"Quiet around these parts tonight, eh?"
"Mmm," was all that Eleanor Guthrie espoused in reply, tipping the glass in her hand towards her barkeep companion.
"Another?"
A nod.
He poured.
It was a rare sight for Nassau to be so entirely uninhibited. There was almost always a ship or two tucked in for the night, but this night was an odd exception. Tonight the docks were bare, save for small fishing boats, and instead the island housed only its permanent residents - those who made up the backbone of Nassau.
Missing were the crews of rowdy men who considered these shores their little slice of paradise off the water. And as much as these men (and the occasional woman) complained about the rough seas, it was plain that it was where they belonged. Pirates had a habit of decimating anything in their path, and the sea, well, she was their only formidable opponent.
They came to the shores and left again with the frequency of waves, and it was Eleanor's responsibility to provide for them when they were here. In return, they supplied her with stolen goods to be resold to other merchant ships. It was a lucrative business - one that she had inherited from her father and nurtured to spectacular growth in the years passed.
"Do you enjoy it?"
"Sorry?"
"The quiet."
Eleanor finally peeled her gaze from the splintered oak bar top and let her eyes wander around the empty space. She took in the wear and tear around her. There were stains on the walls where bottles had been sent flying. The decor was mismatched and haphazard. Names of great men and horrible men and strong ships and sunken ships were carved into every corner of wood available. It reminded her of a library when it was empty like this.
As a young girl growing up in London, Eleanor had led a privileged life. She very much enjoyed her studies with her governess where she learned about geography, languages and the arts. In an attempt to further develop those interests the small blonde spent much of her free time tucked in the corner of her family's library, absorbing the words of wise men.
She was huddled there - reading quietly - when it happened.
Scott came bursting through the heavy wooden doors. The sound was so loud that she nearly yelped in surprise, but the sight of the man who had kept her safe and comfortable for many years calmed her instantly.
"What's the -"
He didn't allow her a chance to finish, and instead scooped her up in to his arms. She threw her small arms around his neck instinctively, and listened closely to his words.
"You are going to need to be brave now, Elly."
"What's happened?" Her voice was small, dwarfed by the grandness of the thoughts and theories housed in the shelves of books surrounding them.
"Your mother," he began softly. "My darling, she's dead."
"Miss Guthrie?"
The bartender's voice snapped the woman out of her reverie, and she shook her head both in reply to his question and in an attempt to force her thoughts back to reality. "No. I don't care much for the quiet."
As if just to get the better of her, their conversation ebbed and silence sat itself between them for a few minutes. She drank intermittently, welcoming the sense of warmth that the dark liquor provided both her body and mind. Finally he spoke again.
"Suppose you'll be turning in soon. Gettin' a bit late?"
The end of his words perked up into a question, and when she glanced up she noticed that his brows were piqued in suggestive curiosity. It was only then that she realized she hadn't had the decency to close down the bar for the evening despite the fact that she was its only patron.
"I'm sorry, Charlie. Of course you can go. I'm afraid I'm stuck waiting to meet with Mr. Noonan, but we can serve ourselves."
"You're sure?"
"Quite. I'd hope that I know my way around back there by now." Her lips turned up into a soft smile as she motioned back behind the bar, and he nodded gratefully before turning around to gather his things.
As if on cue, Mr. Noonan came striding in through the doors at the opposite end of the tavern. Eleanor didn't need to look up to know it was him. The old man carried with him a certain air of foulness that was unique to only him.
Along with being a necessary evil, the prostitution trade was probably the only Nassau enterprise that Eleanor Guthrie had no desire to run for herself. Without saying a word, he sat down next to her and slammed his open palm down on the oak bar. Charlie glanced up in the middle of pulling his coat on, but the blonde shooed him away. "Off you go."
The young man smiled in response, and with that, was gone. Eleanor stood and walked easily around to the inside of the bar. She grabbed a bottle from the lowest shelf, and poured generously into a nearby cup before pushing it across the bar in her companion's direction. He grunted (an act that she assumed was meant to be a display of gratitude) and proceeded to swallow eagerly before slamming the glass down on the bar and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "Tastes like shit."
"You're already drunk," she countered evenly. "Should all taste the same at this point."
Another grunt.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Mr. Noonan?"
A pause. "Eh?"
