Charleston was always a bustle of activity. As one of the premier ports of the colonies, it saw a constant stream of trade, and the many varieties of traders that went with it. Men of all sizes and colors walked the docks, loading and unloading an reloading furs and spices and silks and all the luxuries that plantation owners and governors could want. There was even more trade to be had for those outside of the elite; while not the fine silks of the East, there were many fabrics to choose from, and plenty of tobacco and sugar to keep the citizens of the empire happy.
At some point, the sailors would always pass through The Avery. None of the men and women of various reputes could have known the ramshackle tavern Anne Bonny (now once again going by her maiden Cormac) had named her own after. To hear tell of it, there were no pirates anymore. Anne always had a laugh at that, before the sound would die out and she soberly recalled those with whom she'd sailed. Few had made it out alive - only one had made it out rich.
It was a Sunday morning, early in May of 1736. Anne had finished checking out the last resident from the night before. There wouldn't be more customers for some hours, between the church service and the tide - the sailors would be leaving while it was still high. She stole quietly up the spiral steps, her hand curling around the first doorknob on the left. She opened it slowly, and crept into the room. With a triumphant grin, she threw open the curtains, allowing the morning sun to pour in.
The light was instantly met with cursing, and a young girl of fifteen fell from the bed onto the floor. "Time to rise, lass," Anne replied, turning to watch as the woman slowly pulled herself back up. Her ebony hair was a snarled tangle of tresses, with part of the back sticking up, and the girl threw the pillow at Anne. The former pirate caught it with ease, sending it back into the face of the young woman. In a huff, the girl finally rose to her feet, before waving her arm at Anne as she crossed to the nearby armoire.
Not for the first time, Anne's throat caught slightly as she took in the sight of Mary's daughter. Ah Tabai had managed to find the girl just after Edward had left, and brought her to Anne. The orphanage had named her Rebecca, and Anne had decided to raise her as her own. The young Rebecca Cormac had a certain amount of her mother's wild nature to her, but it was the long-dead father that she most resembled. Except for the hair; that wild mane was all Read. Anne smiled as the young girl sat down at the vanity, beginning to fuss over herself as she strode out the room, and walked over to the next door.
She paused at the door a moment, listening for a sign that the sounds from Rebecca's room hadn't yet awoken the inhabitant within. At the sound of silence, her smile turned into a wicked grin, and she slammed open the door. To her surprise, the bed was empty, and the curtains billowed in the breeze from the open window. Her grin turned to a sharp scowl, and she stormed down the stairs, tearing open the front door of the tavern and nearly colliding with the courier poised to enter.
"Apologies, Miss Cormac," the young boy stated, quickly stepping back. "I've a delivery for you." Anne's brow quirked upward slightly, taking the offered parcel and replacing it with a shilling. The boy scarpered away, and she looked at the unfamiliar writing listing her name. Upon turning it over, she nearly dropped it upon seeing the seal - a small jackdaw emblazoned on a sail. She strode back inside, sitting at one of the nearby tables. She opened it, and observed its contents - two letters, one sealed, and a beaded necklace. She reached in, and pulled out the unsealed letter, the handwriting matching that on the exterior.
Dear Miss Cormac,
I regret to inform you of the passing of one Mr. Edward James Kenway -
Anne cried out in shock, the letter slipping through numb fingers. She closed her eyes, and images of the man rose behind her eyes. She could see him, laughing as the wind tugged at his blond hair, or as water ran down his tattooed skin as he exited the diving bell. She could feel his hand grasping her own as they mourned, could feel his breath on her bare -
"Mother?" a voice called, and she started, raising her gaze to see Rebecca partway down the staircase. "Mother, are you alright?"
Anne realized that she had been crying, and quickly wiped her eyes as Rebecca reached the bottom and walked over to see the package.. "I'm fine, love. It's just… an old friend passed away."
"Was he a sailor?" Rebecca asked, the girl lifting the beaded necklace out. Anne recognized it for the one that Edward had worn, and she gently took it from the young girl, turning the weathered beads over in her hands. The colors had faded somewhat from his days sailing under the Caribbean sun, but they still felt the same, and she pressed them gently to her lips as she reached for the other letter, recognizing his tidy scrawl spelling her name.
Dear Anne,
I dreamed a dream the other night. We were young once more, devilish rovers standing on the deck of the Jackdaw surrounded by the long departed. You were singing, and your voice was sweet and high. I could not name the song, but it was a song of longing and regret, and at the end I wished that my heart had not yearned for the crowded lanes of London, but instead for the rolling hills of Erin's Isle and the hope that you would have joined me.
In the next moment, I see my son, Haytham, and my wife. I see the respectable London society that I have managed to insert myself into (despite their disapproval). I see all that our brothers and sisters have managed to achieve, and all the places that I have traveled to in search of ancient temples and lost artifacts. I see the sum of my life, and the years stretched before me.
We have not written a great deal of our personal lives, but I hope that you are happy. I hope that you have found love in your life. Would you believe it, Anne, but I gazed into a mirror and saw lines forming on my face? I am realizing that I am growing too old to be concerned about the propriety of our letters. Our correspondence has always been far too proper and impersonal for my tastes. I hope that in the coming months, we can renew our friendship, and that perhaps someday I will find an excuse to visit Charleston.
Affectionately,
Edward
Anne rose from the table, and gently pulled Rebecca into a hug, kissing the girl's hair before letting her go. "I'll be alright, love," she told the young girl, brushing a stray curl from her face. "Now, why don't you see about your studies?" Rebecca rolled her eyes, but went off in the direction of the study. With a sigh, Anne strode once more out the door, the beads still wrapped around her hand.
It was a short walk to the docks, and a quick survey of the beach showed the young boy sitting on a rock outcropping, gazing off at the sails on the horizon. Anne picked her way toward him, the spray dancing lightly at her skin. Finally, she sat next to him, gazing out at the ocean. They sat together in silence for several minutes, before she turned to him.
At thirteen, he was beginning to sprout like a weed. The boy was all scrawny legs and arms, but there was an intelligence behind his eyes. The face as a whole was Kenway, but it was those eyes that most reminded her of his father. It had been before the Observatory when the boy had been conceived, a night when their passion had been urgent and desperate. It had been the kind of night that was so profound, she had known as soon as she felt him beneath her what the consequence would be. It had been a consequence that, for some reason, she had never told him about.
"James," she began, but the boy had his own thoughts to share.
"I had a dream last night," he said simply. "There was a blond man with a scarred face. We passed each other on the beach, and he waved to me as he went by. He told me I'd be a sailor one day, like you."
"Not one like me, I hope," she replied, and his lips cracked in a smile. "You're far too smart and sweet to be a sailor like me." She looked at the beads in her hand, and she frowned. "James, I received a letter today. It was… your father passed." She had told the children about her past, had told James about his father. The boy knew of her independence, and of her choice. "I'm sorry." She unwound the beads from around her hand, and draped them around his neck. "These belonged to your father. I think he would have liked the idea of you keeping them."
James didn't say anything, but he bowed his head, and reached out, taking her hand in his own. She clasped it tightly, taken once again back to an island far away, to another moment of loss, and she sat quietly with her son as the waves continued to lap against the rocks. The gulls cried out, and the spray tinged her dress, and the sun beat against her skin. And if she closed her eyes, she could feel a Caribbean wind tousle her hair, and hear a strong Welsh voice calling out to men below.