"Abigail did know me once. She might even recognize me. I would assume your plan would work best if she were cooperative in it, if she felt safe."
"Galloway will be on the ship, and Abigail will feel safe. There's no need for you to…"
"You don't even know where Galloway is," snapped Miranda composedly, suppressing the frustration expanding in her chest. "What makes you think she will be on your ship after you've betrayed her trust?"
"She's still on the islands, of that I'm sure. And she is probably hiding, and I know where it can be. And you seem too calm, so," James arched an eyebrow.
Miranda depressed her eyes. Her throat moved before she spoke again.
"To make Abigail feel safe she should feel likewise. And how do you know that she does?"
Art of a pirate.
Galloway held it that the way one was introduced was pivotal.
Billy is the quartermaster, he…
He wasn't the quartermaster anymore.
But for her it had shaped him, in an instant, and for her he would always be the one chosen by his men. In the matter of that first day on the ship, that first day almost by his side she learnt what it meant to be a quartermaster. It wasn't about power and authority, it was all about responsibility. And he was a natural.
She would've recognised how much deference the crew had amassed for him, regardless of ever learning his status. The name would've been enough, for it was on everyone's lips. They sought his advice, recognition, regard. His name was spilling over the tides, after he had succumbed to the unknown, and it seemed like they wouldn't be falling into the nadir had it been anyone else. His name in Gates' voice, conducive and reminiscent. His name in her head as she lay awake at night.
They watched him sit on a bin as they gathered round, excited, thrilled. Relieved. The bustle that'd reigned in the camp surrendered to reverent silence. It was only his rugged, rich voice.
Galloway looked around. All eyes were on him. Finally she wasn't solitary in her euphoria. Finally she saw some sort of long-yearned-for justice: the respect boarding almost religious commitment rendered to the deserving. It was decisively, by far the kindest thing she'd witnessed in the New World.
There wasn't, in fact, a sliver of new knowledge for her to obtain, but she listened to him nevertheless.
Spellbound they all were to see a dead man updating them on his life, and Galloway was no different. And her eyes carried a glimpse of admiration she was blissfully unsuspicious of, a glimpse she would've tried to hide had she grasped it. All eyes were on him, yet had anyone been looking at her that moment, they would have undoubtedly noticed that tiny glory. As like as not.
She was good at disguising the emotions and surveying the way she came across to others: she was designed to be a lady and lacking those skills was not an option.
It was true, though, that when she solemnly entered the auspicious years of her maidenhood - the tender age when all the girls acquired the essential knowledge how to be a certain way, to be a Woman – she had no mother around to show her the ropes of critical importance. Yet she'd learnt it all to blossom into a refined young woman, and she could sit for hours with her legs crossed at ankles, keeping up a conversation on almost any topic from homemaking to the Fall of the Western Roman Empire, though nobody really wanted to discuss the latter with her, save for her father. Surely, there was a fraction of wilderness surviving in the girl, something people blamed on the exceedingly commanding influence of Mr Faulkner himself, and it was her ease. The composure of never treating herself too seriously and the nerve she manifested when someone treated her with disrespect. But the most feral thing was that she, God forgive, didn't fret over her aspect being (or not being) appreciated.
Her mother was a beauty, but the mirror never showed Galloway anything she would like, and she made peace with that. But the mirror never showed her an object of sight either, a notion her father entertained greatly, raising a girl to know her value when the whole world was against girls.
However, gradually, as she was drawing nearer and nearer to the equator and losing the touch with comprehending reality, she was losing the touch of constantly watching herself. Could be amid safety concerns – when there was always a cloud of lewd smoke following hard upon better not attract attention by acting as though she was still credited by the refined. Not that she could afford it.
Galloway let herself float free in that respect just a tiny bin. She hadn't brushed her hair that day, on the scale of civilised London society values it would be a deed equal to eating a cockroach maybe. But she wasn't there. And how liberating it was to scratch her nose, crinkling it and grimacing with satisfaction of having quenched the itch, and not being frowned upon…
The ground to be called wild finally afforded.