She sighed heavily, and placed both palms on the edge of the bar, locking her arms and bracing herself for what would more than likely turn out to be a frustrating exchange. "I'm assuming you need something. What is it?"
"Need more girls." He drank more, dragging the back of his dirty hand across his lips again. She tried not to cringe. "More men comin' in means need more girls for fuckin'."
"Ah. You see, while I do understand the laws of supply and demand, I'm afraid I've made it quite clear to you that I will not have any part in your business aside from allowing it to existence on this island." The long pause that followed suggested he did not understand, and so she spoke again. "Find your own girls, Mr. Noonan."
This was a common problem. Nassau was cut off from the larger world, isolated. Two types of men arrived at her shores: pirates and merchants. Both of these groups had little use for women out on the sea, and thus the island did not often see her share of fresh female faces. Much less those open to the idea of, well, whoring.
"Did."
Her brow raised curiously. "Pardon?"
"I DID find me own girls. Vane brought back three of 'em from his most recent prize."
The infamous name alone was enough to get Eleanor's blood boiling, but she fought it off and focused on the unclear situation at hand instead. "The Ranger brought in its last prize four days ago and shipped out again yesterday."
"Aye."
His curtness caused her anger to resurface. "In the absence of an explanation, I find it necessary to reiterate to you the way things work around here. The ships come in. They unload. Mr. Scott and I acquire the bounty in exchange for payment. The ships leave again and the process repeats." Silence. "I do NOT recall acquiring three women in the course of this practice within the last few days."
"He brought 'em directly to me. Knew you'd send 'em home."
A million explanations crossed her mind as to why Vane would erase her, the middle man, and bring girls straight to Noonan to be sold. "I told you when I hired you that I would not have slaves working in that brothel."
"Ain't no slaves," he spat tiredly. "Stowaways."
"And you've had them for four days." Silence. "Well?!"
"I didn't hear no question."
"It was a statement demanding affirma - nevermind. God, help me. Bring them here."
"Sleepin'," he grunted, presumably intending that to be an explanation as to why he could not bring them here. He shrugged one shoulder and raised his glass to his lips.
The whole thing reeked of suspicion and Eleanor was growing tired of his indifference. In one swift movement, the glass went flying from his grip and across the bar. A look of shock washed over his tired old face.
She wiped her guilty hand on her dress, transferring a bit of blood to the cloth in the process. "Take me to them."
It was a short walk to the brothel, and the odd couple strode side by side in silence. Eleanor clenched and unclenched her hand, part in an attempt to subdue the pain caused by the shattered glass, and part to alleviate her instinctual sense of worry as to what she was about to find. They walked up a series of stairs, crossed the hall and stopped at a door.
Noonan stared at the handle hesitantly. Eleanor sighed in frustration, reached out with her unafflicted hand, and pushed open the door. It took her blue eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the room, but once they did her gaze fell on a woman sitting up in bed, staring back at her. The sheets were pulled up around her tanned torso, and her wild hair was matted with sleep.
Eleanor's first thought was that her's was the most beautiful new face that she'd seen in ages. Any potential second thought was blinded by rage upon noticing the dual small female figures sleeping on either side of her. They looked to be about eight or ten. She spun around to face Noonan, who still standing sheepishly in the doorway.
"What the FUCK is wrong with you?" Her words came out as a hiss through clenched teeth. Despite her best attempts to stay quiet, the sleeping children stirred in the bed behind her.
"They want to stay," he explained neutrally, shrugging one shoulder again. "Don't ya?"
Eleanor glanced over her shoulder at the brunette sitting up in the middle of the bed. She was by far the oldest, and most certainly the only one of suitable age to be living in a brothel. Acceptable age aside, it tweaked something inside Eleanor to see someone so beautiful in such a predicament.
The young woman nodded positively in response to Noonan's inquiry, but the reaction did little to quell the blonde's disgust. Suddenly she remembered that four days had passed since the newcomers' arrival. She took the few short steps necessary to position herself directly in front of Noonan, and spoke quietly. "Have you been using them?"
Silence.
Eleanor closed her eyes, and saw only red while she gathered the necessary calm to speak again. When she did, her words were steady. "If they weren't watching, I'd kill you right where you stand. Do you understand?"
He nodded.
"Leave."
