessary to the First Mate. The gift was given and Antonia felt fairly sure Mademoiselle Beauchamp enjoyed her small offering. No matter her strangely brittle her demeanor, as if without her whip and her fists, her shouted orders and perpetual scowl, the woman had somehow lost the knack of interacting with the softer, more tender emotions.
No, it truly was no matter, Antonia decided as she stepped back out onto the deck, blinking in the bright sunshine. Antonia did not judge Nicolette, she knew -
'Merde... '
Her gaze traveled up the mast to her crow's nest, and she scrambled for the nearest rigging, hoisting herself easily as she began to climb. Cursing herself the whole way, Antonia swore she would not make the same mistake twice, that she would not leave her post again that the captain, of all people, should have to fill her position. The rogue was, if nothing else, a fast learner. What she was not, however, was a great sailor. She was not truly even a good one, though this past year had seen the rogue learn a great deal - and quickly enough at that.
But there were still those moments - moments just like this - where the rogue keenly felt her lack. At times like this, she wondered if, perhaps, Thomas might even regret having asked to join him aboard the Skate. Her sight was matchless of course - she was an excellent, even tireless lookout. But what good was a lookout not in her perch when she was most needed?
Or a crewmember who the captain did not (or would not) discipline as he might any other? Antonia's took a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh as she slipped into the crow's nest, grimacing, biting her lip in anticipation laced with a touch of dread. "Sorry, Thomas," she said swiftly, laying her hand on his shoulder.
Thomas did not at first look to Antonia, instead his gaze continued to peer out to the glittering blue of the Caribbean. He sighed deeply, and his head hung briefly between his shoulders. It was futile to pretend that he was not frustrated, and not troubled. Thomas respected Antonia too much to simply wave away his irritation, she deserved to know the reasoning behind his emotion, and he would afford her that.
“You put me in a bad position today, Antonia.” Thomas said, looking back to his love. His expression was neutral, and his mouth a thin line. “The only way I could keep from drawing attention to your absence was to climb myself.”
Thomas stood away from the railing, his copper eyes burning like dying embers. “You know what the punishment can be for abandoning a post!” His hands came up to grip Antonia’s arms at her shoulders. His face cracked into a look of horrified fear. “God’s blood, Antonia. You know I could never do that to you.”
"Thomas, I am sorry - so sorry! I did not mean... " Antonia did not dare look away from those eyes, or the horror in their depths. Lashes at the mast... She grimaced again, wanting to drop her head with the shame, though she would not. Shame - not for the punishment she deserved, nor the pain nor the scarring, but for the agony her own thoughtlessness could have cost him.
"I know Thomas, I do... I was a fool, I was not thinking rightly - I only meant to see the First Mate... " Antonia's voice trailed off, knowing very well all her words were flimsy excuses, and she was only babbling now.
"It will not happen again. I swear it," she whispered.
Thomas watched Antonia for a moment, saw the recognition of his worry reflected in her eyes, and knew that he needed say no more about it. His expression softened, and the thin line of his mouth curled ever so slightly in a relieved smile.
He nodded, pulling her to him slowly, and enveloped her in a warm embrace. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you. God only knows I’d give up the Skate before I’d lay a hand upon you that way.”
Thomas pulled her away just enough to press his lips against Antonia’s forehead. His eyes closed, and he chuckled lightly. “I’m actually surprised the First Mate did not berate you herself.”
He pulled away further to give Antonia a wink, the mood easing dramatically in the beautiful afternoon sun. “If the First Mate has an inkling to punish you, well, you’re on your own then.”
If she were not so rattled by the loving sincerity in his voice, the realization Thomas truly would surrender his precious Dusk Skate before her, she might have made some small jest about a certain moment no more than a year past. Why, had there not been a time when Captain Lightfoot would have been quite content to shoot the rogue who’d made him considerably lighter by a rather substantial amount of silver… ?
But she let the offhanded quip pass, contented simply to see the laughter return to the eyes of the man she loved. Antonia sighed happily, and then began to laugh herself - a thing far easier without the anvil weight of guilt and shame on her chest. "I have a doubt Mademoiselle Beauchamp will - though I am afraid that when it comes to your First Mate? There is precious little I can be entirely sure about."
"Still, if I were a gambling... Ah...Woman? I suppose I would like my chances." The rogue grinned widely as she rested her head against her love's chest, her arms tightening about his waist.