Yes, she was good at disguising the emotions and surveying the way she came across to others, still. But her eyes, she could never really tame them. It did take some effort to read her look, but not too much. One could easily do so if one wanted to.
The girl was still scanning Bones now lured into a brisk conversation with Dufresne, the hindering mantis, when Joji, who hadn't left her side since she'd shown up on the beach, stirred, turning to face the entrance of the tent.
Billy had already had one close-to-wholesome hug from Dufresne that day, but he was certainly not expecting a second one, let alone not one coming from the captain. A bit abusive it was, rough. Manly?
"It's good to have you back again."
Bones gave a single nod of his head. His brain must've bloated for it was putting too much pressure on his skull. The blue round eyes skimmed the captain as the man slowly swung round.
Galloway was just a silhouette hovering somewhere before Billy's eyes, not too clear, but always within sight. And no one took notice of the girl, except for Joji, naturally, who stood as a watchdog above her, until Flint endowed her with sketchy attention. His green, narrowed eyes picked her out aptly. Galloway was using one of the tent posts as a backrest, arms crossed in a defensive gesture, gaze moving slowly.
"You," said James exactingly, cocking his head to the side.
They all had rolled their eyes at the captain, but only few mustered up to do so to his face. And she did belong to the party led by De Groot.
"Can we have a word?" his voice was hoarse and low, but before the girl could answer, Hornigold disrupted her processing the request.
"Captain."
Constrainedly, Flint looked down and away from her.
"One hundred and seven men have been standing on this beach awaiting your return, waiting to complete the task to which we've all bound ourselves. Waiting. Perhaps now that you are here, we might at long last reclaim my fort."
Billy walked out of the conference tent, De Groot and Silver casually tagging behind, both perplexed, but differently.
Dufresne was way ahead of the pack, having broken away a little: he was charged with preparing the men for the vote, and his disposition raised aflag.
"Doing your job, or at least helping, is it out of consideration for you?" muttered De Groot in the cadenced voice.
Silver breathed out.
It was Galloway.
She was stirring something in a big pot, moving the ladle lazily. Randall was scurrying around, insofar as he could scurry, and she nodded continually to his observations, almost asleep on the feet.
"Didn't you say I was quite inept in the kitchen settings?" retorted John.
"Just don't touch the food."
The girl looked into the cauldron, checking the boiling, when the accountant darted past cooks' tent. She looked up, sucking her cheek in, but the brows seemed to have stayed in place and she frowned inertly.
Someone had to tell her about the upcoming vote. And considering she'd just ranged her eyes round, noticed Billy, instantly losing the lour, given the spoon to Randall and tripped on someone's boot, walking to Bones, he could as well do that.
"I'm sorry, I completely forgot," she began when there were still ten feet between them.
"Forgot what?"
"Your things, I'll bring them now," she licked her lower lip and untied the apron.
"Right," he squinted at her with a cloudy forehead. "There's something I want to talk about…"
The girl threw her eyes up at Billy and hummed questioningly.
"Your confusion."
Galloway blinked and wagged her head.
"Well, now you are the confusion," the wide-eyed stare.
Billy's lips tightened in a barely visible smile, but he curbed it, "I mean Flint."
"Oh," her face cleared up.
"They're bringing him up for vote. Captain Hornigold will call counsel tonight and submit himself as captain to his and Flint's crews combined. And I just want to know if…"
"If I can count on you, Mr Bones," Hornigold slowed a few steps away from them and lifted the pipe to his face.
Billy sealed the lips and his jaw moved as he gulped down.
"I thought Mr Dufresne does the tally," he said coolly.
"He does, I am just taking a personal interest here," Ben's measured voice was coated with slight hoarseness. "So, what do you say?"
Bones cast his eyes at the man again and put it bluntly: what cause he supported, "I have a captain."
Hornigold smirked, shaking his head. He almost faced away when Billy's word rose again.
