CHAPTER - Befuddled Dreams
(Sorry everyone having problems getting this to load! I am a total idiot when it comes to computers.)
Frederick woke on the couch with a start. His head was splitting. How…What?. A blanket of wool was thrown over him. A mostly empty bottle of whiskey on its side, at the foot of the couch, a spilled glass lying next to it that somehow missed the Persian rug. Grey light seeped through the crack in the curtain.
Not the first time this had happened since… well, the war, since putting ashore, and since bad nights. His head throbbed so bad his nose felt as if it were about to bleed. Too many nights like this in Portsmouth, after the fighting and peace declared; too many nights like this in Lyme after Louisa's fall; always wondering if he had not caught her on purpose or had he just been distracted as Bennick's hand hovered towards Anne's face and that rebel strand of hair playing in the wind?
He lay there, confused, head pounding. He didn't remember falling asleep on the couch.
What he remembered breaking glass, blood flying, a fight… the scream of … No- that was only a violent nightmare, a ghost of a dream. It could only be. He glanced around the room, all was normal.
There was no old sword anywhere, there was no overturned furniture. There was no broken glass scattered on the carpet, no broken window, and no head of some creature… lying at his feet. No… white faced Anne Elliott standing by him, silent, a hand to her mouth, unblinking as she stared at him with a look in her face of pure love.
There had been no John Boyle in the park, there had been no wizards duelling, he had not brought home an unconscious child. He'd not sat up late in the library mulling things over, trying to understand things he could not really believe -startling things -ncluding Anne's hurt lost look. No, He'd he had not looked up into the the window and had not seen a horrible form looking pounding to get in, magics flashing with each beat of the creatures fists against glass that would not break, its magical defences strong. He'd definitely not leapt up, grabbed a glowing blue sword, shouted at Anne and Elizabeth Elliott to flee. He'd definitely had not turned to see both Jones and Long rush in, wands in hand, magical spells shouted at the monster.
In the dream the defensive magics failed, the beast burst through the window, glass shards flying. Massive and human form, scaled and hairy too, a face that was a nightmare, leapt through roaring. He'd not seen the beast stagger under hits of magic thrown by wands, magic thrown by Elizabeth standing behind the couch. He'd not seen the beast fall, then launch itself again at them. He'd not glimpsed Ann Elliott starting to draw up a great curse behind him, eyes closed in concentration, mouth working. Only in a dream had he leapt forward, swiped at the scaled and glistening monster, stinking of the sludge flowing through Bath's sewers. A swipe of a clawed hand catching his free arm, cutting deep, that had been a dream. He'd spun, and turned it into a thrust and a swipe, his sword arm flashing, taking off the creatures head.
That all had only been just a nightmare. He rolled over and dry heaved. Nothing came up.
He glanced around. There, in the morning light there was only a whiskey bottle lying its side on the floor, mostly empty, wrinkled clothes from the day before on his body, a stubbled jaw. A gorgeous Persian rug, no blood, no stains. No sword, no sign of his beloved Ann having even been here.
It all had only just been dreams.
Nor had he ever set out to hurt her. Sophia surely had never rented Kellynch Hall with the Admiral, he'd not found himself living in Her house. Frederick had never deliberately tortured herAnne by toying with a silly and selfish country girl. Too, he'd not ever written Anne that letter, because they had never sat at the White Hart separated by a sea of hurt. He'd never asked Anne to marry him, and she'd not accepted.
He would get up, walk out into the hallway of this particular house on Bath's Gay Street, and Sophia would be breakfasting there, looking through the list of the costermongers offer, and she would say, "Oh, brother, not again? Another Not another late night with a bottle and book?" Soph would look at him with that intense look of sadness, love and concern, that look that always felt like a punch in his gut, and as always he'd just grunt at her as he passed by.
He rose, the hall was empty. The sun high already and he stumbled towards his room. Falling into bed in his clothes he was asleep before his vest hit the floor.
Waking to a pounding head, aching body he rolled over and groaned. Ignoring the dried blood on the sleeve of his shirt he pulled off yesterdays' clothes. He didn't bother to ring the bell, a basin of water had been left there with cup of coffee next to it. Both were now cold. He took care of both, the cold water waking him. He noticed cuts on his arm, not deep, puckered around the edges. He must have been drunker than normal last night, couldn't remember how he got those horizontal gashes that still seeped a bit of blood.
