Chapter 2: Of Escapes and Captures

Clarke huffed in frustration. After pawing through her closet for what seemed like hours, the only article of clothing remotely suitable for an escape that she had found was a deep blue silk gown, which fitted her form at the chest and waist and flowed to the ground like water around her hips. It had a slit up the thigh and was strapless.

Costia guffawed when Clarke emerged from the closet holding the thing, and the look on the blondes' face only made her laugh harder. "It is not funny." Clarke gritted her teeth. "The only time I wear trousers is when I have my riding lessons! It's not my fault my father only buys the most audacious clothing!" she tossed the dress onto the bed, along with a pair of old, scuffed riding boots that came up to the top of her knee. "You don't have any normal pants in that closet, but you have those?" Costia scoffed. "They were my mothers." Clarke fingered the supple black leather affectionately. She had no bad memories of her mother, and felt little resentment, despite her leaving. She now understood it was something Abby had had to do. Just like what Clarke was doing now…

She turned her attention back to the gown. It was a problem, to be sure. It would be difficult to blend in at any public place; and while it was the most manageable dress when it came to running, it was still a dress. Costia was propped against the pillows on her bed like she had been for the past hour, fiddling with one of Clarke's jeweled hairpins. It had only taken her minutes to sprint to her family's hut on the plantation, inform them of Clarke's decision, and come back to help Clarke prepare. Not that she was doing much.

"What about everyone else? Shouldn't you be helping your family? Don't we need supplies, and clothes…and an escape plan?" Clarke looked worriedly at her dark-skinned friend.

Costia tossed the pin aside and hopped off the bed, facing Clarke. "My people have been ready for days now. We have clothes, food, even some weapons. The only thing we are missing is the map from Dante's study, so we know where to go. As for the escape plan…" She trotted toward Clarke's dresser, where she kept all of her art supplies, and stole a pad and pencil from the piles of artwork. She quickly sketched a crude but highly detailed map of both of their plantations and the surrounding beach. Clarke raised her eyebrows in a "not bad" expression and kneeled beside her expectantly.

"Our cave is here." Costia circled a little roughly-draw rock outcropping at the edge of the beach. "That is where we rendezvous. You can climb out your own window, right princess?"

Clarke glared and slapped her halfheartedly on the shoulder. "Ass."

Costia chuckled. She circled a small clearing between the plantations, hidden well by palm fronds and large ferns. "This is where the map handoff will be; one of the maids who work in the kitchens wanted to help us. We decided to trust her because she's helped us get out of a tight spot before." Clarke raised an eyebrow skeptically, but said nothing. "Last thing, this here," she circled a particularly large tuft of ferns behind Clarke's house, "…is where I will hide your supplies. Food, a weapon, and a long shawl to cover all that silk!" she snorted in disdain. "By tomorrow night, my brother Wells will have a rowboat beached by the cave. That is when we will make our escape." Costia declared, setting down the pencil triumphantly. Clarke thought over the plan. Get supplies, get a map, meet up at night and take a rowboat to the nearest port. It seemed solid, if not cliché. Horror struck her at her next thought. "Costia, what if one of us gets caught?" she worried her bottom lip with her teeth as she mulled over the possible disaster. Why it hadn't occurred to her until now, she didn't know.

Costia inhaled deeply through her nose and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Clarke was sure someone had just died. Her chocolate orbs brimmed with unshed tears. But her face hardened into determination as she whispered, "We leave them behind."

"What?!" Clarke exploded. "No! No way! If we are gonna go, we're gonna go together. We can't just-"

"Hush." Costia reprimanded gently. "We all agreed. If one gets caught, the others get away. It is what we all wanted. I f you got caught, wouldn't you want me to go on without you?"

Clarke grimaced. "Well, yes, but…" she groaned and put her head in her hands. 'I don't want to lose you Costia; you have been my best friend since I first came here and we met in that cave on the beach. I can't lose the only person I've ever trusted." The two girls hugged each other tightly.