Thomas smiled, happy to have the embrace of the rogue at his waist. “Speaking of gambling,” he said, leaning his head against Antonia’s, “Jax and I have a little wager going tonight. We got to talking earlier, and reminiscing about days spent aloft came up. One thing led to another, and now we’re gambling on who can climb the main mast faster.”
The thought gave Thomas another laugh. “Whoever wins has to regale the other with the tale of all that happened the night of the party.”
“That is why I simply must win,” Thomas said with a predatory air. “My curiosity won’t be sated without knowing the intrigue of the night the First Mate and the sea artist spent together.”
Thomas shrugged then, kissing Antonia amidst her braid of ebony hair. “You’ll be there to cheer me on of course, yes?”
"Ha!" Antonia snorted soft laughter through her nose before leaning back just enough to peer up at Thomas, one eyebrow raised skeptically, her generous mouth twisted into an incredulous little smile. "Oh, I will be there indeed, cheering with every last ounce of enthusiasm in this body!"
"Granted, I am as riddled with curiosity as you, concerning the First Mate's night and whatever she got up to with the helmsman... " Antonia's voice trailed off for a moment, recalling a noisily rolling and empty rum bottle. "Though I would wager it involved no small amount of liquor."
"But your reasons to win far outweigh your 'sea artist's,’, love," she said softly, grey eyes narrowing as one finger poked Thomas' chest, half-seriously, half-playfully. "I will not be pleased to have to walk by that grinning man every day, knowing he has had an earful of all that happened the night of that party - and I know you have my meaning, Thomas!"
Thomas gave Antonia his best innocent expression, appearing as taken aback by her accusation as he could. “My dear, whatever do you mean? All I recall is leaving the party and doing some fishing.”
It was impossible to keep the wide grin from splitting his face as Thomas continued to look at his love. He broke into a bout of hearty laughter, his eyes drifting skyward as he recalled the previous night’s delicious encounter. “Do you think I should tell him just how flexible rogues are, eh?”
As the words left his mouth, Thomas scurried by Antonia and leapt headlong through the scuttle hole of the crow’s nest. Like the hounds of hell were chasing him, Thomas scurried down the rigging, laughing and gasping with mirth.
“Don’t hurt me!” He called upwards between gulps of air. “You wouldn’t want me to plunge to my death! I love you dear! Forgive me will you?”
"Oh it is a damn good thing I love you too!" Antonia sputtered as she leaned over the railing of the crow's nest, laughing until the tears rolled down her cheeks, her vision swimming with the hilarity as she followed Thomas' breakneck retreat of a descent.
"All will be forgiven Silverfish," she shouted after him, "So long as you win!"
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Galina nodded curtly but politely, still vaguely smiling, her face placid and smooth as she followed Goemon's proffered gesture into Slevin's small room. She wondered for a moment - but only for a moment - at his strangely formal address of "my lady." Surely, there would be no need for such politesse here of all places, in the bowels of the ship before no one who could possibly care about such niceties?
But in truth, Galina's concerns were a touch too immediate for much in depth reflection. On the upper levels, the rolling of the sea was near imperceptible in closed confines like the dining room - and it was positively invigorating during a stroll about the open decks. But here in these close confines her balance was confounded, her stomach just beginning to rebel and roll along with the waves she could feel easily beneath her feet, but without the orientation the sight of those waves would give her senses.
In short, Galina was fighting the nauseating beginnings of seasickness, and doing her damndest to hide it.
The relief she felt when Goemon opened the door was near palpable as she swallowed back the rising bile in the back of her throat. She only prayed that Slevin's quarters would have a chair, a bench, something - anything really - where she could -
"Missu Demidova - a pleasure! Please! Sit, have drink!"
Galina recognized his voice an instant before she could truly see the man before her, relaxed and smiling. Perhaps it was the traditional robes of his home nation that caught her off guard, rather than the well-tailored Western suit he had worn last she saw him - but no matter. Every last delicate and lovingly tended daydream she had ever harbored, each sweetly girlish fantasy she had dwelled over in the blessed privacy of her happier thoughts lay smashed like wispy sculptures of blown glass beneath a sledgehammer.
All the blood drained from that lovely face in an instant, her deathly pale visage was suddenly without a single mask to hide the emotion beneath the flesh. Not much more than wide, horrified eyes and lips fallen open in shock, a mortified "O," Galina gasped softly, staggering back a step as if she'd been struck.