He pulled on clean but well used pants and a shirt, didn't bother to button the shirt all the way up, didn't bother with a neckcloth, nor with shoes, just some thick wool sox. Since Sophie was not home, he was free rules.
He did, at least, run his fingers through his black hair. Had to be slightly respectable for the cook. Maybe he'd get it cut in the new fashion this week, seemed men wore it much shorter than the Navy did. He pulled it back in a loose but sloppy pony tail. He ignored the odd white strands.
The sun had already moved low in the western sky. Damn, Anne must think him… wait - there was no Anne, there had been no fighting wizards, the boy who was a girl did not exist, nor had there been that creature forcing its way in last night.
He would not drink… today. This week even, maybe it was time to give up the bottle, find religion like Edward had. He chuckled over the image of himself as a country curate. Maybe Sophie was right. Cut out drinking and think about what comes next – maybe go work for a merchant marine, sailing back and forth between England and the Baltic ports, hauling lumber and furs.
The house was quiet, empty. Clean. No broken furniture anywhere. No dead body of some man-monster.
Music echoed from below as he padded silently down the servant's stairs. The sound of fiddle and accordion rising up the stairwell, voices in song. As he turned the final turn to the service level he heard a loud swear and shout, and the sound of things falling, pots and pans, then laughter. Quietly he padded over to the the servants dining room just off of the cavernous kitchens.
He froze. Sitting, as if she had just fallen, full on the table, as if she had just fallen, was the girl who had been a the boy from his dreams.
She was dressed again like a boy, in her the heavy blue pants and the multi-couloured silk-like shirt from his dream. Her feet were bare too, except for sox, and scattered all around her on the table, rolled pots and pans. Her face was split in surprised laughter. Short, fat honey coloured curls flopped around her head. Her eyes were hazel, cheeks high and sharp, her nose pointy, Freckles freckles splashed across her cheeks. She couldn't be more than eleven. The smile, the laughing eyes looked familiar, reminded him of someone he knew well.
"OK," she snorted, "I can't juggle as many as I thought!"
Croft's old crew, no, the servants, were laughing uproariously. Mrs. Rickets, the cook, leaned in the doorway to the kitchen, laughing hard, pressing her round face into her short husband's shoulder, his arm pulling her tight against him. Long, holding a fiddle, was doubled over with laughter, while Carter, the driver, his wooden leg up on table, red faced was covered with tears of laughter, his accordion forgotten. A tall dark-skinned woman, sitting next to him in a mob cap and rough grey-blue dress pounded her fist into the table, smothering a laugh, and protecting her small beer from the rolling pots. Jones and White doubled over laughing. Beer mugs were all around on the table, some fallen.
The only one missing was tiny Deepa Ma, the Admiral's cook from India.
Suddenly it hit him like a blow to the belly.
If that child were here… if she/he were there, then there had been that thing at the window. There had been Anne going to sleep in the best guest room. There had been the letter at the White Hart, she had accepted his proposal -this time… they were to be married, and there had been a battle in the dark.
There had been a sword and a monster in the night. His stomach roiled. His head throbbed more, he needed coffee.
A lull, as they all grabbed breath, and he quietly coughed. "Any coffee…?" The quiet, deadly voice all crew could hear across the boards of a ship as a captain whispered.
Sudden surprised looks, and all jumped to attention, saluting, except for the girl and the unknown woman.
He returned a casual, sloppy, salute. "I see we have guests, and they're receiving a hearty naval welcome."
Long, ever the spokesman, coughed "Yes sir, Miss Mooro here was hungry, and followed Nurse Rooke down. Figured they'd stay down here and chat."
Looking at the child on the table, he could replace that face with any of the squeakers or young midshipmen on any of the boats he'd ever served. More than one had fallen slightly drunk while dancing on tables. He too had done so, at that age, more than once.
"Mister Moreau," if she were dressed as a boy, she'd be treated as a boy, "While on the Good Ship Gay Street, dancing on the tables is not allowed."