He didn't need to be told twice. Upon his quick departure, Eleanor spun around to face the trio. She strode to the bedside and lifted one of the two young girls into her arms. The memory of Scott scooping her up in the library that day flashed before her eyes, and she shook her head subtly in an attempt to erase it. The little girl squirmed in her grip.
"I'm not going to hurt you," she assured. The tiny child must've believed her, because she threw her arms around Eleanor's neck and squeezed tightly. Blue eyes fell on big brown ones in the dark. The older girl still hadn't said a word. Eleanor's tone remained motherly when she spoke. "What's your name?"
"Whatever you want it to be," the woman drawled back. The devilish grin that curled on her lips was meant to be seductive, but Eleanor found it more intriguing than anything else.
"I want it to be whatever name your mother gave you, so what would that be?"
The aforementioned grin fell from the brunette's face, but her expression quickly settled back in to calm confidence. "Maxine."
"Would you pick up your sister and come with me, Max?"
"She's not my sister, and we are not goin' back to where we came from."
"They're not safe here," Eleanor explained quietly, sensing severe wariness. "I'm sure you've realized that."
There was a pause before Max spoke again. Her unique accent laced nicely through the thick night air. "How do I know that you are safe for them?"
Eleanor stayed quiet for a moment before responding. She thought she could feel the girl in her arms falling asleep, and so she shifted the weight on her hip before replying. "I suppose that you don't. You'll just have to trust me."
Without another word, Max climbed out of the bed, scooped up the remaining girl into her arms, and followed Eleanor out of the brothel.
By the time they made it to the Guthrie quarters, both of the younger girls were fast asleep. Eleanor lowered one of the slumbering children gently in to her bed, and pulled the sheets up around her. Max followed suit with the other. They stood there in joint silence for a moment, listening to the steady rhythms of sleeping breaths.
"You did a good thing," Max offered, breaking the quiet. "That is no place for a child."
"It's no place for a woman either," Eleanor mumbled absentmindedly, her eyes trained on the sleeping girls.
The lamps in Eleanor's bedroom were burning bright, no doubt a result of Mr. Scott's obsessive attention to detail. She was grateful for him in that moment, because the light gave her the opportunity to finally size up the person in front of her. Her gaze didn't get far down Max's face before it fell on a greenish bruise beneath the younger woman's right eye. Eleanor reached out gingerly to touch the dark skin, but stopped her reach mid-air when Max took a step back.
"I'm not going to hurt you," she explained quietly. Brown eyes were trained intently on blue ones, but nothing was said in reply. The air between them filled with tension, but Eleanor pressed on. She ran the pad of her thumb gently across the bruise on the other girl's face.
"Max is not new to the ways of rough men."
"I see," Eleanor mused softly, tilting her head. She wasn't sure what to make of the exotic new presence. When she went to retract her hand, Max reached out and took it between her own.
"Who did this you?" Max asked curiously, turning Eleanor's pale hand over gently to better examine the blood dried on the back of it.
"Ah," the blonde replied, a smirk playing on her lips. She watched with minimal interest as Max carefully examined the collection of cuts. "That is the result of a run in with a particularly volatile piece of glassware. It doesn't hur - CHRIST!"
A searing pain shot quickly through Eleanor's hand, and she grabbed it back. The sleeping girls stirred in bed, and Eleanor strode quickly to the other side of the room. She paced back and forth there, mumbling curse words all the while. Max followed calmly, and was forced to stifle a laugh when the older woman spun around to face her in annoyance. Her words were somewhat less than eloquent when they came sputtered out of her lips, pursed in pain. "What the fuck?"
"A piece remains," Max explained simply. She extended her open palm, obviously requesting that the afflicted limb be returned to her. Against all reason, Eleanor slowly obliged, wincing while fingers poked and prodded.
"OW! Fucking fuck!"
"There," Max all but cooed, smiling as she held up the culprit - a tiny shard of bloodied glass she had retrieved from Eleanor's pale skin. "You see?"
"Thanks," Eleanor mumbled, turning around to dip her bloodied hand in a shallow dish. The cool water soothed the pain a bit, and her eyes fell shut momentarily in response.
"You were angry?"
When Eleanor turned around again, Max's gaze was trained sharply on her. It bordered on unnerving, and Eleanor had to busy herself with wiping her wet hands dry on the hem of her dress in order to detract from the intensity. "Hm?"
Max took a few steps forward and leaned in close to pull the Eleanor's hand towards her. She traced the edges of the cuts lightly, and glanced up at the blonde's face, inches from her own.
