So... Hello again. I apologize for the lack of updates. I fell victim to a terrible combination of writer's block, personal issues, binge watching Star Trek (the original series), and playing Stardew Valley and Genshin Impact. I think I'm back now. Probably. Depression's a bitch.
Anyway, thank you SO MUCH for the reviews, the favs, and the follows, guys! They really helped me find my motivation again. To Whirlwindee, whom I couldn't PM back: I already said but this one is just for you. Thank you SO MUCH! A lot of Isabella's personality is the result of a careful balancing act between pirate practicality and her own mostly good heart. I'm glad to know I can pull it off. Izzy and Jack don't quite consider each other as siblings but close friends, yes, certainly. I'll be giving more details about the beginning of their partnership later. And as for the Norrington/Isabella pairing, I'm afraid it won't really start before the Curse of the Black Pearl arc ends. You'll have to be patient ;)
Now, this an almost completely original chapter. It follows the canon plot only for a little while (until our trio meet Gibbs), and then it's all me. I hope you enjoy it!
The stench that invariably pervaded the streets of Tortuga—a foul combination of sweat, vomit, piss, and grimy bodies that clung to the soft tissues of her nose and her throat—almost made Isabella regret not being undead so she didn't have to breathe. Naturally, Jack didn't share her opinion and had taken it upon himself to extol the many vertues of the town for Will's benefit as they strolled through the streets towards the Faithful Bride. Vertues which included, but weren't limited to, its liveliness—fistfights, wild gunshots, drunken shouts, the hoarse laughter of prostitutes—, the friendliness of its women—once they were paid—, and the freedom for pirates to roam its streets wthout fear of arrest and execution—that was true. To say that the young man seemed unconvinced would be quite the understatement; he kept looking around with incredulous distaste, as if he was wondering how people could stand to live like this.
"More importantly," Jack was saying while Isabella skirted a particularly suspicious puddle, "it is indeed a sad life that has never breathed deep this sweet, proliferous bouquet that is Tortuga, savvy?" Jack filched the cane that a passing drunk was brandishing above his head. "What do you think?"
Will, momentarily arrested by the sight of a man pouring the contents of two tankards into his mouth and spilling most of the liquid onto his rotund self, didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was heavy with sarcasm.
"It'll linger."
"Tell me about it," Isabella muttered.
She could just feel the aforementioned bouquet seeping into her clothes, her skin, and her hair. For a few seconds, she allowed herself to revel in visions of the warm bath she would lounge in once she got to the Salty Clam. She pushed those thoughts away just in time to notice that her companions had just stopped.
"I'll tell ya, mate," Jack was going on, "if every town in the world were like this one, no man would ever feel unwanted."
Isabella opened her mouth to say that they would, however, feel a great many other things, like unpleasant itches and a constant hangover, but she was interrupted when Jack suddenly exclaimed "Scarlett!". With a wide smile on his face, he started off towards the red-haired wench in a red dress who was sashaying straight at him, apparently oblivious to the fact that her stiff smile didn't reach her eyes. Isabella wasn't, though, and the words 'Bad idea' barely had time to cross her mind before Scarlett smacked him so hard that his head flew sideways.
"Not sure I deserved that," Jack commented as the wench flounced off.
"Yes you did," Isabella smirked.
Jack sniffed, turned away... and came face-to-face with a blonde wench in a yellow gown. He greeted her with another grin while Isabella, who could already picture the outcome of the conversation, held back a snicker. Friend or not, she couldn't find it in herself to feel sorry for Jack, who was after all only paying the consequences for his actions. Besides, it was just a slap—well, most likely two. Come morning, he would have forgotten everything.
"Giselle..."
"Who was she?" the wench inquired, smiling that same tight smile that did nothing to thaw the ice in her eyes.
Jack frowned in confusion.
"What?"
Apparently, that wasn't the right answer because Giselle slapped him just as hard as Scarlett had before storming away.