The child scampered down guiltily. Long and Carter looked even more guilty, they knew better. Sophie would skin both of them if she caught wind of it. Dancing, yes, "On the stairs, on the floors, on the benches, but not the tables!" he could hear her his sister roaring. "But NOT on the tables!"
"Sir, Cap'n, sir. Cap'n Harville and Mr. Musgrove called this afternoon. Too Miss Anne and.." Ricketts started.
Frederick held up a hand, growled, "Hold. Silence." All went silent, watching him. "Ricketts, get me that head ache powder, Mrs. Ricketts, coffee please, and …
"Some oatmeal sir, had it waiting for you. Bread baked fresh too, fresh butter."
He smiled, as she turned away to get coffee. "Long, who is this woman?"
"Rooke, sir. Nurse Rooke. Miss Anne hired her…"
"Rooke, how is our patient?"
Keen eyes met his, eyes that had seen the world, its hurts and its good. "The scamp is fine. Weak, but fine."
The woman had clued into his decision to treat the visitor as a boy, until… whenever. Good sign. He'd keep her signed on. Always could use quick crew.
He nodded, settled in front of a place Ricketts set for him at the head of the long, scrubbed table. The sailors sat back down around him, quiet, eyes watching keenly for a captains mood. The child plopped as far from him as possible. Small beers were righted in front of them all. The coffee and powder for his head arrived together. He'd interview the girl and Rooke alone.
"Thank you, men, Mrs. Rickettes, Nurse, for the silence. Now, Long, can you bring me up to speed on the day. And last night? We had a visitor I believe. Left something behind?" He hoped.
"Repaired the window. Body of said intruder dealt with. Miss Anne and the ka… Miss Elliott - left to buy some items, they said. Nurse engaged by Miss Anne. The boy," he said, also taking Frederick's cue, "was well enough to come down looking for food and drink."
His eyes flicked to Nurse Rooke, to the child. Frederick nodded, he'd speak to Long alone.
Long interjected, "Sir, Note from your sister. The Admiral's brother passed. They arrived in time."
The nurse and Jones crossed themselves.
"Damn. Well, good, they made it in time." He swallowed the powder, sipped his coffee to choke it down. The light of the watery late afternoon sun even down here was too bright.
"Too, Sir, Harville called, with Musgrove. A card was left by Admiral McGillv.."
"Thank you." He cut off Long. "Ladies, men, my head is not…".
A small voice pipped up "Uh, mister, do you know what happened to my wan…"
"Sailor," Long, Croft's old bosun, roared, "We never interrupt a captain when he speaks."
The child pulled back frightened, but then mumbled. "This is important. The sword…"
The child was not without courage.
"Silence." Frederick growled, glaring at her. She shrank in her seat more. "We will talk."
Nurse Rooke laid a hand on the child's shoulder, leant over and whispered. "Hush love, you're turn will come."
"Anything else to report besides that?"
Long eyed him, a sparkle of humour in his face. "The ladies will be returning." Longs look at him was clear, a message sent and recieved of "Captain, you look … no better than a common sailor on leave in a port town after a rough night."
Frederick nodded. "Crew, prepare to be …, uhm, receive guests. Long, I will want a bath."
"Receive guests? Haaar. Boarded by the cat you mean?" He heard either Jones or White whisper to the other.
A discreet snort from another of the crew."Prepare to repel them."
If Frederick didn't feel so stomach sick, he'd say something, but settled for a quiet order, "Just go and prepare to be invaded. I want all ship shape when they arrive."
A scraping of chairs, and multiple "Ayes…"
"Mrs. Ricketts, Nurse Rooke,…" This would be delicate. He glared at the child. "May I speak to the child alone?"
In proper society, in the lofty circles of Bath, of the Elliotts', the Dalyrimples, that of Anne and her sister, he could not speak to a girl child of this age alone. God, he missed naval life.
Nurse Rooke sat up straighter, looked him in the eye. "Sir, Miss Anne told me to tell you that I can hear all. I have been apprised of the full situation by Miss Anne." She looked at him hard, "Everything."
Silence. He sipped his coffee and looked at the dark-skinned woman. Mulattoo? Octaroon? Hers was the faintest accent of the West Indies. How did Anne know of her? There was even more to his quiet fiancée then she let on to.