Fool.
Galina shook her head swiftly, as if she could somehow dispel the sight before her. Every last exchange at the Winchester House, once lovingly, wistfully, dwelled upon in exquisite detail and likely embellished in the sunlight of burgeoning affection, was suddenly shadowed with all the realizations her arrogance and ambition had not allowed her to see at the time...
Damned fool...
Galina did not scream, or shout, or cry for help - what would be the point? She'd let herself be lured into one of the most isolated parts of this ship, a wolf following the scent of fresh meat to the trap.
But she hadn't been caught - not yet. Nor had her fangs been torn away. Galina threw her elbow into Goemon's gut with a snarl, whirling toward the open door in a single fluid movement, bending low to snatch the kindjal from its sheath as she made to bolt into the hallway.
But in truth, Galina's concerns were a touch too immediate for much in depth reflection. On the upper levels, the rolling of the sea was near imperceptible in closed confines like the dining room - and it was positively invigorating during a stroll about the open decks. But here in these close confines her balance was confounded, her stomach just beginning to rebel and roll along with the waves she could feel easily beneath her feet, but without the orientation the sight of those waves would give her senses.
In short, Galina was fighting the nauseating beginnings of seasickness, and doing her damndest to hide it.
The relief she felt when Goemon opened the door was near palpable as she swallowed back the rising bile in the back of her throat. She only prayed that Slevin's quarters would have a chair, a bench, something - anything really - where she could -
"Missu Demidova - a pleasure! Please! Sit, have drink!"
Galina recognized his voice an instant before she could truly see the man before her, relaxed and smiling. Perhaps it was the traditional robes of his home nation that caught her off guard, rather than the well-tailored Western suit he had worn last she saw him - but no matter. Every last delicate and lovingly tended daydream she had ever harbored, each sweetly girlish fantasy she had dwelled over in the blessed privacy of her happier thoughts lay smashed like wispy sculptures of blown glass beneath a sledgehammer.
All the blood drained from that lovely face in an instant, her deathly pale visage was suddenly without a single mask to hide the emotion beneath the flesh. Not much more than wide, horrified eyes and lips fallen open in shock, a mortified "O," Galina gasped softly, staggering back a step as if she'd been struck.
Fool.
Galina shook her head swiftly, as if she could somehow dispel the sight before her. Every last exchange at the Winchester House, once lovingly, wistfully, dwelled upon in exquisite detail and likely embellished in the sunlight of burgeoning affection, was suddenly shadowed with all the realizations her arrogance and ambition had not allowed her to see at the time...
Damned fool...
Galina did not scream, or shout, or cry for help - what would be the point? She'd let herself be lured into one of the most isolated parts of this ship, a wolf following the scent of fresh meat to the trap.
But she hadn't been caught - not yet. Nor had her fangs been torn away. Galina threw her elbow into Goemon's gut with a snarl, whirling toward the open door in a single fluid movement, bending low to snatch the kindjal from its sheath as she made to bolt into the hallway.
Well thank heaven things are moving to a good new normal Dot! Drive safely, have a great trip, and we'll be looking forward to hearing from you after you arrive at your new place 
And so sorry Hellis, but... For whatever it's worth? The summer thunderstorms can be something to enjoy - actually one of my favorite parts of summer, whether in Virginia or New York. Everything turns the strangest shade of silver grey ominous, darker - like the world is being covered with a blanket, and lightning is beautiful to catch and the thunder is just magnificent. But of course (obviously) ymmv...
As sorta-kinda-sad as it will be to see this episode of Pieces end, in another way it's a bit like an accomplishment really. Everyone still here, should be extremely proud of the magnificent work they've done. And it feels like such a success, to be able to point to a finished RP and know your hand was there in its creation, just like finishing a story.
And so sorry Hellis, but... For whatever it's worth? The summer thunderstorms can be something to enjoy - actually one of my favorite parts of summer, whether in Virginia or New York. Everything turns the strangest shade of silver grey ominous, darker - like the world is being covered with a blanket, and lightning is beautiful to catch and the thunder is just magnificent. But of course (obviously) ymmv...
As sorta-kinda-sad as it will be to see this episode of Pieces end, in another way it's a bit like an accomplishment really. Everyone still here, should be extremely proud of the magnificent work they've done. And it feels like such a success, to be able to point to a finished RP and know your hand was there in its creation, just like finishing a story.
