Disclaimer: Don't own anything.
Chapter 1—The Answer to the Second Question
Captain Jack Sparrow lowered the spyglass, tilted his head back and expressed deep thought with every line of his slight body. A heartbeat later a gold-and-white grin spread across his face. He handed the glass to Gibbs and swung himself over to the wheel.
"Bring her to, gents!" Jack shouted cheerfully, and the ragged crew on watch sprang to the sails. The Black Pearl rode motionless, waiting, and Jack held her steady against the waves and wind.
Ana Maria glowered at his back as she slouched against the rail. After a moment Jack turned to give her a sideways look and grinned again.
"We've no need of guns, love," he said. "With one sight of your charming face, they'll be sure to surrender."
"Damn—"
"Their hearts, I mean, of course—"
"Damn fool, and this is a fool's errand we're on." In the pre-dawn dimness, the white sails on the horizon were nearly invisible, but she glared in their general direction.
The maneuver they were attempting wasn't new to Ana Maria. The Black Pearl's easily identified dark sails were an insolent challenge, despising the need for subterfuge. But they also made her difficult to see at a distance. Lookouts searching the endless ocean for ships watched for the gleam of sunlight reflecting from white canvas. So long as the dark ship stayed far enough out from her prey, she could often hunt unseen. Just before dawn Jack would bring her into position, putting the blaze of sunrise behind the ship, and bear down on the unprepared victim. And so the Pearl continued to earn her ghostly reputation as sailors told stories in hushed voices of the black menace which could appear from nowhere on the open sea and disappear with the wind.
No, Ana Maria had no problems with their battle plan. But her eyes narrowed as she wondered why were they doing battle in the first place. They were far from their usual haunts. Jack claimed that the sloop was carrying gold, and she believed him, but wasn't there gold enough passing through the Caribbean without this fool venture into the Atlantic? And where had he heard news of this sloop, this one ship?
"Ready sail." Jack slid his fingers with a lover's grace over the wheel as the sails turned and filled with the morning breeze. The pirate vessel picked up speed, matching her master's eagerness for the chase, a leaping predator with the black flag snapping proudly from the mast.
Then Gibbs was beside her, readying arms, weathered face looking lively with excitement. Ana Maria checked the pistols thrust through her belt and the cutlass hanging at her side, and lost her hesitations in the familiar feeling of her blood racing, light and powerful. Her white teeth shone in her copper face. Odd target or not, she hoped they put up a fight.
Inside the young girl's cabin, it was warm and smelled like damp and salt. She kept her back rigid, away from the back of the chair, and placed her feet properly together under suffocating layers of linen petticoats and rich, heavy silk skirts, wrists primly crossed on her lap. Vaguely, the girl thought she should be feeling fear or desperation, but she felt only a numb resignation that matched the gentle rocking of the ship. Her eyes never shifted over the cabin's elegant furnishings or to the maid sitting against the far wall. She was waiting to die as if it were a boring and uncomfortable but unavoidable social event.
The first mate and two crew members came for her at first light, hauling her to her feet and tying her hands in front of her. One of them stole the rings from her fingers, pulling them off roughly and leaving her knuckles bloody. She threw one questioning look at the maid, who kept her gaze on the floor and her hands at her sides. No help to be had there. No one spoke as the girl was hauled out on deck.
She had disliked Captain Mansel of the Red Sky, a large man with the red face of a heavy drinker, from the beginning, although she was willing to admit that her opinion was biased by his intention to kill her. How much had her life been worth to him? Perhaps he had asked for a great deal, but she doubted he would have a chance to spend it. Assassins—potential blackmailers—needed to be clever to survive, and the corrupt captain did not appear to be clever.
Mansel was grinning now, more nervous than menacing, greasy sweat and alcohol fumes making him less appealing than ever. He glanced at the ropes around her hands and jerked his head toward the rail. The pale young lady moved toward it voluntarily with the men walking uncomfortably beside and behind her. Her silence made them uneasy, she could see them faltering in the face of what they had committed themselves to do. There was a pause at the rail, until someone made the first move, a hard hand at her back pushing down and other hands pulling at her feet, wrapping more rope around her ankles. Lifting her head she could see the canvas sack of cannon shot tied with sailors' knots to her feet. One of her green satin slippers had come off and was lying on the deck. A ridiculous surge of irritation filled her as the sailors slid their hands under her shoulders and lifted her legs. It seemed so undignified to have one stocking foot bare to their view. She blinked hard and swallowed but still made no sound.