Mrs. Rickets, poured him more coffee, and plus herself some. She sat at his elbow. "Youse knows, sir, how the boys talk, Sir. Miss Anne brought me into the circle before their rumour mill could start in h'erntest. Bout everything everythin' too sir." Her eyes were big, still trying to process that there was a wizard child in the house and that something had tried to get in last night.
He, for the life of him, could not understand what the big, capable, smart woman saw in the tiny, skinny, bumbling Rickets. There was true love and respect between the two, and on both sides, but if he was honest, he'd rather have Mrs., than Mr. Rickets, on his next ship. She'd was deadly with a pastry pin. He ignored rumours of her having been a gun captain under Croft.
A quiet peep from down the child raised her hand in a strange manner, and looked at him with beseeching eyes. "Captain. Guy, Mister, Sir, Whatever. My wand. Did you find a wand?! No one seems to know…" The child's voice was on the edge of panic, her accent he could not identify. Not British, but clear spoken English, fast and flat.
The hazy memories, or was that dreams of the night, the day before flooded him. Of things that shouldn't be. Trying to think about them made his head pound even more, pound so hard his stomach heaved. The memories the night before that, and the tensions, the worry of the weeks before that. Concentrate on this, he said. Just this. Right here, right now. Like the pain in his head that made him think his nose was bleeding.
"Your wand is safe. The Miss Elliotts' will return you your wand when they see fit." His voice barely over a whisper. It hurt to talk. The girl glowered at him, her breathing shallow. "First things, sailor. Your name, rank, home port."
The kid sat up. "Mia Moreau, student. Home Port… originally, Nunivut. I guess now, 'ogwarts."
His raised his eyebrow in question. Neither place meant anything to him. She looked at him like he was dumb.
"Iqualuit? The Arctic Islands of Russo-Canada? And Hogwarts. You know Hogwarts… everyone does. Up in Scotland."
"Arctic Islands? The Arctic is a single landmass, a continent, covered by ice. There are no islands." He said firmly, stating the latest facts the British Naval Survey had released.
The child looked more stricken. "Sir, guy. Uh, Captain. Uh… what year is this?"
"February, 1815."
The child blanched. "No wonder your house doesn't speak. And no toilet paper. Stupid dresses for women. And No vid… The Eye ain't watching you either."
The three adults looked at her, understanding nothing.
"You don't even have washrooms." The child spat, as if they were primitives from a tropical forest.
"We have do have wash basins." snipped Mrs. Ricketts, "which you could use. No need to pee in the garden like a savage. And the day girls deal with the dirty linens."
"Mr. Moreau, when should this be… ? when When did you think this was?"
"2089. Well, should be. That's when I am from." With a forlorn look she put her head on the table and started shivering. Nurse Rooke laid a hand on the small girls shoulder, then hugged her close, looked at him for permission. He nodded.
In a calm voice, soothing, she said "Cook Rickets, please if you may, a good strong broth to be sent up to Mr. Moreau's room. Captain, sir, excuse me, I'll take the child up…" The girls face was wet when they rose, all the earlier fiery spark gone from her eyes.
Finally, he was alone with hot buttered toast as the three slipped away. He stared at his scratches that would not stop oozing blood. Hogwarts - did the child mean the Castle Collegium of Hogarth's of the wizards, north of the Scottish border, the sister school to Hogarth College at Cambridge?
Suddenly, a trilled "Ello, anyone home? Or did all the rats abandon ship here?" He cringed, his headache flaring. Miss Elizabeth Elliotts voice, faking the accent of a commoner.
He looked at his clothes, shirt mis-buttoned, one sock slipping to a rumpled mess on a foot, felt his stubbled chin. Said, to no one but the dust motes floating in a sunbeam in particular, "Damn."
Chapter – A Darker Future
He sat back in the winged backed chair near the fire, darkness beyond the crack of the curtain, just the three of them in the library. Ann looked at him, then at Elizabeth, a guilty and worried look on her face.
"Frederick, I am sorry. Long shouldn't have hit you with a forgetting spell, but… we didn't realize you'd been scratched by the grean-dhal."
Elizabeth laughed. "Besides, what does that broken down jack tar know of healing magics? Surprised he didn't give you warts."