Sorry to have missed this last night, Idle - how is everything going for you? And did you need anything from me in the collab page? I assume you were thinking of writing for Sigrid, from what I see there? Cannot wait to see what you pull together for that :)
"I would not have asked, Mr. Goemon, if it were not," Galina replied smoothly, perhaps a touch colder than was necessary though that smile remained in place, exactly just so.
The corridors of the Empress were not wide, and so the women remained arm-in-arm as they walked almost leisurely to the ladies' state rooms, while Goemon oh-so-gallantly fell behind them, their attentive and charming escort down the hallways. And so, the conversation to their room was necessarily short, though unfailingly polite, the masquerade of camaraderie and ease a simple enough affectation. Any number of passers-by would be taken with the impression of a most interesting and exotic trio of people, comfortable and quite content in the interest of their own company. One might even be forgiven for imagining that these three had been long and fast friends for many long and happy years now.
The rooms themselves were sumptuous, with all the comforts that the more well-heeled of the Empress' guests would have considered a necessity during their travels. Amidst this Western luxury, the velvet-covered sofas and the marble-topped tables, the tray of delicate chocolates and the gilded lamps, the fresh flowers and the leather-bound books left in the sitting room, the two women took their short leave of Mr. Goemon to wait while the pair retired to their boudoir.
Galina and Klara exchanged few words before she left the rooms - there was no need. Not yet. This was only a meeting with their contact after all. The details of their final departure from the Empress would be fully outlined and relayed to the Baron Demidov before she ever left the ship, and Klara would begin the outline of that missive while she met with Slevin. The details of course, of departure and retrieval, names and dates, coordinates of latitude and longitude, would be better filled in when Galina returned.
For now, it was enough that Klara aided Galina in changing her clothing, the emerald green and gold dinner dress exchanged for a far less brilliant and eye-catching dress of dark grey and ebony. And though all seemed most proper and right about her dress, sleek and streamlined, the younger woman still slipped her kindjal into a boot sheath crafted especially for her traditional weapon; the Colt .45 was strapped to the opposite side, holstered at her thigh and all well hidden beneath the crinoline of her skirt. The juxtaposition of ancient and modern, the Old World and the New, managed to bring a small, genuine smile to her lips, however short-lived. The shashka still packed in her trunk would have given her no small amount of satisfaction, reassurance even, but there was simply no carrying that blade without notice...
Galina sighed softly as Klara fussed over making that last bit of preening of her beloved little girl just, tucking a more stubborn tendril of deep brown hair back into the sweeping cascade of plaited and pinned up in the back of her head. Quickly she took the elder woman's fingers in her own hand, kissing them tenderly before she stood and went to meet the spy waiting in their shipboard parlor.
"Shall we, Mr. Goemon?" Galina asked, her musical voice piping with an anticipation she forced herself to believe, would be genuine soon enough. Her misstep during their dinner had thrown her, in large part for the fact that she had somehow managed to sabotage herself, even for the space of a few moments. Galina's own thoughts had betrayed her, however well she hoped the recovery of her dignity and professionalism may have played out, and that was the most disconcerting aspect of those entirely mortifying moments.
Galina slipped her arm into Goemon's with a nod of her head toward the door - and beyond that, the hallway, and the long-anticipated meet with the mysterious defector Slevin.
The corridors of the Empress were not wide, and so the women remained arm-in-arm as they walked almost leisurely to the ladies' state rooms, while Goemon oh-so-gallantly fell behind them, their attentive and charming escort down the hallways. And so, the conversation to their room was necessarily short, though unfailingly polite, the masquerade of camaraderie and ease a simple enough affectation. Any number of passers-by would be taken with the impression of a most interesting and exotic trio of people, comfortable and quite content in the interest of their own company. One might even be forgiven for imagining that these three had been long and fast friends for many long and happy years now.
The rooms themselves were sumptuous, with all the comforts that the more well-heeled of the Empress' guests would have considered a necessity during their travels. Amidst this Western luxury, the velvet-covered sofas and the marble-topped tables, the tray of delicate chocolates and the gilded lamps, the fresh flowers and the leather-bound books left in the sitting room, the two women took their short leave of Mr. Goemon to wait while the pair retired to their boudoir.
