AN:
You know, maybe you should all just take it for granted that I apologise profusely at the beginning of each and every update. It'll save time…And just a very quick note on the chapter before last
: as CaptainTish pointed out, Sierra wakes up with no clothes after being rescued by an unidentified crew. Well, seeing how there may be other DELIBERATE plot holes, I thought I'll put this up now: yes, she's concerned by her sudden lack of clothing, but seeing how she thought (and in this chapter, still does) it all some random hallucination, didn't concern herself too much. Also, she couldn't give a name to the crew, because she was unconscious for the majority of the voyage and thus had a SLIGHT problem with communicating. Plus, they're only there to save her and go away; they don't have any large role within the actual plot. But when I wrote that, I was thinking of them as being honest Spanish sailors who simply stopped at the desert island to fix a few sails wrecked by a storm the night before. Perhaps I should have made that clearer…So if there's anything that doesn't add up in future, please feel free to point it out. There's a great chance that I figured it all out but couldn't find a way to incorporate it into the actual chapter, seeing how my character isn't God and therefore is in the dark most if the time…
And now, onto the chapter! Where we realize just how arrogant the protagonist really is… I quite hated her in this: I mean, how shallow can you get?
How My Perfect Life Was Inverted
Chapter Seven:
An Introduction to Society And PiracyThe woman that had rescued me was called Molly, Molly Cleave, and she seemed absolutely taken with me, for want of a better word. The moment I'd entered her home, she'd ordered a vindictive-looking maid named Sara to prepare a bath for me, and when she was done with that task to fetch a Monsieur Duplain immediately.
Meanwhile, she was occupying herself looking at my face from every angle. "It's really just temporary swelling, dear," she repeated yet again, fingers twisting my chin this way and that.
Her obsession with my face was suspiciously unnerving… I wrenched my jaw from her gentle grasp, fully conscious of sidling away on the simple, homely couch. "That's good to know," I said somewhat sincerely. I had practically thrown away those pious robes, and was now clad only in the simple white cotton chemise and stockings I'd been given to wear beneath the habit. I felt greatly apprehensive of Molly Cleave, with her cheerful, covetous muddy-green eyes, the ruddy, rounded face, and her stunted height, and would have gladly traded her instead for her malevolent maid's companionship. "What… Why did you…?" What was the best way of saying 'I know you're planning some horrible illegal scheme inside that mousy-haired head of yours, lady, and unless you've got a lot of cash in ominous-looking briefcases and know the location of a time-travelling portal somewhere near here, I wish to be no part of it'?
Instead I blurted out, "Who the hell was that guy with the gun?" Well, at least she had no idea I was harbouring a great deal of mistrust towards her.
She looked at me, taken by surprise. "I beg your pardon?" she responded stiffly after two or three ticks of the ornate clock within the room went by.
I blinked, biting my lip as I felt a wave of hot embarrassment creep upon my cheeks. Of course, I needed to age my language a bit. But, finding no antique vocabulary excluding Shakespeare and his 'thee's' and 'thou art's' within the region of my mind, used the thesaurus embedded there thanks to those wonderful institutions known as 'private schools'. "I wish to…inquire as to the identity of the…" I froze. Exactly what should I call the gun-toting piratical male? I had quite a few names, but none that would qualify as suitable for my purposes and will more likely than not be lost upon the middle-aged spinster. So, what? 'Priest' accompanied by air quotations? Felon? Criminal? Bandit? Pirate? Buccaneer? Captain 'Yes, that is a pistol in my pocket'?
I suppressed a slight smirk at the insinuations of the last. I think I'll just settle for good ole 'gentleman'. I cleared my throat. "The identity of the gentleman that had behaved so…aggressively towards my person?"
"You want to know whom the pirate that nigh made off with you was?" she summarised my long-winded speech.
"Yea— Yes." I nodded vigorously.
A devious smile spread across her face, eliciting a nervous expression of my own. "My dear…"
I sighed. "Sierra de Victoire," I admitted grudgingly. Well it's an unusual name, and quite a mouthful to boot. I seriously needed to change it. Or get married.
"My, what a pretty name!" she exclaimed so happily I very nearly dropped dead. Now, I enjoyed compliments just as much as the next conceited upper-middle-class twenty-two-year-old, but if she said anything (and I mean anything) of mine— hair, skin, eyes, legs, toenail clippings— was pleasing to her eyes, I will beat her to death with a shovel. There has to be one around here somewhere.
"Mademoiselle de Victoire," she began, and I groaned. Why did everyone believe I was borne to the home of sophistication, fashion, and baguettes? "The 'gentleman', as you so graciously referred to him as, is not at all a gentle…man." She was giving me a predatory look as she separated the label into noun and adjective. I noticed, with a lurching stomach, that she was edging ever closer to my person. If there was such a thing as a lockable personal bubble, I would have chained and padlocked it shut and lowered the draw gate by now.