"What, are you not going to ask Galloway?" not a pushback, not a mock, still somehow a little bit of both.
The girl almost squeaked. She was halfway to twitching him by the sleeve full force, and would've done it... Hornigold slowly spun back, measuring her with a fleer and then looked at Bones listlessly.
"Galloway?"
"Galloway is Mr Gates' daughter," provided Billy, raising his eyebrows and pointing at her. If it is your fucking personal interest. Her apron, one way or another, had ended up in his right hand and now hung in the air.
"She can be," observed the captain blankly. "But Mr Gates is not here anymore. And I urge you to remember who is responsible for that."
Billy stood gazing vacantly at something above her head. His jaw jumped.
"I'll go bring the… I'll be right back."
He lowered his eyes. Galloway was fixed on his chest for a moment, but then moved, irresolutely raising her hand to his arm. She gave it a vague rub.
Gal hastily shut the window and bent down to pick up the bundle of Bones' stuff she'd wrapped into his jacket.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
The girl turned short to see Idelle. And before the wench had another go at her, Galloway let Billy's things fall back on the mattress, saying, "They are dead."
"What?"
"I've seen it. They are dead, Idelle," her brows met in an unbelieving expression. Unbelieving she was lucky, at long last, even at that expense.
"No bloody way," a triumphant little smile lit up the wench's face, her brow etched up.
"Jesus, we exult because somebody is dead," Galloway looked at the ceiling, breathing in deeply.
"That's life, bird."
There was something leaden in Idelle's voice.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah… Why are you piling this shit up…?"
"I need to get it back. You're lying, aren't you?"
The wench inhaled: she'd brought it upon herself, "Yes, but I would rather have you out of it."
"'s all right." Galloway shook her head, blinking. "I am sorry."
Idelle tiredly sank onto the now empty chair.
"No offense intended, bird."
"I know," cooed the girl. "Just…" she nodded and her friend nodded back. "I wanted to ask you something," the girl swallowed uneasily. "Before I go."
"Go ahead."
"There's a Walrus man here now: I've not seen him on the beach, and no one shites for so long."
"Haven't heard anything," but her breath quickened.
"I don't reckon anybody knows he's here, but his absence will not stay unnoticed long. It's just a bloody mess up there, and sooner or later he has to be back. Sooner is the preferred option."
Idelle's eyes were shifty, she clenched her fists.
"Oh, Lord," she shrunk. "Close the door, will you?"
Gal obeyed.
"Listen to me," Idelle said in a drowsy voice as the girl came up to her again. "You've never heard what I'm about to tell you, all right?" they just peered at each other. "Don't tell anyone, you hear me?"
"I do," the girl's stomach was clenching.
"Jesus, it will come to life, but for now use your best lying, will you?"
A feeble 'um-hum'.
Idelle put the back of her hand over her mouth.
Galloway wished she'd been advised to sit.
"Lizzie," he gently pulls her hand.
"Yes."
"They are selling tulips over there, look," he points to his left, but she doesn't follow. "Want one?"
"No, thank you," she peeps.
"Hey," he pulls the girl's hand again and she pulls his in return.
He stops, and still she keeps walking only to hover at the distance of their stretched arms.
"Lizzie."
He gathers her back to him and crouches down to face her, "Hey."
Her nose gets a gentle tweak and a smile graces Lizzie's lips.
"You want one?"
"Um-hum."
"Come, wait here," he picks her up by the middle and seats her on a narrow bench at a wall of stone, careful not to befoul the pale-pink dress.
She looks at her shoes as her feet dangle. Her pointer finger swirls the fabric of the skirts.
"Hey," a voice rings louder than the street.
The girl looks up.
Suddenly there's a ruckus and she flies down onto her feet.
The girl is horrified to hear her own voice as she shrieks, "Charlie!"
Tears stream down her face and she keeps calling his name.
"And then we put this whole fucking mess behind us."