From high up in the rigging, came the shout of "Sail ho!" Captain Mansel lifted one hand and the men holding her waited, as he shaded his eyes and peered into the sun. Then he gave a curt signal and began calling to his crew, fear in his voice.
Surprisingly, she was unceremoniously tumbled, not over the rail but back to the deck, her head connecting solidly with the wood. White stars filled her vision, and it was several moments before the pain cleared enough for her to hear alarmed shouts around her. Her understanding of nautical terms wasn't enough for her to follow what was happening, but she worked out that the oncoming ship was close, maybe close enough to witness murder through a spyglass? It would make some sense of her sudden reprieve. Her presence on the ship was well-known, and 'accident at sea' sounds less convincing if there are stories of mysterious, heavy bundles being dropped overboard.
Suddenly the captain was there, lifting her head with a fist in her hair and shoving a bundle of cloth into her mouth. Letting her head drop painfully again, he shoved her up against the rail and covered her with a piece of tarred canvas. The dark was stifling and the rag was foul and she fought back nausea. She couldn't distinguish words through the heavy cloth over her ears, but the shouting sounded more urgent before it died away.
The ship dipped sharply, beneath her, and then again, and more incomprehensible mutters and shouts penetrated the darkness. In the heat and the dark it felt like years were passing between every heartbeat. She fought to breathe through the gag and under the weight of the tarp, and turned awkwardly on her side to try to make space for more air.
Sunlight blazed into her eyes when the tarp was lifted, and after a few dazzled blinks she found herself looking up at a man carrying a sword, with tangled matted hair filled with beads and shiny trinkets, dark skin, his eyes ringed in black like a Parisian whore's. She regarded him with great surprise.
"What have you got 'ere, mate?"
Captain Mansel licked his lips and didn't answer, looking wildly back and forth from her to the exotic stranger, panic filling his face. Then, with a strangled shout, the Red Sky's captain drew his sword and lunged forward. The newcomer dropped the canvas, thankfully not over her face, and spun to meet his attacker, catching Mansel's sword with his own and knocking it aside, then pulling back to bury his own blade in the captain's belly before he could regain his balance. Mansel fell heavily to the deck, his face grotesquely inches from her own. After a moment she felt wet fluid from his opened body beginning to spread across the front of her dress.
Her vision blocked by the dead man's face, she listened to the clash of swords and several loud shots as conflict broke out across the deck. The girl felt a tug as the ropes tying her feet to the weighted bag were cut and then she was pulled up and handed off to a huge sailor who hoisted her in his arms like a rag doll.
"Stow 'er," said the first man briefly, hair and clothes swirling as he turned back to the fight. The goliath holding her swung her effortlessly over his shoulder. She hung with her face crushed into his back and saw deck and plank and blue swelling water and deck again, until her captor shoved her through a hatch and down a ladder, through a wider room and into a small cabin. He grabbed her shoulder and she spun to face him without resistance. Drawing a knife from his belt, he pulled her to him with one huge hand wrapped around her wrist. Then he slid the other between her hands, sawing through the rope that bound them. A moment later, he was gone, shutting the hatch behind him.
Taking the gag out of her mouth was a blessed relief, and for a few moments she took wonderful deep breaths of the stale smelly air below deck. Steadier on her feet now, she glanced at the closed hatch, then around at the cabin. There was a cracked mirror on one wall, and a chest of what turned out to be men's clothing and other odds and ends against one wall. A hammock hung across the tiny space. She pulled a large-tooth comb from the chest, unbraided and untangled her hair, braided it again and coiled the braids carefully around her head. Nothing could be done about the dark stain on her light dress, but she took off her one remaining slipper, setting it next to the wall. Then she sat on top of the chest, her back rigid and her feet set properly together under layers of linen petticoats and the heavy fabric of the once-costly dress. She crossed her wrists and laid them in her lap, gazing at the wall and waiting.