"I may have deserved that," the pirate admitted.
"You think?" Isabella shot back, her eyebrows raised sarcastically.
The trio continued on their way. At Will's request, the Brine-Tongue explained what had happened between Jack, Giselle, and Scarlett. The young man didn't find it amusing that Jack had toyed with the two women's feelings so inconsiderately. But then, neither did Isabella.
They reached the Faithful Bride without further incident, which was probably some kind of miracle given how many people Jack had offended. Isabella was particularly relieved not to have bumped into Anamaria, who would most certainly have a lot more in store than a slap—for both of them, this time. As they stepped inside the tavern, its stuffy air closed around them, heavy with the smells of tallow, stale ale and rum, and unwashed bodies. The pale flames of the many candles gave the lingering dimness a yellowish tinge and filled the room with the haze of their smoke. The tavern was as animated as Isabella remembered, a word which here means that a brawl had already broken out; angry shouts, grunts of pain, and sounds of shattering glass mingled with the usual rowdy clamour. They wove between the tables and the inebriated customers to the bar, giving the fighters a wide berth, the floor slightly sticky under their boots.
"Gibbs?" Jack asked the bartender, a stocky man with a bulbous nose who was busy wiping the counter with a rag that might have been white in another life.
With a sharp movement of his head, the man indicated the back of the tavern. Then, abandoning his rag, he bent down; when he straightened up, he was holding two buckets of water, which he set on the bar. The three companions exchanged looks. Jack and Will each took a bucket.
Gibbs' name was one that Isabella had heard before from Jack, though she had yet to meet the man himself. Her first impression of him was, to put it mildly, somewhat unflattering as they found him in a pigpen behind the tavern, snoring in the mud with three hogs for pillows. He was a portly ruddy-faced man with salt-and-pepper mutton chops and dark grey hair plastered to his head by grease. Isabella noticed that he was still wearing the dark blue jacket of a Royal Navy sailor, though its sleeves had been ripped off. When Jack tossed the contents of his bucket at him, he jerked awake, sputtering, and whipped out a knife.
"Curse ya for breathing, ya slack-jawed idiot!" he roared.
Then, his bleary eyes fixed on Jack's face and recognition flashed in them. He gave the pirate captain a rather sloppy grin and put away his knife.
"Mother's love! Jack! You should know better than to wake a man when he's sleepin'. S'bad luck."
"Ah, fortunately, I know how to counter it," Jack replied. "The man who did the waking buys the man who was sleeping a drink. The man who was sleeing drinks it while listening to a proposition from the man who did the waking."
Amazing how that counterspell just happens to suit his needs, Isabella thought with a discreet snort of amusement.
"Aye, that'll about do it," Gibbs agreed after a few moments during which his fuzzy mind assimilated Jack's words.
Naturalmente, Isabella sighed inwardly. Nothing like more rum to recover from a rum-induced hangover. Jack charitably helped Gibbs up, whereupon Will doused the former Navy sailor with another bucketful of water. Dumbfounded, Gibbs sputtered and shook himself.
"Blast!" he huffed once he had gotten over his surprise. "I'm already awake!"
"That was for the smell," Will deadpanned.
Isabella's laughter drew Gibbs' attention to her.
"I'm Isabella," the Italian pirate specified before he had a chance to ask her name. "And this is Will."
The four of them went back to tavern. Gibbs made for a table in a corner, behind a crude wooden post, while Jack walked up to the bar to order drinks, followed by Will. Isabella was about to join Gibbs when a voice she'd never thought she would hear again rose behind her, full of hope and disbelief.
"Izzy?"
The Brine-Tongue spun around and, sure enough, she came face-to-face with her childhood friend, whose dark eyes widened in shock and joy when she recognized Isabella.
"Amara!" the Italian pirate exclaimed, her smile so wide it almost hurt, as her heart swelled with sheer happiness.