Galina and Klara exchanged few words before she left the rooms - there was no need. Not yet. This was only a meeting with their contact after all. The details of their final departure from the Empress would be fully outlined and relayed to the Baron Demidov before she ever left the ship, and Klara would begin the outline of that missive while she met with Slevin. The details of course, of departure and retrieval, names and dates, coordinates of latitude and longitude, would be better filled in when Galina returned.
For now, it was enough that Klara aided Galina in changing her clothing, the emerald green and gold dinner dress exchanged for a far less brilliant and eye-catching dress of dark grey and ebony. And though all seemed most proper and right about her dress, sleek and streamlined, the younger woman still slipped her kindjal into a boot sheath crafted especially for her traditional weapon; the Colt .45 was strapped to the opposite side, holstered at her thigh and all well hidden beneath the crinoline of her skirt. The juxtaposition of ancient and modern, the Old World and the New, managed to bring a small, genuine smile to her lips, however short-lived. The shashka still packed in her trunk would have given her no small amount of satisfaction, reassurance even, but there was simply no carrying that blade without notice...
Galina sighed softly as Klara fussed over making that last bit of preening of her beloved little girl just, tucking a more stubborn tendril of deep brown hair back into the sweeping cascade of plaited and pinned up in the back of her head. Quickly she took the elder woman's fingers in her own hand, kissing them tenderly before she stood and went to meet the spy waiting in their shipboard parlor.
"Shall we, Mr. Goemon?" Galina asked, her musical voice piping with an anticipation she forced herself to believe, would be genuine soon enough. Her misstep during their dinner had thrown her, in large part for the fact that she had somehow managed to sabotage herself, even for the space of a few moments. Galina's own thoughts had betrayed her, however well she hoped the recovery of her dignity and professionalism may have played out, and that was the most disconcerting aspect of those entirely mortifying moments.
Galina slipped her arm into Goemon's with a nod of her head toward the door - and beyond that, the hallway, and the long-anticipated meet with the mysterious defector Slevin.
Only to add to the chorus Dot, that's perfectly all right hon. It's good to hear your brother is coming to get you, that you're being taken by loving family from a bad situation. Now you can get your life going all over again at a new job very, very soon, so *hugs tightly* You have a safe trip hon, and we'll be just fine until you can finish things up where you're at now and get in a place where you can just take a breath, relax a bit, and then come play with us.
eta: Here we go, a double rainbow, sunshine and a beach - we'll be thinking of you, Dot!
eta: Here we go, a double rainbow, sunshine and a beach - we'll be thinking of you, Dot!
Those were lovely posts, Limey and Hellis - really just wonderful. Such emotion for both Jay-Jay and Kata; and if it just so happens that you write better under the influence of a heat stroke, Hellis? Well... Let's just keep on keeping on there with the Scandinavian heat wave... *grins*
"Oh yes, I know. Of course it is unnecessary, Mademoiselle Beauchamp," Antonia said easily as she slid into the offered seat, setting the bag before her on the table between them. "And of course Captain Lightfoot would have done the same... "A small, slightly wicked little smile tilted one corner of her lips upward.
"In truth, now that I think on it? You may have let Cooper off a touch lighter than he might. I imagine Thomas would have deemed a solid pistol-whipping in order before a musket ball to the brain pan, if anyone dared threaten his First Mate - but I shan't fault you for the lack."
The rogue winked slyly up to Nicolette before her gaze returned to the velvet bag the First Mate had still not yet touched nor taken in her hand again. Antonia's fingertips danced over the smooth softness of the velvet for a moment before she spoke again. "Besides, there is no such thing as a necessary gift. If a thing is necessary, it is no longer a gift, non? Then it is a need, and not near so fun." The rogue’s smiling grey eyes peered up to Nicolette, to try her very best to guess whether even the smallest gleam of a lighter heart might penetrate the First Mate’s solid, unbending veneer.
Nodding to herself with her answer, Antonia simply began to untie the fine, supple leather ties to the bag with nimble fingers. She could smell the vomit and see the empty liquor bottles - she had not grown blind and senseless in the seconds it took to walk into the cabin after all. The toe of one hob-nailed boot shot out like a serpent’s strike to stop the sea-rolling bottle, putting a swift end to that irritating noise, bending over to set it upright on the floor before returning to her own small task. Nicolette would be no more at ease here in her own quarters than she would be on the deck. Antonia did not doubt for a moment what the painfully self-conscious Nicolette would be thinking, wondering what the rogue would read into the juxtaposition of drunken excess the First Mate could have never managed on her own, and the tightly-controlled military precision with which she controlled most all her life.