But then again, if there was such a thing as a personal bubble, she would have probably taken one look at the hostile entrance, go round to the back, and pop it with a hairpin.
I blinked, giving myself a mental slap. I came back to reality to see her looking intently at me, grassy eyes bulging, face leaning forwards dramatically towards my own. "I'm sorry," I said, fighting the urge to jump away in revulsion— although why I was so repelled by her, I could not say (she looked and smelled clean). "Could you repeat that?"
Miss Molly made an irritated sound in the back of her throat, pulling away from me in disgruntlement. Evidently, my nonplussed reaction had greatly disappointed her. "I wasn't paying attention," I said nonchalantly, "I do that a lot. It's a habit, and not one I plan on abandoning." Leaning against the couch's arm, I prepared myself for the dramatic retelling of a well-known tale, remembering techniques my first love had taught me in Oxford.
"So if you're planning on looking delightedly surprised, you merely need to remember one very simple technique: just imagine it's your birthday, and Brad Pitt had just jumped out of a giant birthday cake."
Actually, I'm not that fond of Brad Pitt.
But there was no need to imagine famous Hollywood stars I didn't feel even remotely attracted to jumping out of inedible birthday cakes; the moment, it seemed, had passed for such dramatics. "I said that you had been menaced by none other than Jack Sparrow," she disgruntledly informed me.
I simply stared at her, suddenly feeling livid. "That's it?" Did my subconscious really hate me that much? If I'd imagined I was living somewhere in the seventeenth/eighteenth century, surely I deserved a more notorious foe? I'm thinking more along the lines of Blackbeard instead of some joke excuse for a pirate not even good enough to go down in history; I'm still not certain if this wasn't some sort of weird alternate universe my mind had cooked up, or if this extreme case of relocation had actually happened.
At the look on Madam Cleave's face, I calmed sufficiently to smile uneasily at her. "I've never heard of him."
"What!" she exclaimed, so suddenly and with such volume I quite literally fell off of my seat, almost landing on my back if not for the timely positioning of my elbows, heels resting upon the arm of the faded maroon furniture, legs bent uncomfortably, entangled in my long skirt.
She gave yet another shriek of surprise, rushing towards me. "My dearest, are you perfectly all right!"
Was I perfectly all right? Was I perfectly all right? Oh, of course, madam, I reassure you I am fine; getting thrown into the archaic past, stripped by men (of whom I am certain spend the majority of their working lives away from their wives), forced to take several vows of celibacy, and garnering several run-ins with guns was something I participated in on an almost daily basis.
"What do you want from me?" I whined, shuffling backwards the better to stand. Sitting up, I rubbed the misused joints. I must have bruised quite a few bones during my little exploit of jumping off of strangers' furniture. "Oh, I don't care." I accepted her proffered hands, pulling myself up and offering no resistance as she guided me back to my seat. I looked up at her, standing over me as she wrung out her hands as an indication of pure anxiety. I wasn't certain if it was because of my new-founded love of self-affliction, my childishly needy behaviour, or the question I had abruptly thrown at her.
I turned away, looking down at my off-white lap, all the while patiently massaging my elbows and trying to push away the prickling sensation at the back of my eyes. I will not bawl my eyes out: not if I was able to endear the rather unhealthy attachment of a pistol to my forehead without so much as a sniffle. When I felt that my eyeballs' water levels were down to their regular concentration, I looked up at the still-fidgeting figure of Molly Cleave and attempted a grin, although I grimaced more than anything. "You're not going to answer that question, are you, Moll? Is it inappropriate of me to call you by your given name?"
She shook her paler head. "Oh no, mademoiselle, absolutely not! Why, of course you can, mam'selle— "
This was getting ridiculous.
"I am not bloody French!" I snapped, causing her to start. Since when had I become the intimidator? "Listen, Mi— Madam Cleave, I am English. English. I come from a little island in the North Sea with horrific weather and rain and snow at the most inappropriate times of year— I come from the home of the Union Jack, mushy peas, mince pies and Cockney accents! I come from a nation whose national anthem speaks of imploring a higher power saving unwanted sovereigns!
"I'm sorry, did I rant?"
Poor Miss Molly was spared an answer by the reappearance of Sara, the courteous maid with a cool glint in her eye and a heartless demeanour. She curtseyed, first to her mistress, then to myself. "Milady," she said, very formally, "the water is prepared, if you'll be so kind as to follow?"