His headache, his stomach sickness, had faded when Anne and Elizabeth together whispered "Yaghhee" and flicked their fingers at him. With a sudden wave of a clearing head, memory flooded in, memories of the last evening, of the past day, two days, two weeks, six weeks, the three months came flooding back. In there there was so much he would have preferred to have kept forgotten. Louisa Musgrove for one. He reached out, grabbed Ann's fingers.
"Oh god, Ann, forgive me…"
"Ever the lover." Elizabeth snipped. "So …"
"Fuck off, Elizabeth." He spat out, forgetting himself. Let the Cat think he was, indeed, the coarse naval type. Sophia would have slapped him hard if she were here.
Turning back to Anne, "Forgive me." He looked yearningly into Ann's eyes. Ann sucked her breath in, his look startled her. He truly meant it, he wanted her, Ann Elliott, to forgive him for the years apart, the little tragedy of Louisa, even for swearing at E. But he deserved her forgiveness...
"Please."
Anne reached out, cupped his face with her hands, surprised at how rough his face felt, unshaved. She was startled by his… undress, wanted to… to… where were her thoughts headed? What answer to give him? She leant forward instead, and just kissed him. Would he understand she had forgiven him utterly, already?
A retching sound from Elizabeth. "Must you two be so…. gross?"
Anne looked up, smiled and said, "Liza, shut up."
Elizabeth, seemed pleased to have her childhood name resuscitated, looked at the two severely. "See, Dear Captain Dog, a few days among the Naval type and my sister's behaviour becomes quite coarse, common and wanton."
Frederick pulled Anne to his lap. No kiss, instead he pressed her head against his chest, held her tight against him. Startled, she tried to pull away, but he held her firm. She, prisoner in his arms, relaxed, her cheek feeling the beat of his heart through the thin lawn of his shirt.
He grinned and his voice rumbled in his chest, "Ladies, no time for squabbling. And if you don't start, Elizabeth Elliott, telling me what is going on, I will get quite wanton. I'll make sure it is indeed quite… gross."
His voice was rough, tired. Anne could feel the warmth of his skin against her cheek, the beat of the blood in his neck. She'd never been, since a small child, near a man whose buttons were slightly undone, without a waistcoat nor a neckcloth wrapped and tied in fancy knots. She blushed.
A knock on the door, and Long entered, followed by Moreau and Nurse Rooke. If Anne hadn't glanced at Long at just that moment she would have missed the raised eye brow and a smiling wink Long shot at Frederick. She tried not to be shocked by naval behavior.
Long and Nurse Rooke stood by the door, but with a small cry, the girl leapt forward.
"Mr. Captain, Sir." Moreau threw up some sort of sloppy mimicked salute.
"I gotta really get my wand and that sword… I thinks I can…" she reached out and grabbed Frederick's hand.
"Mr. Moreau, we do not interrupt our betters." The ex-bosun grabbed her by the collar, pulled her back. Ann was startled how well an the tall man could imitate an upperclass accent, almost aristocratic.
"What d'ya mean? Better? He - a better wizard than me? I don't think so, buddy boy." Mia said, pulling free and glaring at the big man. " I got nothing but Firsts and my blood's pretty pure. That's why I got this mission. I didn't see him beating off those death hunters."
Ann, startled, sat straight. Did she feel Frederick snort in laughter at the glare little Mia gave the big man?
Nurse Rooke stated flatly "Mr. Moreau, here, in this place and this time, unless you are the aristocracy, you stay silent, and wait for your betters – those above you in society, including adults - to speak first."
"Why?" She the child asked, simple curiosity.
"Because, child," Elizabeth voice was surprisingly gentle. "The world hasn't quite changed yet. Civil rights… is still something far, far in the future. Womens' rights? Haa. Rights for the Irish? Quite bigger Haa."
Elizabeth sat back, looked at Frederick with a challenge in her eyes, but a slow, laconic voice said, "The Scots? Catholics? Rights for lower class men? Not even a dream yet. Slavery is still in. Indenture, impressment –fancy words for the slavery of British whites, that's still in. Power here is held only by rich MEN, by the aristocracy, by the right of kings…. with the threat of death, violence to any uppity lower person - and their family. Power like that is enforced by the aristocracy's goons- the king's Navy and Army."