"Oh. Ah, yes. I suppose I was a bit angry." She watched with morbid curiosity as Max slowly pressed her lips to the unscathed inside of her palm.
Before Eleanor had a chance to object to the affection, the bedroom door pressed open loudly. Scott stood there alone, confusion taking over his face as he took in the scene before him.
"I thought I heard screaming..."
"I'm fine," Eleanor assured quickly, retrieving her hand from Max and folding her arms together in a subconscious display of defiance. "And it was a hardly a scream..."
Scott knew better than to argue, and instead posed a silent question by glancing distinctly to the bed, to Max, and finally back to Eleanor.
"It's fine. We're fine," was all she managed to say in reply. With that, he nodded and was gone. "I, um, I think I need a bit of air."
Eleanor nodded, affirming her own plan, and mumbled a quiet apology when she accidentally bumped Max's shoulder on her way out to the balcony. The cool night breeze hit her hard out there, and goosebumps raised instantly on ivory skin. She leaned quietly against the railing.
Seconds passed, or maybe it was a minute or two. Silence had a way of making Eleanor lose track of time. She felt Max before she heard her. Felt the way dark eyes raked over every inch of her back. Eleanor shivered, and told herself it was because of the cold.
"You are too pretty to be so mad so often."
"I'm not," Eleanor rebutted plainly, her eyes focused outward to the sea. She felt Max walk up behind her, and closed her eyes in an attempt to steady her thoughts. When she opened them again, the girl was next to her, staring.
"Not too pretty?"
Eleanor smiled lightly at the miscommunication. "Not 'mad so often.'"
"Ma cherie," Max cooed, eyes never leaving Eleanor's face. "Do not lie to Max."
Eleanor finally turned to face the other woman. "How could you possibly be privy to the trends of my mood? You've only just arrived here."
"I see it here," Max explained. She reached out and ran her fingers across the tiny lines between Eleanor's brows. As if on cue, the blonde's face furrowed in frustration. Max laughed and let her hand fall back to her side. "This all belongs to you."
"Not quite," Eleanor countered, glancing out the ocean for a moment before turning her attention to Max. She didn't bother with a further explanation.
"It scares you?"
"What scares me?"
"The power."
Eleanor turned to face what was undoubtedly the most interesting prize that had ever brought to Nassau's shores. When she spoke, her tone was steadier than it had been all night. "No. It doesn't scare me."
The wind swept by them carelessly, causing blonde hair to fall into her face. Max leaned in and tucked it behind her ear. "Surely Max does not scare you?"
Eleanor smirked. "No. You don't scare me either."
"Then why this?" Max reached out and placed her palm gently on Eleanor's chest. They could both feel her heart beating hard against the pressure.
Eleanor didn't offer a response. She didn't have one. Max's warm hand fell away, and Eleanor found herself searching the other girl's eyes for an answer to the question. No words came. Instead, Max took a definite step closer - closing the small amount of space that had existed between them. She reached out and ran her thumb across Eleanor's bottom lip, and then leaned up to kiss it lightly. When she went to pull away, Eleanor pulled her closer and brought their lips crashing together again.
The streets below were empty and quiet. The moon shined bright on the seemingly black sea, and the two women kissed each other with such ferocity that it left them both breathless when they finally broke apart. Max wrapped her hands around Eleanor's hips with the intent to pull her back, but the latter's voice broke through the moment.
"Wait. Stop."
Max obliged, but with a puzzled look.
Realization was flooding its way in to Eleanor's mind. Max was a girl who had likely used sex her entire life to survive, and was now resorting to that same trickery here. As much as Eleanor did not want to take advantage of someone, she even more strongly did not want to be taken advantage of herself. The words came rushing out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them. "You don't have to do this kind of thing any longer. I would never reduce you to -"
"Shh," Max soothed, pressing her index finger against Eleanor's lips in a blatant demand for silence. "Do not insult us both."
Eleanor didn't wholly understand, but the gravity of Max's tone was enough to make her abandon the protest. A man that Eleanor thought she recognized as the local blacksmith walked down the street below them, unaware and whistling to himself.
Max backed Eleanor up against the railing of the balcony and smirked, her fingertips working their way down the series of buttons on the older woman's dress. "You'll have to be quiet..."
For once, Eleanor didn't mind.