Author's Note: Set after my story "The Highway is for Gamblers"
Scarlett's a night owl, even now, and she's up earlier than most folk in Tortuga to start the day's cooking. When she does sleep, it's deep and undisturbed. She hasn't remembered her dreams in years, much less had a nightmare.
Giselle, though – Giselle dreams far oftener.
"Hush," Scarlett murmurs, her voice thick with sleep and irritation. She gathers the girl up in her arms, strokes her cornsilk hair back. Giselle huddles beneath the quilt and gasps like she's been running full tilt through the streets. Rubbing fingertips over her thundering heart, tracing the swell of her breast, Scarlett's ire softens.
"Easy, child." She flutters her lashes against a cheek damp with tears. It could be any number of bad memories plaguing Giselle's dreams. She knows them all by now. They've been whispered in her ear, tangled in her hair, written with painted nails between her shoulderblades. "It's all over now, baby blue."
"Ma used t' call me that," says Giselle, her voice muffled by Scarlett's neck.
"Baby blue," Scarlett repeats softly. "Fille triste, ma plus belle."
Giselle smiles into the curve of her collarbone. "Je ne suis pas triste ici, oiseau écarlate."