Frederick sucked his breath in -was he just a brigand keeping a warlord in power?
Suddenly like a little terrier the child grabbed Elizabeth. "That isn't right!" Mia shouted, chin jutting out. "It's like the way they treated women in that bad time. Men thought they weren't no good for nothing back in them bad old days, except having babies. My time's way way better."
Ann sighed, "Elizabeth, see what you started?"
Elizabeth smiled, teeth barred at Ann and Frederick. She knealt down in front of a teary eyed but fierce Mia. "Darling child, them bad old days is now." Elizabeth's voice was gentle.
Much to Ann's surprise, her sister hugged the child. "We Ladies of breeding... what, we ladies have a vocation, work? We Ladies ... think? We ladies have original ideas? That we … the need to grow as humans, men think is utter rubbish." Elizabeth's voice was quiet, gentle, and rich in sarcasm. "We have needs to grow? Haa. I don't think so, at least not in this damn wretched place and time."
She said it with a gentle bitterness that cut Frederick to the core. He looked at the three women, glanced at Long. Longs face was thoughtful, his eyes resting on Elizabeth. Were women's lives so terrible? Was there so little in the world for them? Were not just children enough for them? Would he become bitter, uneducated, unable to act in the world?
"Oh, what I would give for a cigarette and a cocktail, right now. And a pen." E sighed. She quirked a smile at the child. "And a room of my own."
Suddenly Mia smiled. "I know that one. Virginia Wolfe."
Elizabeth hugged her. Mouthed to Anne and Frederick, "Be gentle, she's lost."
Long smiled. "Madam tea is …" He waved at the freshly arrived tea pot.
"Exactly, it's cocktail hour somewhere. Bring me the drink tray." Elizabeth ordered, standing up.
"No…" Frederick said, in his best captain's voice. "I want to know what is going on."
Mia burst in. "I got that sword… to bring to February 17. We need that sword… in 2089 -to save the world."
"Well, yesterday was February 17, 1815." Anne let that sink into the child's mind. "Who were you to give that sword too? " She gently asked.
"I … don't know." The child started to cry. "I'm… just the Bearer, not the Presenter. The Finder died. The Presenter died." She sat down suddenly on a foot stool, her face lost.
Nurse Rooke pulled the child to her, smothering her face in her robes, holding her close, as the Mia's shoulders heaved. The adults looked at each other.
"Long, give the girl a brandy." Elizabeth said, settling. "with cream, sugar too. Then you can make me a cocktail."
The bosun/butler raised his brow, glanced Frederick.
"Hop to it." Frederick said,exasperated, snapped. "While the ladies are here - until Sophie returns, they are the mistresses of the house. Follow orders."
"Aye sir." Long nodded, knuckling his forehead with a long suffering look. He turned and mixed a drink for Mia, mostly cream, the tiniest splash of illegal French brandy, and gently gave put it into the girl's shaking hands.
"A cocktail Miss Elliott? Would you mean a slop of boozes just splashed together? Meant for the cock and the tail?"
Frederick choked back a roar at Long, just for the worth watching the look Elizabeth gave the man. Brothel talk was not allowed upon the Good Ship Gay Street -even downstairs.
He would talk read Sophie's Naval Rules to the man after this, though. With some of his own added in.
Mia piped up, still not tasting the cream in front of her. "Stupid stuff like that. That's why this place - this time- sucks. No equality. No rights. No streaming. No v-games. Why does Long get ordered around? He's the best of you. He's smart. Capable."She wiped her eyes. "But at least there's horses. Can we go pet some?" Her voice cracked as she said that.
Anne went and hugged her, pulled her into her lap.
A sniffled sob from the girl. "And that stupid dress. Why do you wear dresses? I suppose I got to say thank you for getting it for me, but I h'ain't wearing it."
"And why not?" Elizabeth asked, her voice harsh. The small dress had cost the Elliott girls money they did not have, despite buying it from a discreet reseller of dresses.
"No dress? Want to be a young gentleman? Well in that case, Mister Moreau, you learn to play the part of a good midshipman and start to listen to orders." Frederick rumbled. "First Order -– No no crying. Second Order: Answer Questions. How can we get you and your sword to your time?"