Costia glanced up at the moon disappearing below the sea. "I have to leave Clarke." She stood and paused with one leg out the window. She smiled at Clarke. "Please don't worry. By this time tomorrow, we will all be rowing our way to Port-au-Prince." She winked and disappeared down the side of the large house.

When Costia was gone, Clarke decided it was time for a hot bath, something to relieve a little stress. She stripped and picked out a nightgown (why were the only clothes she had dresses?!) while the porcelain tub filled with steamy water. She slid gingerly into the burning liquid and let out an appreciative sigh as it pulled the tension of the day out of her muscles. As she reclined in luxury, she pondered her next move. Her father may have let her disdain for Cage Wallace slide today, but tomorrow he would not let it go unchecked. She resigned herself to a day of exchanging niceties and sipping tea. Just the thought of spending even a smidgen of time with that festering slug left a sour taste in her mouth. She fished out the flask hidden behind her tub and took a few generous swigs. The rum burned down her throat and left her stomach feeling pleasantly warm.

She ran her thumb over the strange tribal engraving on the front of the flask. She remembered doing the same thing the day she had found it half-buried in the sand, the first time she had walked along the beach by their new house. The etched markings were swirly-ish, and she had captured their detail in her sketchbook many times before. On the bottom were the initials L. W. She felt an odd connection to the stranger who had owned it before her, like it was left there just for Clarke to discover. She was definitely taking it with her when she left this place.

A harsh knocking interrupted her musings. "One minute!" she called, hastily stashing the flask and stumbling out of the now lukewarm water. She wrapped a fluffy white robe around herself and flung open the door.

"Clarke." Jake Griffin stood there, his face stone, disappointment and anger apparent in his eyes. "I thought I asked you to be cordial to our guests today, not flip them off!" he said through clenched teeth. Clarke sighed and went to recline against her pillows, crossing her legs and folding her arms. Her father followed her in. "Clarke….you acted like a child today. You're twenty years old, and I will no longer tolerate that kind of behavior!"

"Dad, Cage is a sleazebag! Everyone on that plantation besides the servants is an asshole-"

"I WILL NOT have you using that kind of language!"

"Who cares?" Clarke bit her tongue to keep herself from spilling the beans about leaving. "You said I'm not a child, I can do what I want!"

"Not as long as you live under my roof, and not as long as I continue to pay for everything you own. Tomorrow, you are going to live with Mr. Wallace. And you are going to stay there, and do the only thing you can do to help keep this family financially comfortable! Do I make myself clear?" his face had gone beet red. Clarke said nothing, and fiddled with her robe ties. He leaned over and kissed her on the head. "I'm sorry Clarke, but it's for our own good." Our own good. Not hers. Her lip curled in disgust for then man who had become the complete opposite of the word father. He turned and left her room.

As soon as the door softly shut, Clarke flew off the bed and leaped into action. Panic and a sense of urgency had set in. She snatched up her artist knapsack and shoved her best sketchbooks in, along with a few pencils and pens. She plucked her flask from its hiding place and added it to the sack, along with a small bag of coins and a wristband Costia had made her. She threw two small, scented candles into the bag, thinking they would come in handy if they needed light. Finally, she wriggled under her bed and came out with a short object wrapped tightly in oiled cloth. She gingerly unraveled the folds until a tarnished bronze pistol appeared. She hefted it, and gripped it tightly in her hands, admiring the intricacies that had first captured her attention as a little girl, looking through a shop window just before they had set sail for the West Indies. The one thing she had ever stolen in her life. She remembered plucking it off of its stand in the window and sprinting up the gangplank with it tucked in the folds of her dress. No one had noticed. No one had cared.

Clarke re-wrapped its oilcloths and placed it in her knapsack. She knew how to use it; it had just been so long ago that she'd learned. It was coming with her anyway.

She threw in the gown and riding boots, and then carefully climbed out her window with it slung over her shoulder. "Damn!" Clarke cursed as she picked her way down the stone wall, stubbing her toes multiple times. She stashed the sack in the same spot Costia said her supplies would be, and then climbed back up to her room.

She was ready. Even so, Clarke didn't get a wink of sleep that night, dreading what tomorrow would bring; and how she would go about escaping from Cage's plantation.