Dufresne protruded his lower jaw and then closed his mouth.
He hung his head and her frame loomed into Billy's view.
A big bluish ball in her hands that she held like a giant baby.
Without a warning the girl was haggard. Green as midlands grass, she barged through the barracks as if lost in the woods. The scarf lay on her shoulders, hugging them like a soft wave. None the worse for a hug herself.
Galloway came up to him, suspiciously maintaining distance from Dufresne, and put on a fluid smile.
"Here you are," she stretched her arms out and Bones simply held the clot between his two palms.
"Thank you."
Another forced smile and he wondered how dared she martyr herself with it when her eyes were so void, but he uttered nothing – she inhaled deeply, "Mind it, something may fall out."
"Thank you."
"'s… not at all."
The girl walked off with a nod and Dufresne could quit feigning she wasn't there.
"Hey, Billy," Jonas popped his head in at the tent's door. "Got you the boots."
The pirate stepped in, agitating the footwear he held above his shoulder. Bones reached out to grab the shoes and smiled. The fucking Navy had stripped him of the boots he'd had mended just recently. Not a tragic loss, but a significant one.
"Thank you," Bones slipped his foot in.
"The cobbler said these would fit. She also said she was glad you're back. Though she didn't really know you'd been… away."
"They fit," he made a few sample steps.
"Perfect," Jonas tipped his chin. "Randall says food's ready, you coming?"
"Yeah..."
He tardily turned round to pick up a shirt. The canvas slatted and he knew he was alone again.
The cloth of the garment lazed in his hands as he was rubbing the fabric between his fingers, studying the barely visible stitches. Tight and precise.
He threw it on: the shirt both his and not his now. Just like the white one, which wasn't his from its inception, in sober fact: he bought it of a ponderous Irish carpenter his second year on the island after he'd torn the previous (and, at that time, the only one) shirt in a battle. The Irishman was as fat as four pigs, and the shirt sat loose even on Billy, which left him wondering whether it dangled to over or below her knees. Over, of course. Jesus, the carpenter would've been so excited to learn what use his garment would see.
The belt slithered into the buckle and Bones tucked the shirt out a little.
Even the trousers. Last time he'd seen them there was blood on it.
He sat back onto the mattress and dived his hand into the clutter of mended clothes to draw out the amulets. Trinklets. Weaving the strings in his fingers, he closed his eyes.
He slowly comes up to the board, there is something he has to do, but he doesn't remember. The moon is full and it spills a strip of flickering whitish light onto the coolness of the water.
He lets his thought merge into the mesmerising scape.
A pirate approaches him silently, something one doesn't expect of a man of his measurements, age and state of knee. He stands near, gazes at the scenery and just breathes heavily.
And before he goes away, his heavy palm lands on Billy's shoulder with a dull pat...
Billy pulled the strings over his head. His fingers lingered on the hanger as he adjusted it.
The bundle she'd brought wasn't big, he didn't expect it to be. Not too many possessions, not much need.
She'd brought back the book. He thumbed the thickness of pages glued thickly together, flipping through. Rabelais, which meant it was Bacon that hadn't survived.
"Jesus, son," Gates rolls his eyes skywards.
"Quit it," Billy says to Hal and smiles at the seller, putting a coin into his palm.
"There're so many other things you could spend this on."
"Like what?" the pirate wags his head, taking the purchase.
Gates looks him in the eyes and arches one eyebrow with a mellow smirk, suddenly making Bones feel baby and silly. He knows exactly what he could spend it on, and Hal doesn't need skew at the entrance of an establishment teeming with gaudy dresses. A few girls smile at Bones when he follows the quartermaster's glance.
"I'll like it better," he weighs the book in his hand.
"Have it your way, son," complies the older man. "What is it though?
"Rabelais," he lets Gates rifle through the pages. "My sister loved it. Used to read it to me."
Silence wields the air for a few minutes as they walk the main street of Port Royal.
"Good thing you bought it," finally utters Hal. "I don't think I've read it, will definitely borrow."