The child took a sip of the pale cream drink. Made a face, then decided she liked it, took another sip. Long handed Elizabeth a cocktail. She raised an eyebrow at him, possibly in appreciation, looking at a layered concoction of alcohols, sipped it.
Moreau said in a small voice "My history is a bit shaky. I'm only in Secondary-II – they advanced me cause I'm smart." The girl said proudly.
"So, if this is February 1815… let's see. That means Napoleon still kicking around I think. And kings still. But not for long."
"By 2070 climate change… pollution, overpopulation have ruined the earthEarth. The seas are dead. There's been a really big die off of species. And, since the 2060s, humans too. Dying off. The great Extinction Collapse. C. difficile hitting us hard, then too the rise of the zombies with that mess up by DoD, Homeland Security and Glaxo-Kline, those creepy "Forever-ists". The Death Seekers, see, they like that, they like all the dying, the confusion, they like the zombies. Figure they can build a new world order. They drink souls, people say, too. Going We're going to total environmental collapse. Got some spaceships being built up at the Station. The Mind and the Eye thinks we've got jump-gates nailed, can move on, find new places."
Nothing she was saying meant anything, nor made any sense to Frederick. It was as if she were speaking Greek but using English words. Anne, Long and even Elizabeth looked confused. Rooke just looked horror stuck.
"What are you saying? What…" Frederick started to say, thinking how empty the world was, how wide the seas were, how full of life, of birds and fish whales and sharks. He'd sailed through seas where their ships had struggled to get through the pressing masses of fish playing on the surface around them. Why in places, men could almost walk over fish. Many of the other words the girl had used were just meaningless sound to him.
"Hush Captain." Elizabeth ordered, taking his earlier dictate that she was mistress of the house, to include him. Very unladylike she leant forward and put her elbows on her knees, like a sailor about to recount a tale, her ample bosom threatening to spill out. "Continue, child. What about the sword."
"The Seer, she said I needed to get the sword to February 17. I thought she meant our- my year. The Death-Seekers don't want us… to use it. They want the sword to stay hidden. Kimi Ohura died getting it from that lake."
The girl pressed her eyes shut, with the heels of her hands, as if she were trying to drive away a vision. Anne sucked in her breath, she had seen Frederick doing the same when he thought no one was looking, when a particularly bad memory hit him.
"She said Hannie W would be the Cutter. Hannie and Joe was captured by the DS…" her voice got quiet. "We- don't know -if she's still alive."
"So you need to get this sword to a person named Hannie, who you do not know if they are alive, in your time." Frederick said. "To save the world from the… Death Seekers."
The child nodded miserably. Frederick sat back, steepled his fingers. That was a heavy load for such tiny shoulders. He'd seen that same hopeless and scared look on squeakers and young mid-shipmen as the enemy ships came over the horizon.
"We will… help. In every way we can." Frederick rumbled quietly. He surprised himself when he said that, had no idea how they could help. Keep the kid and the sword safe, - at least for the moment, he supposed until they thought of something.
Nurse Rooke looked up, stared at Elizabeth who nodded. The woman takeing that as permission asked, "Why don't the Old Ones do this… rather than child wizards?"
"There are no Old Ones. Hannie's got some pretty pure blood though."
Anne and Rooke hissed, Long dropped a cup with a clatter on a tray. "No Old Ones? What… can you be saying?"
Rooke and Long, both stricken, glanced at each other, faces pale. Frederick was confused.
Elizabeth leaned back, held out her glass to Long. He took it, turned back to the drink trolley, poured another. Was there a tremor in the usually collected man's hands?
Elizabeth took a sip. "August of 1945 … I could never travel further than Aug 5th of that year. None of us can."
"Why?" Frederick asked.
"I don't know…"
"The Bomb, miss." Mia's voice was small.
"The big bombs … Hiroshima, Nagasaki…. Atomics. They ended something…. . They killed the magic of the Old Ones somehow. It was like the blowing out of a candle by sudden gust, they sucked up the ancient magic from the Old Ones with them."
She sniffled. In an exhausted voices she mumbled, "Then that big spat between China, India and the United North America. 2032."