The next moment, they were in each other's arms, laughing giddily, indifferent to the looks cast their way. Amara hadn't changed much since the last time they had seen each other, a little over six years before, Isabella noticed when they pulled away. Lean and wiry, she was a couple of inches shorter than Isabella but the voluminous mass of her tight black curls, into which she had tied a colourful scarf, and the confidence with which she held herself more than made up for it. The dusky skin of her elegant oval face was only marred by a small crescent-shaped scar on one of her high cheekbones—that was new. The smile that pulled at her full lips made her large rich brown eyes twinkle warmly. She was wearing a white shirt underneath a tawny leather bodice laced in the front, dark breeches, and sturdy boots; a pistol was stuck between her two belts, from one of which her cutlass hung, and gold was gleaming on her left hand and at her ears.
"You look well," Isabella commented.
"So do you," Amara retorted with a wry smile. "Especially for someone who's supposed to be dead."
"I could say the same thing about you. Weren't you on the Danse Macabre when..."
She trailed off, unwilling to say the words 'my brother killed our parents', but Amara understood her meaning perfectly. A shadow fell over her face, erasing her smile and snuffing out the sparks in her eyes.
"I was," the young woman confirmed, her voice taut with painful memories. "Let's sit down and I'll tell you everything. Unless you need to join your friends."
Isabella glanced at Jack, who was sitting across from Gibbs, the two men deep in conversation; Will was leaning against the nearby post, his arms crossed, apparently keeping watch. Her presence was unnecessary since she and Jack had already devised their plan.
"I don't," she said to Amara.
A couple of minutes later, they were sitting at a table near the wall, well away from the ongoing fight, each holding a tumbler of rum. Isabella took a fortifying swig and grimaced as the cheap alcohol burnt its way down her throat. The conversation that was about to start would dredge up a shipload of bad memories but there was no avoiding it.
"So, what happened to you?" she asked, folding her hands on the table.
Amara sighed and reclined in her chair, crossing her arms. Sombre clouds had gathered in her eyes.
"You know that Valerio had help from three other pirate captains when he attacked the Danse Macabre?"
"Yes," Isabella said, gripping her tumbler so tightly that her knuckles turned white. "I killed them."
When she had returned from her journey to Japan and learnt of her parents' deaths at the hands of her brother, she had first hunted down those captains. Driven by grief and rage, she had disregarded the Code for the first time in her life and slaughtered them and their crews without mercy, whether they had surrendered or not. Even now, the memory still triggered a bitter pang of guilt.
"Good," Amara replied with a fierce smile. "Anyway, one of them, Bernardo de Villegas, took a shine to me. He got Valerio's permission to keep me as a prize. Bastard thought he could break me," she spat, her mouth twisted in disgust. "And he tried."
She paused, her jaw clenched, struggling to keep the worst memories at bay. Isabella could easily guess what methods the pezzo di merda had used and the anger that blazed up inside her reduced all of her remorse for the fate she'd dealt him to ashes.
"He begged me for mercy," she said softly. "I put my cutlass through his throat."
A knife-blade glint flashed in Amara's eyes.
"Good. I wish I'd done it myself but I didn't get the opportunity. I managed to escape two weeks later, when the ship docked in New Orleans, and then I made my way to Shipwreck City. I figured you'd show up there sooner or later to consult the Keeper about... ah, the situation, but you never did."
"No, I was too angry to bother sailing all the way there to see Teague."
