A/N: Inspiration strikes again! And I was right in the middle of a movie
too... Well, better for you folks reading this, I suppose. Thanks are in
order for N'Isil for that email review and Jade Hsieh (you got the spelling
right, I'll try to read yours soon), and enjoy chapter two!
I have a wonderful gift for knowing when I'm dreaming. It's spared me from many a nightmare throughout my life. If the politic parts of my brain are more taciturn these days, that indescribable area in which dreams come to be is my closest ally. I do my best thinking when I'm asleep, if that makes any sense.
In this nocturnal sojourn I find myself unsurprisingly steering a grand ship through a murky fog. Unease makes me nervous, I feel a storm brewing to the west, coming fast. I'm not alone on the boat, but the crew around me seems made of shadows and they treat me as if I'm a shadow to them. Their blurry shapes could be that of my gang, maybe also my parents, maybe only strangers, but they remain just out of focus. They busy themselves with ship duties unaware of the coming trouble. I tilt the wheel east, hoping the burgeoning winds of the storm could blow us out of harm's way. To my surprise, it works, and the fog begins to lift slightly. A glint catches my eye in the distance. Squinting at it, I'm almost blinded as the sun suddenly radiates light upon a small island with masses of gold gleaming and shimmering and sparkling along its sandy beach. My spectral crew seems to dissipate in the glow so all that remains is me, guiding my vessel towards my fortune.
About this time that moment of realization that comes in every dream arrives. I blink at the abrupt shock; it's not real, the island is not real and any gold upon it will be left there. You can't take it with you, the phrase drifts across my mind. I find myself wondering about that honoree, of all things, as I continue to approach the island.
"What's he up to, now that he's a decorated officer?" I looked to my left to see a mirror reflection of myself leaning against the ship's railing.
"How should I know?" I ask her. I'm not alarmed by her presence. Like I said, I do my best thinking in dreams, but it's no good doing it alone. I need someone to bounce ideas off of. So, I bounce them off myself.
"He was cute."
"Yeah," I reply acridly, "in an over-eager puppy dog kind o' way. You jis' wait an' see they'll get to him soon enough... Besides, that's not your point."
My reflection looks mildly defeated, but it's just an act, "You're right, 's not. Do you want that treasure?" She tilts her head towards the dazzling mountains of gold on the beach that never seems to get closer, though we're still sailing towards it.
"Yes."
"My point is," I perk up at this. It's very rare that I straight out say what I'm driving at, "Maybe he's not so attached to his uniform as he seems."
I grin at her, "Yer talkin' gibberish! Did you see his face on that podium? 'Bout ta' piss himself, he was so happy. An' let's not forget exactly what he was bein' honored for: the merciless execution of scores of pirates! Or have we forgotten our sea-farin' counterparts?" The image says nothing, but looks appropriately cowed, "That's right. So jis' what exactly makes you think he'd help me?"
"Dunno," she says, her timid look melting back into a sly smile, "Jis' a feelin'."
"Yeah, well, feelings don't win treasure." We both nod sagely at each other. I look out at the island, which actually seems farther away than ever. I feel a depression coming on, a weight in my eyes and neck. Looking behind me I see why I won't make it to the luminous island. Great iron chains bind the ship's backend to the house of Turner, which stands tall and immovable amongst the waves. The raging storm I just barely escaped was approaching behind the house, and this time I let it take me with a tired sigh.
The next time I sigh is at my image, only this one can't talk back, encased as it is in the confines of an actual mirror. It also doesn't look much like me, with its fine day dress on, and a tumble of dark curls falling past its shoulders. Whenever I put the wig on I'm reminded of how girly I can look. Not that I'm anything to compare with someone like my mother. No, it's nigh impossible to compare the two of us, we're so different. Father insists my mossy green-brown eyes come from his mother, but again Will Turner's not much of a liar. My small chin and high cheekbones could be called reminiscent of my mother, but I know there is simply no accounting for my skin. It's darker than both my parents' could ever hope to be. Now, that effect is augmented by my time outside, but I recall an incident in which Mother felt attempting to box me into the house for a few weeks might diminish my unfavorable facets. At the time of my release, my color was the only thing that diminished, and that only quite slightly.
"Are you ready, Guinevere?" Lucia calls from outside my room.
"As I'll ever be," I murmur to the reflection that is not me. I'm about to respond to Lucia when I hear Mother scolding her for using my Christian name.
"You are working in this house, I am paying you. Now, would you pay a craftsman of any sort if you received a shoddy product from them?" There is a pause as I imagine Lucia's mumbled reply. Mother continues, "Of course not, and I do not want a shoddy product from you. As such, you will adhere to proper protocol-"
"That's quite enough, Mother," I say coolly as I fly to Lucia's defense, "I asked her to call me Guinevere." Without explanation I take Lucia's arm in mine and guide her down the hall, ignoring Mother's gaze boring into my back and saying quietly, "We'll have to be more careful about that, haven't we?" We share a hushed giggle as we walk to the carriage waiting outside.