Billy chuckles.
He stood up abruptly. Took the blue coat and shook it up. He´d been dying to put it on since he´d first unreeled the ball. It´d always been way too threadbare and he didn't truly believe it could enjoy such scale of integrity.
He put his arm in the sleeve, then the other one. Pulled the collar up. And then he lowered his arms and one of the shoulders produced a wistful zip. You, bastard.
He shimmered the coat off and quickly went to ascertain. It had indeed split at the seam.
Galloway had probably inadvertently taken it in.
"Fuck me gently," he was shaking his head again as he folded the coat to hide it somewhere and never admit the crime to her.
"'s fish soup," announced Randall pouring the broth into a bowl.
"Thanks, Randall," Billy grinned at the cook. He did miss the fellow.
"Enjoy."
"What, you don't believe me?"
"I'm not stupid," she said softly and Bones stopped.
"That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying I know such things betta'," Joshua bumped his knee against hers. They sat in the tent, next to the chickens, the pirate was leaning towards her as he spoke and she, completely calm, looked him in the eyes. "You cannot finish anyone with a shot like that."
"I saw it."
"Just an injury."
"He fell."
"That's what happens when you get hurt, love."
Galloway pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead.
"'m telling you. Joji did him. I saw it."
The girl faced away, running her fingers through the hair.
Joshua tapped her shoulder. His eyes met Billy's and he shook his head.
Bones frowned deeper.
His attention shifted only when the soup bit him with its hotness: absentmindedly he let his thumb slip into the bowl.
"What is it?" he sucked the digit as he lowered himself on a bin next to Decker, who'd been observing the interaction as well, it seemed, but from a distance.
"She shot a man dead," answered the coxswain before slurping his broth. "But, for the record, officially, she did not."
Billy's cheeks hollowed and Decker went on, "Just don't tell her that she did."
"Why?"
"Cuz Joshua has been trying to make her think she didn't for a half an hour now and…"
"No, I mean why she did it."
Decker downed another spoonful.
"Ah, a few days ago Dufresne decided to take a merchant ship, they turned out to be much more experienced than he'd anticipated. One of 'em almost chopped off Mr Craig's arm," he beckoned to the pirate now receiving his meal. "And she fired," shrugged the steerer.
"You let her vanguard?" Bones almost jumped on his seat as if someone pricked him with a pin.
"Jesus, no," Decker lifted his bugged eyes from the bowl. "She was on our ship. Takes an unerring aim, must be admitted."
Joshua elbowed the girl playfully and chaffed. She nodded in response, and he rubbed her back, standing up.
He walked out of the open tent and past Bones, dropping an upset glance.
"I don't know, it must've been a reflex," continued the coxswain.
Galloway's eyes roved around. There was alleviation in the familiar blackness. A hint of unmistakable fragility on her face.
"You gave her a gun?"
"As if you wouldn't," sneered Decker.
"How is she… blending in?" framed Bones unhurriedly, still observing the girl. He had to know what it meant. We like her. Did they like her the we-like-her-and-thus-we-won't-dare-touch-her kind of way, or the we-like-her-because-she-doesn't-put-up-a-fight-when-we-touch-her one. Tossing that question round would be counterproductive.
"Fine. I mean, she is not stupid," Decker shrugged.
"No, she is not."
"She's sweet, actually," the man pursed his lips. "We…"
"Oh, is she?" guffawed someone to Billy's right and he turned to see Mr Brown. "And the way she yelled at Kelly? Now, she's not pretty when she yells, lad," he widened his eyes at Bones.
Pretty. No, she was not.
"Pff, yelled, so?" the coxswain wiped his bowl with a piece of bread.
"The lady's grumpy all the time. Look at her."
"She's not grumpy, she's earnest."
That was true. Levity, he wouldn't affix that to her.
Pensive?
"Ill-tempered, that's what she is."
"For fucks like you and Vincent she is so," spat the pirate not looking at his crew.