Of course, 'angry' was much too weak a word to describe the state she had been in at the time—it was like calling a hurricane a mild squall. She didn't feel like going into the details, though. Not that Amara needed her to, as she herself was all too familiar with the terrible pain of having the people she loved ripped away from her. She was the daughter of a British plantation owner and one of his slaves, who, naturally, hadn't been asked for her permission. Raised among the tightly-knit slave community, she had witnessed firsthand and at the earliest age men's cruelty and callousness in the punishing work in the tobacco fields, the barked orders of the overseers, and the beatings inflicted on her fellow slaves. She had lost her mother to a fever when she was seven, and the rest of her family two years after when the plantation owner had sold her and a few other slaves to settle a gambling debt. She had prayed to Anansi, the spider trickster god about whom the older slaves had told her so many stories, for a chance to escape. He had answered during the night she had spent in a pen with her companions pending the auction at the slave market, and she hadn't wasted the god's boon—she had later had a little round-bellied spider tattooed on her left shoulder in his honour. Her childhood as someone's property had forced her to grow up quickly; she knew that, no matter how much she might want to, she could never go back to her family. She had snuck aboard a ship bound for Africa, her mother's homeland... a ship that had been raided by the Sforzas during the journey. Amara had been discovered by the pirates and brought, half starved but still kicking and biting, to Captain Lorenzo Sforza and his wife, Elena, who had given her a choice—the first she'd ever had. They could take her to Africa or she could join their crew. The little girl had picked the first option, convinced that the pirates would never keep their word but determined to escape at the first opportunity.
She had changed her mind three-quarters of the way to her destination when she had realized that life aboard the Danse Macabre was nothing like the plantation, and that the Sforzas had nothing in common with her former owner. No one was there against their will. The crew weren't worked past their limits and there were no beatings for those who paused to rest for a minute or two, and everyone had received a fair share of the loot taken from a French merchant ship that had crossed their path. The three dark-skinned crew members weren't treated any differently from their white fellow workers. The two women were protected by the captain's rules and, when they weren't aboard the ship, they had every right to defend themselves against any man who tried to harm them—this Amara had learnt by asking them. The girl had even been offered to attend the lessons given to the Sforza children, whose company she had grown to enjoy.
And she had loved sailing—loved feeling the salty wind on her face and the spray of the sea.
All in all, the Danse Macabre had looked very much like freedom to her. Oh, of course, she'd still had to work—but, this time, it was a work that she had chosen, one exempt of cruelty and rewarded fairly. So, she had joined Captain Lorenzo Sforza's crew, eventually becoming his boatswain. And now, there she was, having once again lost almost all of the people she had come to consider as her family.
"Well," the young woman went on, "I stayed until I heard about your death... or your supposed death, I guess. After that, I came to the Caribbean and joined Captain Barlow's crew. I'm his first mate, now."
Isabella had never met Barlow but she had heard of him. Apparently, he wasn't the worst pirate captain to sail with. Good, she thought. I really don't need anything else to worry about.
"So, now you know everything." Amara belted down the rest of her rum. "What about you? What happened after you killed Valerio's little helpers?"
"I went looking for him, of course. Eventually, I learnt he was in the Caribbean, trading. I found him off the southern coast of Cuba, or he found me, I don't know. We exchanged a few cannonballs but I suppose we both knew this had to be settled face-to-face. So, I boarded the Danse– no, he'd already renamed her the Devil's Grin by then... He told me he was glad I'd spared him the trouble of finding me himself. We fought, he defeated me, had what was left of my crew executed, blew up the Fate..."
She paused to release the breath she had just realized she had been holding. She felt as though there was a bowl in her mind that filled up a little more with each word she uttered. The water was now quivering at the edge of it, ready to spill out and overwhelm her with unwanted memories. She waited a few moments for the level to drop before resuming her story.
"Then, he stabbed me in the gut, threw me overboard, and sailed away. I managed to haul myself onto a piece of wood from the Fate and I just... lay there, I don't know for how long, until Jack found me. He brought me to Tia Dalma, who managed to heal me. Once I was back on my feet, which took some time, I decided that the best to repay Jack would be to put my Brine-Tongue gifts at his disposal. We've been travelling together ever since."
She said nothing of what had transpired between herself and Tia Dalma. The Voodoo queen's true identity was a well-guarded family secret and she liked it that way; only Isabella and Valerio were aware of it now.
