Elizabeth was in a silky slip and was modeling it to herself via a mirror. I can´t wait! she said silently. Lily, Catherine, and Mary were all congregated round her, fussing. "Rouge, kohl, bring it all," Elizabeth instructed. Her father sometimes let her wear the slightest hint of rouge, to capture the attention of now-deceased James Norrington, Elizabeth suspected. But any other occasion never called for any makeup, by Governor Swann´s ruling and to Elizabeth´s dismay. She did not know why her father was so harsh. It was not like she would abuse the privilege, like the ladies of the night in Tortuga, or Jack.
"But miss!" Mary protested. "Will your father approve?"
"I don´t care!" Elizabeth declared. "Get some powder too."
Annamaria looked at her compass. Unfortunately, she didn´t own it, it was Jack´s magical one. It pointed straight to Isla Vache. The sun was high in the sky and Annamaria was tired. She hadn´t slept for quite a few days. She turned. She had been out at sea for a couple hours. Port Royal, Jamaica in general, was gradually getting smaller.
Annamaria buried her face in her hands. Why was she doing this? She wasn´t even sure Victoria was still on Isla Vache.
She massaged her temples. She remembered a distant memory from her youth. She was seventeen, in Isla Vache´s only marketplace. Up the main road was Antonio Rafael's mansion.
Annamaria saw him. He was a terrible man to look at. He brought his slaves to the stands to jeer and make them buy him food. Annamaria had seen, whilst purchasing oranges, five raggedly-dressed girls pushed past her and one caught her eye. She had ash blonde hair, wavy to her elbows. Her eyes were brown and the saddest Annamaria had ever seen. Dark circles under her eyes and her pale skin in the hot Caribbean sun had brought a chill to Annamaria´s bones.
In a split second, the slave girl was gone, lost amid the bustling crowd. It was a vague, seemingly unimportant memory then. But Annamaria had seen that face six years later, when she met Elizabeth on the Black Pearl.
Annamaria picked at a splinter on her thumb. That´s why she had to do it. For Elizabeth. For her friend.
"She´s not dead," Jack assured his stricken friend, who was now pacing, rubbing her hands.
"How do you know?" Marcella asked. She seemed in a state of controlled panic.
"Because Annamaria is too smart to get herself killed." Jack placed his hands on Marcella´s back and started giving her a massage. Marcella dropped her head.
"But how do you know?" she persisted after a minute.
"Bloody hell, woman, I´m try´na help you!" Jack tried not to shout. He stopped the massage and cracked his knuckles.
"Sorry," Marcella said quietly, gruffly. "I can only imagine where she´s going."
"Maybe we can find out," Jack said. "But first, I gotta get a hold of Lizzie and tell her the wedding´s postponed."
"She´s gonna be thrilled," said Marcella, and put her head in her hand.
Jack sighed and leaned over the edge. "I´ll be back soon."
After stripping himself of his shirt, sash, and boots, he decided he could do with a swim, and promptly cannon balled into the water. No swan-dives today. He pumped his muscles, stretching and performing the breaststroke with the greatest of ease. Jack swam under the dock, avoiding any small rowboats. Glancing briefly at the anchored skiffs, he saw one was missing. Stopping to breathe, he heard stomping above him. He grasped a post to lean on.
"Ma boat is gone!" a heavy Creole accent yelped. "What the bloody hell!"
Jack sniggered softly. So that´s how Annamaria went about doing it: the pirate way.
He looked up and saw another pair of feet walking up to Creole-accent, who was now screeching in anger. It was the harbormaster.
"Sir, if you please calm down, I could explain to you!" he cried.
Jack did not care to hear the rest. He already knew what happened. He dove under and surfaced when he was a few feet from the shore. He shook himself off and slogged up the beach to the main road.