Brown only heaved a peevish grunt and stirred his broth.
Billy, at long last, took a look at his own meal.
His spoon sank into the soup and he got the taste of it.
He squinted at Randall at first, swallowing, and then shifted his gaze to the girl and back. Surely, he had seen the cook tamper with the cookery, but he was easily not responsible for what Decker seemed to be having zest with.
Maybe that was how she blazed herself a path in that mess. No one would argue, or dare argue, that Randall could cook. But for the first time in a rather long period Bones had something in his mouth that was made with an eye toward the fact it would be fed to people.
It did have a taste. It tasted good. It tasted like she cared. No wonder she'd enchanted the coxswain with such ease.
"Vincent?" inquired Billy after his third spoon.
Decker didn't answer straight away. He bent forward to stare at Brown, as if inviting him to elaborate, with a venomous quirk of his upper lip. Yet Brown avoided the look.
The rudder leaned back and breathed in deep.
Before opening his mouth (something Bones desiderated him to do) he checked if Galloway could hear them (how hadn't he thought of it before) and clinked his tongue.
"Tried to force himself on her."
The blood curdled.
Billy stifled the swelling frenzy as he neatly moved his head to scan the surroundings.
"Don't be looking, he's not here. He's with Irving, watching the gold."
However wickedly good the soup was, Bones had no appetite for it anymore. Good thing he had nothing in his mouth really, for what he heard next almost made him choke on his own saliva.
"The fucker lacks a finger now, and when you meet him, I'd advise you not to inquire about the origin of the dismemberment. Since it was your dagger. It also could've been in the nearest vicinity to his balls, though closed, I pray."
Brown rose to his feet and went off without a word. He handed Randall his empty bowl right when Joji came up to the girl. She swiftly got up.
Billy had to drag the recoil down with another spoonful of soup, for she cast her eyes on him for a second.
"Don't mind him," Decker set his plate at his feet. "Brown. No one really has a quarrel with her."
Bones didn't reply.
He knew it.
He'd been afraid they'd tear her to ribbons, and, it transpired, not in vain. What he hadn't expected, though, was that she'd ribbon back.
"No one?"
"Yeah, you're right. Dufresne."
Well, it explained positively nothing.
"And what is that about?"
"He's just been going off nut. Casting aspersions. Placing blame with her. Woman on a ship, bad luck. That old song. She did contradict him, but he threatens to expose her," the man rolled his eyes. "But she's holding well. Told me she'd plant a banana in his things," Decker chuckled.
"Jesus."
"Ah, it's nothing."
"Oh, you think so?"
"No one will touch her…"
"He can tell everyone she's not Gates," reasoned Billy, looking at the crew askance.
"What will it change?"
"How plausible was it really?" mused Decker after a long while. "Not at all. He never mentioned her, and suddenly she's there and she's here and they're joined at the hip. The men know it, and if they don't, the suspect it. But the material thing is: he told them she was his daughter, and she will be, for them, come what may. That's how she was introduced."
Billy fumbled the spoon.
"This one is no good for anything," Galloway threw a potato into the peels. It was corroded with tiny eyes and she only had patience for the first ten.
"You give up too soon," whooed Randall and hauled the vegetable back.
She looked at him for a second and then allowed herself stare ahead dumbly.
"May I?" Billy heaved in her side as he stepped over the threshold of the 'land-galley'. As if there was a door.
"Yes," said Randall, not looking up.
"I…um," slow footed, Billy approached the girl. "Galloway," he protruded the volume to her, squatting down, words jamming in his throat. "You can have it. I've read it hundreds of times," he raised his brows for leverage and nodded, smiling.
The girl parted her lips and when her lacklustre eyes swam up to meet his, she glowed up.
She almost didn't recognise him, washed, not sanded. The bristle stayed anyway.
The girl, in haste, put the knife away and wiped her hands on a towel hanging over her knee before taking the book.