Mother started taking me to these little luncheons when I was twelve. After the very first one I knew this wasn't the life for me. Since then I've proven that inane chatter is only fun when inebriated. Otherwise, it's as boring as the do crafted by the victims of yesterday's stunt. Nearly as pointless, as well.
"Pass the marmalade."
"Please, Guinevere, try to remember please. It's a request, not an order."
"Maybe for you."
"Don't mumble, Guinevere, people would like to hear what you are saying."
"I doubt it."
"Still mumbling, sweetheart. Oh, what was that Mrs. Odell?"
For about the hundredth time I wish Sparrow was here. Obviously I can't bring him to one of these upper crust get-togethers, but his absence is more than noticeable. It feels as if there's a hole in my clothing at my right hip, and a clammy wind continues to brush my skin. I once attempted to get Father to make me a sheath for Sparrow at my calf where I could carry him undetected, but it was hopeless. I'd never seen my father so adamantly against anything, but that revelation went unnoticed when we launched into a fight about me having a dagger at all. He threatened to take Sparrow initially, and it took a lot of fancy footwork, verbally- speaking, to stay true to my oath. I am currently saving up to buy a sheath from the local tanners. Unfortunately my only source of revenue of late comes from the beers I don't pay for at the Mermaid's Tale, for one reason or another.
Oh well, better make the best of a boring situation. I turn to the nearest female wig, a woman old enough to give my great-grandmother a run for her money, and start talking. You see, it's not that I don't know all the social graces; I simply choose not to employ them, much to my mother's chagrin. At this moment, I am the most sophisticated, charming, polite young lady this old biddy has ever met.
"I do love the Caribbean dearly, but I just cannot seem to get along without London's shopping district. The sun and the parties and the people are all well and good, but WHERE can I find a decent bargain on a good pair of dancing slippers?"
"Oh, my dear, I quite know you're plight, I am experiencing it myself as of late. My husband, the former high chairman of the agriculture board you know, and I arrived here quite recently and I am simply wasting away for London."
The conversation goes on in this mind numbing vein until I can stand it no longer, a whole twenty minutes. I smile inwardly, a new record, "Hm, yes, I quite agree. Though it must be difficult to get an animal to sit still for a portrait for very long. Oh, by the by, did you know that only humans and dolphins have sex for pleasure?"
"Guinevere!" Mother's voice rings out over the party. Apparently she caught the show, "Come, my darling child, we must be leaving!"
I turn to the biddy to take my leave, though I'm not sure she hears it. Her face, already a spider web of wrinkles, is now pale as a sheet and about as responsive as one too, "Good day to you, madam, I hope we shall meet again."
As I glide from the party I hear a muttered "Young people, why I never!" from behind and end up giggling through Mother's chastisement in the carriage.
"That's it! That's it, that's it, that's it, that's it!" This exclamation seems to be the only thing Mother is capable of saying to her husband during their nightly discussion in the parlor.
"What's it, darling?" Again, the image downstairs unfolds before my mind's eyes. Mother paces in circles around the room; Father walks behind, trying to catch up. I hear a chair scraping and fabric rustling; Mother has sat down at the parlor's desk.
"What are you writing, Elizabeth?" Father's voice sounds strange, as if dreading the answer.
"This has been a long time coming, Will. We broke our promise, it's time we notified Jack of it." I blink in my seat. Jack? Who's Jack? My mind wanders over the innumerable brunches and dinners and parties and holidays, searching for some Jack my parents introduced me to, but it comes up blank. The only Jack I know is the one from my father's stories.
"No, Elizabeth, we haven't broken anything. And besides, just how do you expect any letter to find him. WE don't even know where he is!"
"We HAVE broken it and I WILL find a way to him. He must know we can't take care of her anymore." The realization hits me like my father's heaviest hammer. Jack must be someone from a boarding school, and a horrid one at that. That's it then, I think as unwanted tears well up, they've finally had their fill of me.
"Have you noticed that we haven't gotten any news from him in six years? No letters, no money, not even the hint of his name in the streets. I don't know about you, but I think he may be dead." Upstairs I cock an eyebrow at Father's words. Why would the headmaster of a boarding school send my parents money? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? And just what would kill him? For some reason, I couldn't see this Jack as a decrepit man who would keel over if you coughed on him.