It was a shame then, that Antonia could not reassure Nicolette she truly did not care. She would have loved the chance to tell the First Mate that whatever solace she found after she fled the ball - whether with the helmsman who chased after her or some other set of arms - was both a blessing, and absolutely none of the rogue’s concern.
But the good discipline of even a pirate ship stayed her tongue and, though she would have listened gladly with neither judgment nor a loose tongue for gossip, Antonia did not ask for the First Mate’s confidence. Trust was, after all, not a commodity Nicolette held in abundance – and one that had yet to be earned at any rate.
And so Antonia simply smiled, gently, to Nicolette as she sat back up once more and removed the mahogany box from the velvet bag herself. “As I said on deck, ‘tis true, this is a pretty enough covering,” her fingers running lightly over the deep red wood, worked to a buttery-soft smoothness. She worked carefully at the small brass latch with a fingernail before opening it and turning it toward Nicolette.
was nestled in a bed of ivory velvet, blanketed above and below in its cushioned confines, glimmering scarlet and alabaster in the limited light of the First Mate’s cabin. “And it does get lovelier the further one goes within.” The rogue’s careful fingers lifted the bottle from its velvet bed, smiling as the twinkling of the skillfully made glass droplets that encircled the bottle gleamed like morning dew.
“The scent held within is grander still, unique and unexpected.” Antonia’s eyes lit with excitement, her smile widening as she recalled the thrill of the find, when she finally discovered a gift so justly perfect. “It is lilac!”
“Now of course le parfumier cannot simply harvest lilacs here – ‘tis too far south for such blooms! But he told me his secret – if not the proper alchemy of course. He can combine the scent of a rose, and then the lily of the valley, just a touch of almond essence and – believe it or not – just the sweetest hint of clove and voila! We have lilacs in the Caribbean!”
Antonia’s warm, Cajun-spiced and delighted laughter whirled through the First Mate’s cabin like a playful tropical breeze. She set the stoppered crimson bottle back into its velvet bed, her fingertips pushing the whole toward Nicolette by a mere few inches as she stood. Still smiling, the rogue stood to her feet and nodded respectfully to the golden woman. “I will let you return to your duties Mademoiselle, as I must return to mine – certainly before the First Mate catches me out and has my poor hide flayed from flesh.”
The rogue laughed softly, reassurance she was, of course, only teasing. “Thank you once more, Mademoiselle Beauchamp. Truly,” she said softly as she turned to let herself out.
"In truth, now that I think on it? You may have let Cooper off a touch lighter than he might. I imagine Thomas would have deemed a solid pistol-whipping in order before a musket ball to the brain pan, if anyone dared threaten his First Mate - but I shan't fault you for the lack."
The rogue winked slyly up to Nicolette before her gaze returned to the velvet bag the First Mate had still not yet touched nor taken in her hand again. Antonia's fingertips danced over the smooth softness of the velvet for a moment before she spoke again. "Besides, there is no such thing as a necessary gift. If a thing is necessary, it is no longer a gift, non? Then it is a need, and not near so fun." The rogue’s smiling grey eyes peered up to Nicolette, to try her very best to guess whether even the smallest gleam of a lighter heart might penetrate the First Mate’s solid, unbending veneer.
Nodding to herself with her answer, Antonia simply began to untie the fine, supple leather ties to the bag with nimble fingers. She could smell the vomit and see the empty liquor bottles - she had not grown blind and senseless in the seconds it took to walk into the cabin after all. The toe of one hob-nailed boot shot out like a serpent’s strike to stop the sea-rolling bottle, putting a swift end to that irritating noise, bending over to set it upright on the floor before returning to her own small task. Nicolette would be no more at ease here in her own quarters than she would be on the deck. Antonia did not doubt for a moment what the painfully self-conscious Nicolette would be thinking, wondering what the rogue would read into the juxtaposition of drunken excess the First Mate could have never managed on her own, and the tightly-controlled military precision with which she controlled most all her life.
It was a shame then, that Antonia could not reassure Nicolette she truly did not care. She would have loved the chance to tell the First Mate that whatever solace she found after she fled the ball - whether with the helmsman who chased after her or some other set of arms - was both a blessing, and absolutely none of the rogue’s concern.
