On the way home on market day, a twelve-year-old girl finds a book lying in the grass.
It's bound in limp cloth, dirty and stained from the mud of the road. The Perils of Isabela, it's called. It's a tale of daring exploits and dramatic adventures; the heroine travels the world, from city slums to the courts of kings, claiming lovers and fortunes alike with a carefree grace.
She knows how to read. It's necessary, even for a poor girl. But it's a skill not to be used for pleasure - her mother tells her not to waste good coin on such nonsense. This is the first real book she's ever owned, and it's the first thing she's had that was simply for fun. Someday, she's sure, she'll have a life like that. But for now, she's content to live it in her imagination.
Four years later, she sets off down the road to her new husband's house. She puts dreams of adventure behind her forever.
"Name?"
"What?" she says, startled. She'd studied docking procedures when she'd taken over her ship. She should know what she's doing by now; how could she have forgotten she'd have to register?
The harbormaster rolls his eyes. "Name?" he says again.
She opens her mouth to answer, then stops.
Her name has nothing to do with her. The first name was given to her by her mother, the last name forced upon her, like so many other things, by her husband. She needs something different. Something with music. Something with magic.
"Isabela," she says, drawing out the syllables, rolling them over her tongue. She flashes a sudden, brilliant smile. "But you can call me Captain."
If she's going to start over, she might as well do it right.