"Thank you," she dimpled up. He put the cuffs on his wrists. And the trinkets were dangling on his chest.
"Anytime."
He was only ten steps away from the tent when he realised why De Groot had suspiciously narrowed his eyes at the Rabelais when Billy was on his way to gift it.
"She doesn't speak French," remarked the grey-haired pirate.
Billy's face muscles slackened.
Au courant.
You, bastard.
De Groot shook his curly head.
Galloway peeled a strip off a next potato and froze abruptly. She confusedly peered at the book resting against her hip.
What..?
She put her hands on her lap as she stood up, stooping. Randall pussed Betsy and she came up to him, slowly, and rubbed her back against his shin, self-righteous little purrer. Galloway placed her palms on her hips and straightened her back, stretching up. Everything in her body creaked and she wondered how she'd missed the moment she turned eighty. Maybe it happened when she started gathering it that people around her were dying on a threateningly regular basis: something she believed only happened when you were half-dead yourself.
The sun forced her to shut one eye as she walked out of the tent. It was near the decline of the day and the camp immersed into an unexampled slack. The agitation had had its day it would seem, but the charge was still buzzing only to spill out into something unforeknown. The tally kept bouncing around and Silver lashed the crew.
She knew Muldoon had approached him. To ask to pull Logan out of the brothel.
Now the bald man sat with a bowl of broth in his hands. He was still unsuspicious of what news Silver would bring.
Oh, Galloway only hoped he'd tell them what she knew, for it was an utterly excruciating torture to be alone in the knowledge of such sort.
But the girls would make something up.
And she'd have to die with the burden.
Galloway's sad gaze flowed to the sea. On the bins on the very edge of the camp he sat, with his back to her. Just like that first day, but there was no Gates by his side.
The sun pleasantly warmed her face as she looked at his sizeable frame and then she realised it.
It was him. Billy. She finally sobered from the woe to see it.
Unwilling to startle him she made a slight detour to approach Bones from the side. That proved a little too worthwhile, for he didn't even seem to notice the girl.
"Gates said you love it."
He tilted his chin to look at her. His blue eyes, not less lucid despite the absence of the war paint, round and brows rising.
He kept looking at her as though she were a ghost and she added, to ascertain he was awake, "I put sugar in it. Would you like it?"
Billy lowered his gaze to see a mug in her hand.
Her fingers were cold: they tangled in the hoop of the cup when Billy took it from her hands and their skins were connected for a few awkward seconds.
"Sorry."
"'s fine," she whispered.
"Thank you," Billy shifted his look to study his own reflection in the surface of the scalding amber liquid.
"May I?" out of the corner of his eye he could see her motion to the bin right next to him.
Without even looking at her he said, "Sure".
She quietly sat down next to him.
"I know you say you're all equal here, but…"
Billy swiftly turned to her, eyebrow rising in innocent heed.
On her open palm lay a small round scone. She looked at it with barefaced sadness, as if it was the last scone on the surface of the Earth, but then glanced at Billy, smiling blandly.
Her skin was a warm colour, the setting sun tinting it almost orange, and he could see the pupils of her eyes for the irises were brightened into deep, sweet brown. Her hands would be still cold, he was sure, but she sat next to him and her corporeality was no subject to doubt anymore. The hair, parted in the middle, was tucked by the ear on one side, dry and seeming light, for some of the hairs moved in the small wind.
He couldn't argue, she did invite the eye. The eyes of the crew, for she was a woman and ipso facto magnetic. When one half of them were starved of the savour of carnal congress and the other half were bored stiff with what the brothel had to offer, for they knew all the stock from toes to tops.
Pretty? No.
Not faintly.
When he saw her first, the word didn't form in his mind. Neither did any other word, to be blunt. But she made him want to look at her again, for the second time. And then again.
There was a personable spell about her: her features soft and benign, but Billy saw the softly inscribed will. The frown, he realised, was almost always there, with some minor exceptions. Never really hostile, it generally was just a frown of barely disguised melancholy, with one of her brows sitting a bit lower and the skin folding in a wrinkle. And her eyes.