But the good discipline of even a pirate ship stayed her tongue and, though she would have listened gladly with neither judgment nor a loose tongue for gossip, Antonia did not ask for the First Mate’s confidence. Trust was, after all, not a commodity Nicolette held in abundance – and one that had yet to be earned at any rate.
And so Antonia simply smiled, gently, to Nicolette as she sat back up once more and removed the mahogany box from the velvet bag herself. “As I said on deck, ‘tis true, this is a pretty enough covering,” her fingers running lightly over the deep red wood, worked to a buttery-soft smoothness. She worked carefully at the small brass latch with a fingernail before opening it and turning it toward Nicolette.
“The scent held within is grander still, unique and unexpected.” Antonia’s eyes lit with excitement, her smile widening as she recalled the thrill of the find, when she finally discovered a gift so justly perfect. “It is lilac!”
“Now of course le parfumier cannot simply harvest lilacs here – ‘tis too far south for such blooms! But he told me his secret – if not the proper alchemy of course. He can combine the scent of a rose, and then the lily of the valley, just a touch of almond essence and – believe it or not – just the sweetest hint of clove and voila! We have lilacs in the Caribbean!”
Antonia’s warm, Cajun-spiced and delighted laughter whirled through the First Mate’s cabin like a playful tropical breeze. She set the stoppered crimson bottle back into its velvet bed, her fingertips pushing the whole toward Nicolette by a mere few inches as she stood. Still smiling, the rogue stood to her feet and nodded respectfully to the golden woman. “I will let you return to your duties Mademoiselle, as I must return to mine – certainly before the First Mate catches me out and has my poor hide flayed from flesh.”
The rogue laughed softly, reassurance she was, of course, only teasing. “Thank you once more, Mademoiselle Beauchamp. Truly,” she said softly as she turned to let herself out.
Let me only say yet again, that I am eternally glad I mentioned nothing of the state of the characters who survived the Fenrir. Beautiful post, Lillian - so sad, and so beautiful.
"Aye, Ma'am," Antonia replied in English now, her inimitable voice spiced with that warm Cajun patois. Not of course that Nicolette heard - or if she did? She did not give the rogue the least indication that her assent was of any consequence - but no matter.
That was not the point. Not truly.
The rogue's entire demeanor, all the way down to the tone of her voice, stated she deferred to the authority of the First Mate's command instantly. And where Nicolette likely wished with all her heart to fend off the curious stares of the Skate's men, Antonia invited them as she fell in behind the tall, golden woman. Let the crew see the exotic, caramel-skinned lady of a thousand hidden blades and an eagle's gaze yield to the orders of their First Mate. Let every last pair of curious eyes watch as the darkly dangerous Vodoun woman, the bearer of richly deserved blessings or curses aboard the Skate, heeded Nicolette's command to follow without the least qualm or hesitation.
There was more than one gift, after all, that the rogue could give to the First Mate.
Nicolette strode toward the aft castle and her quarters, with all the straight-backed dignity that simply screamed of years spent in naval service to Antonia's knowing gaze. Disciplined and exacting, yet still very much at ease with the swell of the waves beneath the ship as Nicolette strode toward her cabin, the rogue could almost imagine the days when the Admiral Sir Greene might have walked just so on the decks of a British warship.
Well, obviously without the sway of hips. Antonia bit her lip softly and dropped her eye to keep the soft laugh that wanted to bubble up, back behind her teeth.
The rogue's own gait affirmed to any who watched, that she was a creature entirely apart from the stunning Nicolette Beauchamp. Where the First Mate was the very picture of self-control and a certain exquisite, rigid elegance, Antonia simply glided behind her as she was bidden. One would no more expect to find military order and discipline in the rogue's lithe steps, than one might think such a thing natural to the jaguar prowling in the shadows of the jungle canopy.
As they walked toward the First Mate's cabin, Antonia was content to see Nicolette's strides were sure and solid. It had been all the rogue could do to keep her own fingers still, and not reach to steady Nicolette's shaking hand when she first tentatively reached for the velvet bag and the mahogany box nestled within. She was relieved herself, that the First Mate had chosen to take their meeting from prying, curious eyes. Antonia had not intended to set her off balance, to see her unsure or hesitant - no matter that only the rogue was close enough to take the least note of anything off in her demeanor.
Trust was, apparently, not a commodity Nicolette held in abundance.