Still on his lap, Anne could feel Frederick breathing shallowly. She'd seen his horror, his utter gut- fear with flashing lights of the wands as the wizards fought, masked by his pure bravery. She remembers remembered his fright during lightning storms, even back in '06, brave despite his terror, but she remembered catching such visceral deep fear in his body as he protected her, not thinking of himself.
"A single bomb that can destroy a city?" Frederick's face was stricken, as if he were remembering a bombing of a city. "What's atomic? 1945? Only 130 years hence? One like that could be used on London?"
The child was silent, then miserably mumbled, "The Battle of Britain - everyone kept waiting for the Germans to hit London with one of those first. The American's beat the Germans to the trigger- they hit Japan with one. Ended WWII with it."
Ann sat up straight, her mind working. "We need to stop this…" Standing, she let go of Frederick's hand, went to the library desk and pulled out Mia's purplish wand, using paper to protect it from her fingers. When she handed it to Mia, who looked relieved, safer, happier.
Frederick, his face white, said, "We can only attack… from here. From now. With what we know. And I need to know more."
Turning, he looked at Long and at Rooke. "First of all, what are you two."
"Seriously Frederick? You haven't figured it out?" Elizabeth snorted. "Puh-lease, and you play at being oh so smart."
"No, dear Cat." Frederick spat, Ann sucked in her breath, Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. Direct hit.
"No, I haven't figured it out." He took a drink. "But I have come to the realization that these two are wizards as well as Jones. Long… have you always been one?"
Long stood taller. "Yars, sir. As is Carter. The Capn's wife, well - the Admiral's wife now - she seemed to have an eye for.. us kind. She…." The man suddenly looked bashful. "She recruited his crews, ya knows."
Frederick nodded, tried to ignore Ann's sudden interest. Sophie had an excellent eye for the best crew, even if the package it came in seemed a bit coarse or was even broken. He had known that Sophie had been very active in shipboard operations, probably one of the reasons Will had been so successful a captain. Not one, but two captains on that ship, and he knew where Will's orders came from. A rumour had got to Frederick's ears that she even worked as a gunner captain below boards when need rose. He'd absolutely refused to listen to the one about her being part of boarding parties, had never asked her about a particular scar. He had preferred to think she got that mishandling scissors to make a dress; at least, that is what he told others, thought it most likely it came from repelling borders.
His own crews had always been top notch as well. With a shiver, he realized that he too, had always looked for something special when he searched for crew, choosing on the docks, in the quotas, or even the dreaded impressments. There was just a little something that would catch his attention in a man's bearing, a boy's gaze, a carter's voice. Something in his belly that would say to him, Chose that one. How many wizards had he had on working on his own boards?
Looking back, there were actions where he and his ships should not have come out of. The ship should have sank or been ruined; but somehow it didn't founder, somehow blazing cannoned balls missed masts and sheets and ship sides, seemed to go off course as cannons fired upon them, the spars and masts might break, but were so quickly fixed. Sniper's bullets always went wide, thrusts of knives and swords never bit too deep. Frederick's ship always floating at the end of an action, maybe demasted, while other ships on the line sank around him, or burned to the water line as crew screamed in agony.
Frederick shivered again.
Had the Navy or Whitehall known? Frederick thought it was just him, thought that he was a good captain with nothing to loose; a captain with brains, with cunning and ambition and an excellent lively class frigate in the Lacona - plus blessed with a large dose of luck.
But then there had been the Asp. Broyle had been right. It should have sunk… not too far from Portsmouth either. He had wanted it to sink in 1806. He had wanted to go to the bottom, and even wanted to be damned for taking others with him, innocent crew. Had magic held the Asp together, had magic been his luck?
Elizabeth's snort interrupted his musing.
"Brother-to-be, you are so arrogant, so self-certain, by the way, and so wilfully stupid sometimes." Elizabeth voice was cold as she sipped her drink.
"Rooke, is a wizard, Jones a wizard. Long, a wizard."
She leant back languidly on the seat, stared at him, "And too, one Frederick Wentworth, post captain of the Royal Navy, is a wizard. Else wise you could not have wielded that sword last night - nor slain a grean-dahl."