Her eyes were inviting. They encouraged one to find a motive and spur a conversation. Whatever topic. She was open for anything, it seemed. It didn't work on Joji though, for some reason.
And she just looked at him, with the scone in her hand, a simple display of compassion. They both recognized what that little biscuit was. It wouldn't replenish any loss, it lacked the power to console, as if there was anything to solace the turbulence. It wasn't even her who'd made it, but the desire to comfort floated logically free and Galloway succumbed to it. We are in deep shit, but here's a scone.
She almost aborted the action, but he finally took it.
That evening her eyes were brimmed with redness, but not particularly bloodshot. Filmy, with a very soft gleam. The girl pulled her knees to her chest, hugging her legs, and her heels balanced on the edge of the bin. She stirred snuggly and looked at the water. The scone was there to distract Billy. For her, Billy was the distraction.
She had nothing to submit for discussion, not for the lack of issues, but for a wish to have a bittock of placation. Bones saw her sight wan as it fastened on the horizon, but it was unlikely she perceived the sea-scape.
All that time he'd been plastered across the sand she was there, and he dreaded to think what she'd witnessed. She was the same, the same young woman with a shock of near black hair, sitting next to him on the same beach, with the same orphaned expression.
But her skin on her forearms was decorated with tiny cuts and bigger bruises. She had laid his Gates to rest and survived the Walrus' defeat. And that right hand, with nails trimmed and with the callus on the middle digit, no rings; that hand had amputated a man's finger and pulled the trigger to take another one's life. That was a dramatic shift, but how much more he was sure he simply couldn't see. More bruises hiding beneath the clothes and the violent anguish hiding behind the restraint. What happened to you?
He breathed out, despairingly, and she twisted her head.
"I shouldn't have brought it, should I?" she expounded, but not sadly.
Bones drew his eyes down onto the poor piece of bread he had crumbled a bit already, "Just fell to thinking."
"Yeah," she turned to the water again.
"It's not about being equal anymore, is it?"
"Pardon me?"
"The vote. Randall is voting, you're not. The terms aren't the same."
"I'm surprised you expected something, anything else but this. Truly," she smiled.
Billy never really disliked words before, but that one he was particularly mad at.
When one looked at a sunset that changed hue every two minutes, colouring the sky and the water a gradient of red and orange and pink, and the horizon suddenly seemed immense, one wouldn't say 'pretty'.
"I reckon it will not be correct for me to say that, but the fact they think I'm not something enough – in all likelihood just not man enough – to vote saves me the trouble. Because I'm inclined to hold judgement on this matter that I am ... confused about," she said in all honesty. "Anyway, I've got my requital," Galloway beckoned to the biscuit.
"Thank you, again," he nodded, smiling broadly. She didn't know a smile could be so expansive. "The tea is jolly good."
"Yeah. Wouldn't it make more sense stealing tea from the English? It'd damnify much more, on an immaterial level…"
She narrowed one eye as she speculated, and if it hadn't been for the cheeky etch of the corner of her mouth she would've passed for being serious.
"We're not on the tea-trade route," he accompanied.
Galloway pursed her lips and breathed out through her nose.
It slowly began to wind. Although it was almost obvious she knew it well, he explained what the shipping lanes looked like. Not in an abridged version. She did listen to him all the same. Once the subject was exhausted he found himself drifting into another one, and another one, and another again, just skating across the surface. Nothing too profound, too deep, and she parried all the matters still too acute to tackle, smoothly withdrawing from any potentially disturbing topic, for his sake. He followed, for hers.
He couldn't remember partaking in a conversation about shellfish since he was… never, probably. He would remember that part for shellfish was the only thing she showed complete lack of knowledge of that day. The thing he had the pleasure to brief her on.
And didn't realise how fine distracting it really was until someone hailed Galloway and she was brought to leave his side.
The tea cooled down.