"And that's the end of the story," the Italian pirate concluded, lifting her hands and letting them drop back on the table. "Sorry for the lack of details but–"
"But the wound's not healed yet and it still smarts," Amara completed. "No need to apologize. Believe me, I understand perfectly."
Isabella couldn't have put it better herself. And, since she wasn't particularly fond of pain, she never poked at the wound when she didn't need to. Did she need to ask the question that had been gnawing at her since Amara had started telling her story? Her parents were dead; knowing how wouldn't make her feel any better about it. In fact, it might even make her feel worse. But... The question would keep haunting her if she didn't ask it. So, she steeled herself and gripped her tumbler tightly.
"My parents..." She paused and tried to swallow the sharp lump in her throat but it wouldn't budge. "How did they... I mean, did they suffer?"
Amara's jaw twitched and a lightning bolt split the clouds in her eyes. She didn't ask whether Isabella was certain that she wanted to hear the answer, for which the Brine-Tongue was grateful.
"Valerio did it himself," Amara said. "It was quick."
Isabella nodded. This was all she needed to know. It wasn't a comfort—dead was dead, after all—but a flicker of relief stirred in her chest. At least, the soul-deep agony of dying at their son's hands hadn't been paired with physical pain.
"Did he tell you why?" Amara asked tensely.
"Didn't ask. Besides, it's obvious, no? He wanted the title of Pirate Lord of the Atlantic Ocean and the power that comes with it. There's no other reason."
"I would never have thought that he..." Amara broke off and shook her head. "I mean, he'd never shown any interest in power before."
Isabella tightened her lips and said nothing. There was nothing to be said. They both knew that Amara was right—Valerio had never said or done anything that would have betrayed his desire to be a Pirate Lord, not even when their parents had decided that, since Isabella had been born first, she would have the title and the Danse Macabre. Since contemplating the possibility that her brother had been wearing a mask all his life was much too painful, Isabella decided it was high time to change the subject. However, Amara beat her to it.
"So, what are you and Jack up to these days?" the dark-skinned pirate inquired, leaning forward with her forearms on the table, the brightness of her smile dissolving the clouds in her eyes.
Isabella returned her smile. She felt somehow lighter now that they had left the past behind and it was with ease that she recounted the events of the last two days. Amara was as astonished as she had been herself to learn of the fate of Barbossa and his crew; when the Brine-Tongue fell silent, she let out a low whistle and shook her head.
"Well, now I know why the Keeper and the Brethren Court haven't punished Barbossa for breaking the Code," she commented. "Not much you can do against undead men..."
"Indeed."
"And you and Jack believe that breaking the curse matters more to him than the Pearl."
"We hope."
Amara pulled a worried face.
"It's a risky gamble. If it goes tits up, Barbossa might spare you just so he can have his own personal Brine-Tongue but the others won't be so lucky, especially not Jack and Will."
"I know," Isabella replied dryly. "Why do you think I'm not asking you to come with us? Well, that, and I know you take your responsibilities as a first mate seriously."
"Exactly," Amara said with a lopsided smile. "What kind of a first mate would I be if I deserted my captain so abruptly? But, Izzy," she went on, suddenly grave, "when you're ready to deal with Valerio—and I know you will, to stop the bloodbath—, I want to stand by your side."
Isabella smiled widely, her heart expanding so much that, for a few moments, it was hard to breathe. She knew that, when she went after her brother, she would need a crew—people she would most likely have never met before. It would be good to have someone she could trust with her life without hesitation beside her.
"Well, that's good," she said when her throat didn't feel so constricted, "because I want you there too."
After that, the conversation revolved around the events of the past five years. Having ordered two bowls of fish chowder and a loaf of bread—the only things that were reasonably safe to eat—, they traded stories and anecdotes, their laughter dispelling the last wisps of tension within them. At one point, Will politely interrupted their talk; once Isabella had introduced him to Amara, he asked her if the tavern had bedrooms to rent.