Mr. Gibbs was worried. He stroked at his whiskers and glared impotently at inoffensive ladders and hatches, and at several unfortunate sailors. A woman on board might not be as bad luck as he'd always believed, Jack said so, and the Pearl had been astoundingly lucky over the past few years, even when Ana Maria stood large as life at the helm. So he was willing to believe a woman might not be such bad luck. But he stuck to his guns when it came to ladies. Just look what had happened to the Interceptor, once Miss Elizabeth had come on board. And the Red Sky was just another case in point. The sloop had struck its colors, been boarded easy as a wink, giving up her cargo and valuables without so much as a shot fired. Then Jack had found that slip of a girl, all trussed up and out of sight—and he should've left her out of sight, too. But that was Jack all over, meddlesome as a magpie, always poking around. And who knew the sloop's captain would lose his head like that, going for Jack out of the blue? The Red Sky's crew, less than forty hands, none well armed, had followed his suicidal lead. The fight had been bloody, short, and pointless. When the Pearl left, six men were dead on the sloop's planks, to no one's profit, and their own man Jonsey had a whacking great slice down his arm. He'd need luck, no doubt about it, if he was ever to use that arm again.
Ladies. And Jack had brought this one on board. It was just asking for trouble. Gibbs had tried his best to explain that to Jack, but there was no talking to the captain once he'd got a notion in his head. He'd listened with that smug set to his metallic grin and said nothing. Jack seemed disinclined to deal with his unexpected guest any time soon, however, and it was after dark by the time Jack swayed out of his cabin doors and asked Gibbs to fetch her.
"You'd be wanting me to bring her up here, then?"
Jack rolled his eyes at Gibbs' doubtful tone. "Aye, that I would. Seeing as how she's not yet broken her fast, and dinner's simply lying here waiting to be eaten, it would be better if she were here to eat it and not down there where it is not. So if you would bring her from there to here, it would be a good thing, eh?"
Gibbs knew sarcasm when he heard it. He snorted before making his way below decks and through the wardroom to Ana Maria's cabin, where Pete had left the girl.
Gibbs wondered if she'd be tearfully terrified (approved behavior for Gently Bred Ladies in a Crisis) or belligerently difficult (approved behavior for Spirited Young Ladies, à la Elizabeth Swann). There was no telling from the ominous quiet inside the cabin.
Taking a deep breath, Gibbs bearded the lion in its den; that is, knocking briskly on the hatch, he opened it and peered inside. The young lady was perched regally on Ana Maria's sea chest, elegantly dressed but too thin and colorless to be attractive. Her eyes were a faded blue and her narrow figure made her look childish, although Gibbs thought from her long skirts and the way she did her hair that she might be older—maybe fifteen or sixteen. Her upright posture served to emphasize a fragile quality about her, like a little girl pretending to be very grown up. She solemnly turned her face toward him as he entered, lifting her brows questioningly as he hesitated.
"Ah, well." Gibbs shuffled his feet. "The pleasure of your company is expected at the Captain's table for dinner," he said. He'd been prepared to drag her along, if need be, or fend off a useless assault. That didn't appear to be necessary, so the grizzled sailor clasped and unclasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels as their prisoner stood up and shook out her skirts, folding her hands demurely in front of her and preceding Gibbs to the aft ladder.
Gibbs pointed toward the cabin tucked under the quarterdeck, not very visible in the light of the few lanterns on deck. The girl laid her hand lightly on his arm as she picked her way across the deck in the gloom and Gibbs blushed red, guiding her carefully over coiled ropes and around obstacles to the double doors of the captain's cabin. Opening the doors, Gibbs let a swath of cheerfully dancing light flood across the deck as he self-consciously ushered the lady inside. The table was already set, with silver candelabras holding numerous candles and platters of food laid out. Jack sprawled at his ease at the head of the table, holding a silver cup, but came fluidly to his feet as his inadvertent guest entered. He simultaneously bowed, indicated the second chair and waved his goblet in an expansively welcoming gesture without spilling a drop.
"Please be seated," the captain of the Black Pearl purred, tilting his head invitingly. Without appearing to mind Jack's antics, the girl released Gibbs' arm and arranged herself in the indicated chair as if sitting down to tea at the governor's mansion. Gibbs scowled at her doubtfully for a moment.
"Would you be needing anything else, sir?" Gibbs asked. Jack fluttered his hand in Gibbs' general direction in what Gibbs took to be a negative fashion and the former navy man gratefully stepped out of the cabin.
