Morgan pulled the piles of coins to ones side and started counting again. She was still short the figure she needed to pay the cobbler and Turner both. Everything that could fetch a price and wouldn't be noticed missing for a time had been sold, and she was still short the most maddeningly small amount. She scraped the cobbler's fee into a small purse, and the rest she returned to hiding. Morgan pulled the finer of her last two gowns from the wardrobe and held the silk to her face. The dressmaker had refused this one, insisting it showed enough wear that the cost of bringing it up to date for another customer was not worth her time. This one single dress was beyond anything she had ever known in her waking life. The yards and yards held in extravagant folds by such tiny stitches awed her, every inch recording an unknown woman's skill.
Tapping at the outer door interrupted her reverie, and Felicity strode past her to answer it. She shoved hard at the desk blocking the door, grazing the plaster of the wall as she bumped it along. The father had made another attempt at Morgan on the second morning, and various pieces of furniture were tried as barricades until, finally, the desk was effective. Morgan brought the dress with her as she took a seat at their now customary table in the center of the room The breakfast tray the knock had announced was heavily laden as usual, bright with three oranges this morning. She took one from the pile carefully, staring at it as intently as if it spoke. Felicity poured both coffee and tea, taking a chair opposite her mistress. She knew the thought even before it rose into her mistress' face, and she knew how it would be. She read the tea leaves sinking to the bottom of her cup, holding the silence that held her mistress.
*
The morning was quiet with the misting rain, the hour and the weather conspiring to keep the township indoors. Felicity threaded her way around the deepest puddles, leading her mistress where she knew the roads to be the highest. The forge was far enough from the house that their cloaks were soaked through by the time they slipped through the low wicket. Felicity pulled the latch-string through to the inside, and helped her mistress undo her patens. The shop was empty and quiet except for the hiss of the rain outside, and the occasional pop from the forge. Felicity hung behind as Morgan slipped toward the forge hearth, watching the sinuous flow the other woman was cultivating at the moment. She was uneasy, and she fidgeted while she watched for Turner's appearance. She turned when she heard a loud hiss and splatter, noticing the kettle had begun to boil over. Morgan noticed as well, and drew herself taller.
The sound from the fire drew Turner down from his loft apartment, stepping heavily on the stairs and stumbling once, from the sound of it. He emerged into the shop still buttoning his trousers, shirt hanging open halfway down the front, waistcoat thrown open over it and hair still untidy from sleep. He did not look up, rolling his cuffs to his elbow as he took up and heavy cloth and moved the kettle hook away from the heat. He lifted the lid and fanned at the smoke, peering inside and turning in search of ladle and bowl. Halfway to the shelf he started, noticing the shadowy figure not three paces from him. Felicity moved forward, announcing her own presence with the motion and gaining a better vantage point.
"May I help you?" Turner squinted at the nearer caped figure until a hand appeared from the folds, holding a ripe orange. His eyebrows climbed high. "Why have you come so early?"
Felicity watched Morgan extend her arm, reading the confusion in Turner's open face even as he came to his senses and accepted the fruit. He turned enough to take his bowl off the near shelf, keeping his eye on the women as he moved.
"Is something wrong?"
"The bargain - " Her voice was soft, curving around the words in an unusual gentleness.
He frowned in continued confusion, disoriented. "I will have the sword ready in a few days, as I promised. What – what is wrong with the bargain?" Another orange appeared in her hand, this one held only a hand-span from her body. "What do you mean by this?"
The silence strung out between them, each reading the other for the next move. "I cannot raise the sum you named. I wish to negotiate a trade for the remainder."
Felicity closed the distance between herself and the figure of her mistress, anticipating. She watched emotion move through Turner's eyes, and noticed the slow way he settled the first orange into his bowl and took the step necessary to reach the second one.
"Your offer - ?"
Felicity was ready, and caught the cloak when it was unclasped, retreating a step to smooth it over her arm. Released from the wool, the silk of the gown caught even the low light of the fire, shimmering rose and gold. Turner looked lost, and Felicity fidgeted, uneasy again, recalling the charm her mistress had prepared before they set out. There was trembling at the edge of her form, a shifting to her that didn't seem normal, even for the unusual lighting.
Morgan produced the third orange, the smallest, and held it against her body. She held Turner's eyes and sunk her nails into the skin. Juice welled up around her fingers and she pulled the orange open, the flesh tearing with a succulent wetness, the cells of the ripe fruit oozing around her hand. As she watched, his tongue flicked over his lips and she extended the dripping mass toward him slowly, never moving her eyes off his face. He stood dumbly, and then with a flush, awareness flooded his wide brown eyes.
"I cannot – you are not – I must – she - " he licked his lips again, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
She watched for the flicker of uncertainty. "I. Will. Be. Her."
The bowl tilted and the orange fell, and his voice came out no louder than the sound it made in the hay. "Elisabeth - "
*
She woke suddenly, popping from one state to the next without any cushioning transition. The space between the shutter and the windowsill showed pale and gray, and she pressed her cheek against the flat pillow. Sleep would not return though, and she knew it. The even breathing behind her said he slept still, and she whispered a chant that he remain so as she reached into the pile on the floor. She slithered into her clothes as quietly as she could, and swung the shutters open. He turned over in his sleep, and she listened, waiting while he slipped back into dreams. The predawn was chilly, and she closed the shutters behind her quickly, sitting on the roof to tie her boots on and adjust herself more convincingly into her persona.
Archer kicked a pebble through the streets, ambling in the general direction of the harbor. Hands sunk in pockets, she calculated days and sums, looking forward to handling the blade made Turner made for her. The grip was going on this afternoon, and she would get to test the design tonight. Turner had forbidden her to see his work until it was finished, and she thought as the sun rose over the water that she was actually nervous about it. She had no way of knowing whether he had seen the same sword she had tried to describe.
The wind caught at her feather, and she pushed it out of the way, settling the brim of the felt hat lower as she ran her eyes over the wharf below. Fisherman were sitting at the mouth of the harbor, drawing in lines left the night before. Archer stood into the wind coming in from the sea, tasting the salt on her tongue. She recalled herself, and slouched against a nearby palm, chewing on the inside of her cheek.
Archer was thinking for the tenth time that morning she wasn't ready to start the day yet when she saw the single sail tipping toward the docks. A shadow glanced through the canvas and appeared on the yard. Her jaw dropped and she started forward, recalling too late the steepness of the hill. She slid twenty paces before she could dig her heels and fingers into the soil enough, cursing at her own stupidity. When she looked up again the boat was still there, lower in the water and closer to the shore. She got clumsily to her feet and exchanged slurred greetings with a sailor passing below. Archer eased the rest of the distance down the slope, and sought protection from the nearest stack of crates. The boat kept sinking all the way to the dock, and the shadow rolled onto the boards easily. The sun was glaring across the water and he was twenty paces from her before she could make out his features.
Archer stood a long time after he passed, coming to herself when a porter bumped into her. She growled curses back and forth with him, striding away from the crates in the direction she had seen Jack Sparrow wander.