Antonia's thoughts prowled through the shadows of the night past, to the onyx-eyed, eagle beaked face of the French naval captain, to Capitaine Poutreau - the sight of whom had sent the otherwise steady and sturdy First Mate to flight. All the vile suspicions that had begun to raise their foul heads the night before, wormed their way into the more fertile soil of Antonia's darker imaginings - though she kept all to herself of course.
Particularly the murderous promise that hovered ominously, like a steel grey storm cloud in the back of her thoughts, for that sweet crimson day the loa blessed when the rogue's path crossed with a certain pissant French captain again.
Respectful and obedient, Antonia stepped into the First Mate's cabin as she was bid, the velvet bag still in her hands, clasped behind her back. She pushed all remembrance of the last time she had seen the interior of this small room to the back of her mind, and instead turned toward Nicolette as she closed the door behind them.
Antonia did not presume to take a seat, but remained on her feet as she smiled up to Nicolette. Her hand outstretched, Antonia offered the First Mate the velvet bag once more. "Should you like to see, Mademoiselle Beauchamp? Now that we are elsewhere? 'Tis for you alone, after all."
That was not the point. Not truly.
The rogue's entire demeanor, all the way down to the tone of her voice, stated she deferred to the authority of the First Mate's command instantly. And where Nicolette likely wished with all her heart to fend off the curious stares of the Skate's men, Antonia invited them as she fell in behind the tall, golden woman. Let the crew see the exotic, caramel-skinned lady of a thousand hidden blades and an eagle's gaze yield to the orders of their First Mate. Let every last pair of curious eyes watch as the darkly dangerous Vodoun woman, the bearer of richly deserved blessings or curses aboard the Skate, heeded Nicolette's command to follow without the least qualm or hesitation.
There was more than one gift, after all, that the rogue could give to the First Mate.
Nicolette strode toward the aft castle and her quarters, with all the straight-backed dignity that simply screamed of years spent in naval service to Antonia's knowing gaze. Disciplined and exacting, yet still very much at ease with the swell of the waves beneath the ship as Nicolette strode toward her cabin, the rogue could almost imagine the days when the Admiral Sir Greene might have walked just so on the decks of a British warship.
Well, obviously without the sway of hips. Antonia bit her lip softly and dropped her eye to keep the soft laugh that wanted to bubble up, back behind her teeth.
The rogue's own gait affirmed to any who watched, that she was a creature entirely apart from the stunning Nicolette Beauchamp. Where the First Mate was the very picture of self-control and a certain exquisite, rigid elegance, Antonia simply glided behind her as she was bidden. One would no more expect to find military order and discipline in the rogue's lithe steps, than one might think such a thing natural to the jaguar prowling in the shadows of the jungle canopy.
As they walked toward the First Mate's cabin, Antonia was content to see Nicolette's strides were sure and solid. It had been all the rogue could do to keep her own fingers still, and not reach to steady Nicolette's shaking hand when she first tentatively reached for the velvet bag and the mahogany box nestled within. She was relieved herself, that the First Mate had chosen to take their meeting from prying, curious eyes. Antonia had not intended to set her off balance, to see her unsure or hesitant - no matter that only the rogue was close enough to take the least note of anything off in her demeanor.
Trust was, apparently, not a commodity Nicolette held in abundance.
Antonia's thoughts prowled through the shadows of the night past, to the onyx-eyed, eagle beaked face of the French naval captain, to Capitaine Poutreau - the sight of whom had sent the otherwise steady and sturdy First Mate to flight. All the vile suspicions that had begun to raise their foul heads the night before, wormed their way into the more fertile soil of Antonia's darker imaginings - though she kept all to herself of course.
Particularly the murderous promise that hovered ominously, like a steel grey storm cloud in the back of her thoughts, for that sweet crimson day the loa blessed when the rogue's path crossed with a certain pissant French captain again.
Respectful and obedient, Antonia stepped into the First Mate's cabin as she was bid, the velvet bag still in her hands, clasped behind her back. She pushed all remembrance of the last time she had seen the interior of this small room to the back of her mind, and instead turned toward Nicolette as she closed the door behind them.
Antonia did not presume to take a seat, but remained on her feet as she smiled up to Nicolette. Her hand outstretched, Antonia offered the First Mate the velvet bag once more. "Should you like to see, Mademoiselle Beauchamp? Now that we are elsewhere? 'Tis for you alone, after all."
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