No doubt about it. This girl was going to be bad luck. He could feel it in his bones. Letting the doors shut behind him, Gibbs took a long swig from his flask of rum.
What a very interesting man. As she ate she remained fascinated by his tangled mass of hair, the bedraggled red cloth that held it back from his face and the braided, knotted locks that hung over his shoulders. She had heard that Red Indians wore feathers and such in their hair. Maybe he was a savage from the New World.
This new captain had been quite courteous as well, apparently remembering that her day had not included food and refraining from questioning or threatening her until she had a chance to take the edge off her hunger. But now that she had, she thought it was time to learn what her status on board this ship would be. It didn't seem to be imminent murder victim, but if they thought to gain a ransom for her, her situation was little improved.
"May I ask, Captain," she said, reaching for another piece of the rather hard bread, "what became of the Red Sky?"
Finishing a bite of salt pork, the man looked at her consideringly. The kohl lining his eyes made them impossibly dark in the candlelight. "Given your situation, I'm touched by your concern for your former shipmates, love." He leaned forward. "But there were survivors, able to go sailing off without their valuables. Or you."
"I see." She decided to approach the next topic as directly. "And why was I brought on board your ship?"
The captain picked an orange from of the bowl of fruit on the table, leaned back, and put his booted feet up on the chair next to him. "Curiosity, love." He tossed the orange into the air and caught it again. "When I see sailors all anxious to dispense with the company of a fine young lady such as yourself I can't help but wonder why." Up went the fruit, and down, his hands making theatrical flourishes.
She was beginning to find his constant motion distracting. She glanced down at her plate and saw the dry, blackish mark on her dress. Captain Mansel. Who had been anxious to dispense with her company. Looking up again, she met his black eyes, measuring her, weighing. He tossed the orange back to the bowl and spoke again, his tone more gentle than his words.
"What's yer name, love, and why were those men so determined to give you a bath?"
"My name," she said distinctly and rapidly, "is Maria Alexandra Sofia Romanov." It was satisfying, the way he went completely still. "I believe that answers your second question, as well," she added softly.
For several seconds he remained motionless. Then he swung his feet to the floor with a thump. "Princess Sofia. That's interesting." He swept his eyes from her head to the hem of her skirt. "Well, love—highness, highness," he patted the air in apology, "I must say, I wasn't expecting to meet the luckiest woman alive."
His expressive voice gave the phrase all its full ironic flavor. Her lips tightened and she took a deep breath.
"Still alive, certainly. And was it was purely my luck," she challenged politely, "that led your ship to attack at that moment?"
His eyes widened innocently, and the princess realized that if there had been any honesty in the conversation it was gone now. "Absolutely, lo—highness." He cocked his head to one side and leaned forward, far too close to her face. "Any idea who was trying to put an end to your lucky streak this time?"
Sofia looked back at him without blinking for what felt like a long time. Then she placed her fork and knife across her plate, setting her napkin next to it. Her hands were trembling slightly and suddenly she felt very very tired.
"I think I've lost my appetite." She spoke to the table. "May I retire now, Captain?"
A courteous man, yes, for he immediately rose and with an exaggerated bow offered her his arm.
"'Fraid we can only offer you a sailor's bunk, highness. We're naught but humble pirates, here," he said with a wink.
"I admit I am uncomfortable with men of such," Sofia paused and laid her hand on his arm, "high moral standards. After all, I am royalty," she finished with a small smile. The peculiar captain rewarded her awkward effort with a full laugh—"We'll try not to hold it against you, lo—highness,"—and led her below decks, to a slightly larger cabin than the first one she had seen. It had obviously been prepared for her. There was a pitcher of fresh water sitting on a stand in the corner and a bunk, with rough sheets. Her escort gave her another one of his ridiculous bows and turned to leave. Sofia fought back the heaviness of her eyelids to nod in return.
"Good night, Captain—I am sorry, sir, I never asked your name, or the name of your ship."
"Me? Why, I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, love." He looked decidedly pleased at her startled expression, and smirked as he reached for the door handle. "I believe that answers your second question, as well." He backed out and shut the hatch firmly behind him.
For a few moments, Sofia stood facing the door. "I'm aboard the Black Pearl," she said blankly.
Then she laughed.