"Yes, but if you don't want to wake up tomorrow covered in flea bites, I'd suggest going to the Lucky Boatswain," Isabella advised him.
"I agree," Amara put in. "That's where I sleep whenever I come to Tortuga."
The Italian pirate gave Will enough money to rent a room and directions to the inn; the young man thanked her and went off.
"I like him," Amara commented with a lopsided smile. "He seems like a good sort. Bit naïve, though, no?"
"Well, he hasn't seen much of the world."
It was well after midnight when the two women parted ways after a heartfelt embrace. Amara didn't fail to wish Isabella good luck and to instruct her to be careful. The Brine-Tongue watched her friend stride away until she had walked through the tavern door, hoping fervently that they'd see each other again. She cast about for Jack and quickly found him playing a rousing game of dice with three other men; as for Gibbs, he was probably busy looking for men crazy enough to sail with them. She had to stifle a yawn, a warning that it was high time she went to bed if she didn't want to look and feel like a freshly dug-up corpse in the morning. But first, for the Salty Clam—and a hot bath.
The brothel was only two streets away, a little further away from the waterfront than the Faithful Bride. Easily recognized by the traditional red lantern next to its door, the house stood on a street corner. It was patronized by a slightly higher class of scum than the one that visited the Wet Seal, the town's other brothel, which stood right in front of the docks. Inside, it was just as lively as the tavern, if in a very different way. No brawl there—Émilie Moreau, the madam, didn't tolerate violence in her establishment, something about which Cole, the burly man standing at the end of the short entrance hallway with his arms crossed on his barrel-like chest, reminded the clients by his presence alone.
"Buona notte, Cole," Isabella said pleasantly as she passed him.
"Miss Bella," the doorman replied with a respectful nod.
In the drawing room that took up most of the ground floor, the air rang with the prostitutes' laughter and their clients' loud gaiety. A few little tables made up of upright barrels fitted with crude round wooden tops stood here and there with two or three stools around them. Cheap sofas and armchairs, their stained upholsteries hidden underneath worn cushions and rumpled covers, sat near the walls and crowded the narrow shadowy alcoves. To the left, a staircase led to the bedrooms and there was a bar at the back, near the door to Émilie's private quarters. Faded red draperies were fixed to the walls, hanging in elegant folds, and threadbare rugs were scattered over the floor. Two small brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling; their candles, made of sperm whale oil instead of tallow, burnt without stench and bathed the room in a warm light.
Over a dozen men were there, sitting around the tables or lounging in the sofas, delighted by the women pressed against them and perched on their laps, all bright smiles and inviting caresses, bare arms and loosened stays. The drinks they held in their free hands probably also contributed to their good mood. When Isabella didn't spot Émilie in the room, she headed for her office, weaving between the tables and answering the cheerful greetings of the women who noticed her with smiles and nods.
"Come for a bath, Bella?" Joanna, a voluptuous brunette with a sharp tongue, asked teasingly when the Brine-Tongue passed her.
"One day, I'll only come for the pleasure of your company, I promise," Isabella shot back with a wry smile.
"I can't wait for that day."
The Italian pirate laughed and went on her way. Once she was at the door, she knocked and waited to hear "Enter!" before opening it and stepping into Émilie's private parlour and office. The madam was sitting at her desk, located at the back of the room between two windows with their red drapes closed. A little round table surrounded by three padded chairs stood between it and the door, and a couple of sofas and armchairs were artistically arranged around the room; a vase containing a large bouquet of flowers stood on a scratched console table and a small liquor cabinet was tucked in a corner. A few thin rugs and a plain brass chandelier completed the furniture of the room. Émilie looked up from her desk and the ledger in which she was writing and smiled when she saw Isabella.
"Bonsoir, ma belle," she greeted the pirate, rising from her seat.
"Buona notte, Émilie," Isabella replied cheerfully as she closed the door and removed her hat.