I shook my head, ridding myself of any lingering waves of my tirade. "Yes… Of course, thank you…"
I could feel the heat rising ever further into my cheeks as I was led away from the poor, startled, seemingly well-meaning woman.
x!-x!x-
M. Duplain was, in short, a dressmaker. He was introduced to me when I'd considered myself sterile enough to leave the lukewarm water. Dressed only in a worn robe, with my hair dripping down my back, I was hurried down the short, rickety stairs and back into the drawing room, where I saw an elegant wigged Frenchman sipping English tea very daintily as he discussed something about how a robe a l'anglaise would be quite a nice design for Madam Cleave's purposes.
"And this is Mlle. de Victoire," he said coolly, taking my wet hand and planting an informal kiss on its back. He looked towards the maid standing obediently behind me. "You've given quite an accurate description of her colouring and features, Sara. I daresay we'll be able to find something suitable." This last was to Molly Cleave, who nodded.
"Suitable for what?" I pestered as he took out a tape and began measuring my waist, arms, hips, legs, etc. Unsurprisingly, he took no notice; simply jotted down the digits in a little notebook, nodded to Molly, and left.
When he'd returned a half hour later, he'd brought with him a little boy who carried a parcel of materials; various different cloths and even a couple of leather contraptions that looked suspiciously like corsets, with a pair of buckled shoes balanced on top. "I do believe these will be suitable for…formal use, Madame," he announced. "They're all second-hand, like you always require, although I could tailor these garments, if you'll only pay a little— "
"No, no, I assure you these will do fine; my, Monsieur, you've certainly outdone yourself this time," Miss Cleave remarked, snatching up the garments and looking at each one in awe. "These are either elaborate day gowns or insultingly simple ball gowns."
Duplain turned to look at me standing there, still in my soaked bathrobe, with a pitying tilt of his head. "There is no point in attempting to enhance commonplace beauty with exceptionally beautiful gowns, hence the reason I gave you only simple, common frocks before." He held out his hand as Moll counted out several silver coins from her purse. "I remembered receiving these gowns from a wealthy merchant's wife quite a few years ago; not the latest fashion, but as exquisite as they are, who will notice?"
I might have to kill myself if I receive one more compliment about my looks. Their obsession and references to beautiful women was…disturbing, to say the least. Ten to one they ran a brothel together. But leaving out that rather insignificant detail… I felt irritation and pleasure course through me in equal measure. "What is it about you people and pretty things!" I hissed at them both. "What do you like about me, anyway? Is it my hair or my teeth or something?"
They both exchanged a glance.
"Why are you both so hung up on my looks anyway?" I pestered.
Yet another meeting of the eyes. I stuck out my lower lip and scowled. "Fine," I muttered darkly, my hands on my hips as I turned away and walked towards a strategically placed window. It really was quite a quiet road, with the exception of a swift carriage near running over two wealthy young women in simple but expensively made gowns of light silk. I pointed to the strawberry blonde decked out in gold-patterned olive. "That's nice," I informed whomever was listening. Turning my head, I saw that both man and woman had retreated to the sparsely-decorated foyer, conversing in low tones.
Apparently, no one. I could feel my scowl deepen.
Duplain nodded once, smiled at me, and exited with his errand boy trailing obediently behind him. Molly flew towards me, her simple gown of pale yellow material rustling. She clasped both my hands in hers, looking up at me in unaffected delight. "Monsieur Duplain has informed me that he knows of a merchant ship bound for— Sara, pack all of mine and Mlle. de Victoire's belongings— for my elder sister's port of residence."
"That's nice," I said, suddenly struck by a completely random curiosity and ignoring all the blatant signs of impending doom. "Who's Jack Sparrow?"
Her green eyes were discrepant and uncertain. "I beg your pardon?"
"Jack," I persisted, not about to be deterred. "Jack Sparrow. The— " I skirted around the word 'hot' with practised ease "— pirate that had the sudden urge to— " no innuendos please "abduct me?"
"Oh, I don't think he was trying to abduct you, dear."
"But you said— " I let out a growl of frustration. "Whatever— who's Jack Sparrow again?"
She gave me a look of horror. "You don't know who Jack Sparrow is!"
"No, so could you— "
"Jack Sparrow? You, a young woman, don't know who he is? Really?"
"I'm afraid I don't, so can you kindly explain— "
"Jack Sparrow?"
"I'm not very familiar with— "
"Really?"
"If you'll take a moment to— "
"You don't know who he is?"
"Yes, I'll like more information regarding my potential captor— "
"The Jack Sparrow?"
"NO!" I yelled, my patience snapping. "Why don't you shut up and bloody tell me instead of giving me permanent hearing damage!"
There was a pause in which she gathered her thoughts, her lower lip thrust outwards as she considered where to begin, and how much to say.