The madam left her desk and walked up to her visitor, her plum-coloured gown swishing with each step. She was a tall plump woman in her mid-forties, though there wasn't a single grey strand in her thick black hair. She hid the marks that age and twenty years as a prostitute in Tortuga had left on her once-beautiful face under a layer of white paint and rouge. Her blue eyes, however, had lost none of their sharpness—Isabella had long since learnt never to underestimate Émilie's shrewd intelligence and keen perceptiveness.
"You seem to be in high spirits tonight," Émilie commented, leading Isabella to a sofa on which they sat down.
"I ran into a friend I thought dead," the Brine-Tongue explained. "She was with my parents when... Well, you know."
It had only been a year since she had decided to trust the madam with her identity and her story, though not with her powers—that was a pirate secret. Before that, she had applied the same principle than with Gibbs—the fewer people knew she was alive, the better. Émilie was discreet, as anyone in her profession ought to be, and she never drank excessively, which considerably limited the risk of her accidentally spilling out Isabella's secrets. And, of course, she knew that it wasn't in her best interest to get on the pirate's bad side.
"Good for you. True friends are hard to come by." A sly smile. "For a moment, I thought you'd finally gotten the release you've been needing for years but you look more exhausted than usual, and not in a good way."
"Considering the men whose company I keep, I'm probably better off not sleeping with them," the Brine-Tongue pointed out laughingly. "I might become a walking bundle of sexual frustration but, at least, I won't catch the Great Pox... or the clap... or crab lice... or... well, you get the point."
Émilie burst out laughing, a rich warm sound that had surprised Isabella the first time she had heard it.
"Yes, I do... But tell me, why so tired? Has something happen?"
In a few sentences, Isabella related what had transpired in Port Royal. Learning that magical curses did in fact exist disturbed Émilie quite a bit but she wasn't long to regain her composure. Her mind, tempered in hardship and tenacity, was a lot harder to break than most.
"Be careful, ma belle," she said once Isabella had finished her story. "I know Hector, perhaps better than most. There was a time when he would always ask for me whenever he came here... That was before I took over the house, of course." She adjusted her bodice. "He's not one to bargain when he can simply take what he wants. Better make sure you hold all the cards... or enough of them that he'll be forced to negotiate."
Isabella opened her mouth to voice her approval but her words were smothered by the huge yawn that escaped her.
"I think that's enough talking for tonight," Émilie laughed. "You'll need all your energy to parley with Captain Barbossa." She stood up and started for the door to the drawing room. "You stay right here, I'll have someone fill the tub."
The noise from the brothel became louder when she opened the door, then faded when she closed it behind her. With a drawn-out sigh, Isabella let her head fall back against the back of the sofa and stretched out her legs one after the other. Her thoughts wandered to the next morning and she started wondering what kind of sailors Gibbs would manage to find on such short notice. She grimaced and quickly abandoned that line of thought—much too depressing.
"Maybe I'll be pleasantly surprised," she murmured to herself before letting out a half-sardonic, half-disillusioned snort.
That was a good one.
Well? Well?! How was it? No, really, I can't wait to hear your opinions! I really hope you liked Amara because she is, beside Izzy, one of my main OCs. You'll be seeing a lot more of her later, after the Curse of the Back Pearl arc ends. And also a little more of Emilie, who'll have a role to play when Isabella and James meet again, but that's for much later. Spoilers~
You now know a little more about what happened with Isabella's brother and the circumstances in which Jack saved her life. She will tell the story in more detail later, when she tells it to... a certain someone. But, again, that's for much later. Next order of business: the journey to Isla de Muerta and dealing with Barbossa. Izzy and Jack have A Plan but will it go smoothly? Pretty sure you can already guess the answer to that...
Translation:
- naturalmente = naturally
- pezzo di merda = piece of shit
- buona notte = good night
- bonsoir, ma belle = good evening, beautiful