"Why, he's the one that kidnapped you, dear." I could feel my jaw hit Australia. Or, more accurately, Tokyo. Damn, I missed sushi…
"Don't gawp like a fish, my dear. It's most unbecoming." My jaw was slowly unhinging, the force of gravity about to sever it from my face. "Now…" She paused, smoothing down her unwrinkled skirt. "I suppose you'll be wondering why I'm taking you to my sister…" she began.
"Nope."
Her olive eyes nearly detached themselves from her skull. It was very disturbing… "Really?" she exclaimed.
"Yes, really."
"You really don't— "
"Wait!" I interrupted, a sense of déjà vu stamping out the Impending Doom (capitalisation required) that was holding up the flashing pink neon sign proclaiming it as such. A simple T-shirt would have sufficed… "Doesn't this sound a tad familiar?"
She looked at me in bafflement. "I beg your pardon?"
"Well, I said— and you— we just— oh, fu— forget, forget it!" I raised my hands, my fingers massaging my throbbing temples. God, I hope not everyone was this dense. Defeated, I asked, "Do I get pretty clothes?"
She smiled patronizingly. "Yes, dear, you get pretty clothes."
"Good." I sighed in exasperation. That's all I wanted." That, and my CDs, air-conditioning, electric fan, Frizz-Ease, Herbal Essences, body deodorant…
…But until I wake up…
My blue eyes looked at hers in weariness. "When do we leave?"
x!x-x!x-
The English ship left at high tide— or was it low? Whatever, it had something to do with the height of tidal waves. We were at sea near a fortnight, and unless you count the eight-hundred-and-sixty-five ways I threw up and passed out, nothing significant took place. Excepting the fact I now hated sailors and was almost sworn off of men for life and was seriously considering lesbianism, that is. Hey, Kevin and I could start a club. Except we weren't speaking to one another; something about my shame and humiliation…
When the ship finally weighed anchor, it was twilight, and the stars glittered in a mocking manner. I was half-dragged, with my pretty but mostly empty head spinning faster than a merry-go-round. Molly's left arm was wrapped tightly around my waist in support as she helped me walk towards solid ground.
Reaching the steady wooden dock, she set me down on a pile of crates and retraced her steps with a promise of swift return. I buried my face in my hands, attempting to keep my shoulders steady as I faced facts.
It wasn't a dream. I wasn't going to wake up at any moment to hear Janelle lecture me on indecent conduct. I would never again hear Sid Vicious insult the royal family, nor know the subtle miracle of hair straighteners. Well, what did you expect? A lament for my friends and family? Please…
Sniffling very slightly, I looked up, blinking my eyes rapidly and paying no heed to the spinning sensation within my cranium. Instead, I focused my eyes on the staggering sailors and local inhabitants of this little port town. My eyes focused on a glint of abnormally bright hair.
My head snapped up. My eyes widened. My jaw dropped.
It couldn't— It wasn't possible— How can it be— ?
It was. It was her. I couldn't believe it.
And the man she was with— the one whose arm she dangled off of. I knew him too.
It was him.
The man.
The pirate.
Captain 'Yes, that is a pistol in my pocket'.
x!x-
AN:
Any guesses on the two people she spotted? Feel free to flame about how she goes on anout her looks: remember, this IS from Sierra's point of view, and I merely type what I think goes on in there… I'm just attempting to sound as pig-headed as possible, but she will grow up and change…eventually…CaptainTish:
I'm glad you like my style; I'm actually only writing this to try out a different writing style instead of focusing on the plot, unlike my other fic… I shouldn't have said that bit about the plot, should I?jennifer123:
Thanks— hey, are you laughing WITH me or AT me? Food for thought, no?andyeascrewyou:
Hey, new reviewer! Danke schern, I aim to please!VagrantCandy:
My first and loyal reader— I can't believe you're still here, but I'm happy, so, so happy! Glad you liked the clergy homage; that will give you a clue in exactly which part of the movie this is set; or rather, is it set in the movie at all? Hmm… One quick question: how can you hang on for so long? If it was me I'd either have forgotten all about it and moved on or just read and review… Don't get any ideas!Maria:
Do you REALLY think so? I thought he was a bit OOC, but that could just be me and my incredibly low self-esteem that can only be kept up by reviews… (Hint to all) Glad you liked it; you have no idea how much your review means to me, besides getting weird looks from complete strangers after I finished my happy dance…Jess:
If you're NOT going to review, but you ARE going to read, I'll like some input please! Oh, and good luck with Wednesday; you'll know I'd turned up because of the sudden whoop after your rendition of the PotC score…Sorry if I missed anybody out! I highly doubt it though…