Even from the stairwell I can hear Mother's sharp intake of breath, "Don't say that, Will! He's our only hope!" There's a pause before my mother speaks again, "I suppose the best way to get this letter to him is to send it to the last address he gave us." I hear the rustling of papers and creaking of opening desk drawers and bite back a rush of indignation. So my own parents have been corresponding with some covert boarding school tyrant in the very parlor I grew up in! This emotion is quickly replaced by bitter humor. As if I wasn't leading a secret life as a boy, becoming famous as a thief and rogue! I suppose we all have our secrets.
In the flurry of emotions, I stop listening to my parents until I hear my mother's cry, "But there's no return address on here!"
"Of course there's not, Elizabeth," Father says, sounding tired and frustrated, "Has there ever been? That last letter was given to me at the docks by some stranger. The entire length of our conversations was, 'You Turner?' 'Yes.' 'Letter for you.' I got the letter, never saw him again. Do you really expect Jack to use any regular postal channels? I'm surprised none of the letters washed up to shore in a bottle!"
"Yes," Mother replies in a defeated tone, "I suppose it was foolish of me."
Another rustle of fabric tells me Father has wrapped her up in a hug, "Just give it a bit longer, love. There's no harm in that. Maybe another letter is on the way, but things could work out themselves before that. We don't have to bring Jack back into this, it's our affair now." Sometimes I love my father to pieces.
"No," Mother says, her voice suddenly steel, "No, things aren't working out, Will! You're not there, and you don't see the things she does. She doesn't have to be our affair!" Sometimes I hate my mother to pieces.
"Oh, Elizabeth-"
"I must find a way to tell him. Things can't go on like they are, I'll go mad!" The heavy creaking of floorboards testifies to Mother's resumed pacing, "He told us to keep her away from that life, at any cost. He didn't want that for her. I don't understand what happened. And now he up and disappears just when we need him! Well, now isn't that just like Jack."
"Elizabeth, you know that's not true. He's always been there when we need him. He's a-"
"I know, Will, I know. 'He's a good man' just like you always say. Well, what kind of a man dumps a child into our laps then runs back to sea?!" I have to stifle my own sharp intake of air. All my boarding school notions fly out of the proverbial window. Who IS this Jack?!
Father's reply is measured and calm, "The kind of man who wants that child to have a different life than what he can give her."
Creeping down three more steps, I peer into the parlor. I have to see what the scene actually looks like, not my mind's image of it. I see Mother sitting on the floor, her skirts pooled around her. She doesn't look tired and old, like I expected. Instead she looks young and naïve, far too much so to take care of a child, let alone one like me. I see Father looking at her while sitting sideways in the desk chair. He too appears young and lost in grown-up matters, not ready for the real world.
"But you ARE right, Elizabeth," Father continues, "Things can't stay as they are. Decisions must be made. We'll talk in the morning." My trusty and creaky floor alerts me to my parents' approach, and I tuck myself into the shadows as they enter the master bedroom. As the door shuts, I summon all my talents of stealth to make no noise whatsoever in my journey to the desk in the parlor.
Amidst all the drama, the drawer was left open and I silently thank whoever is listening for the favor. Inside the drawer lay at least a dozen pieces of paper. Large and small, fresh and weather-beaten, long and short notes. All of them are addressed to the Turners. I pull them all out and, suddenly feeling exposed, leave the parlor and reenter my sanctuary. Once safe on the floor next to my bed, I read each and every last letter with a pounding heart. Once finished, I put them back into the drawer, keeping only the very first for myself. I read that one until it is committed to memory.
"To Will and Elizabeth," I whispered, "Let's get the pleasantries out of the way. I hope this letter finds you well and happy, been a while since we last spoke. If you haven't already guessed, I've got a favor to ask of you both. If you're reading this, that means Anamaria did her job and you now find yourselves in possession of a baby girl. Don't jump to any conclusions, firstly. Secondly, I'd like you to look after her for me. So far, unless it's been longer than I thought, you've remained childless since your marriage. Well, let me get the hard part out of the way by giving you a child, fully formed, no strings attached. Don't say this isn't a good deal; I don't have to worry about this little girl, you get your very own first born, and Elizabeth gets to keep her girlish figure." I can't help but laugh at that. This Jack must know my parents very well indeed, "I'll be stopping by in a spell to see how you're getting on with little Guinevere, that's the name we-" The next few lines of the letter are blotted out, as if thought little of in revision, "That's her name. I'm also sending along a few pounds. If you send them back Will and I shall have a rematch and this time I won't go easy on him, savvy? My best regards to you both and Guinevere, Captain Jack Sparrow."
It's a short note, short enough to be folded into a square and slipped into the secret compartment I'd found as a child in the top drawer of the small dresser by my bed. I lie down on the sheets, my thoughts a whirlwind in my head. I'll have interesting dreams tonight.
A/N: See, toldja' it'd be shorter. So what do you think? My greatest fear is to write a Mary Sue, I think it shows an enormous lack of creativity on the writer's part and does a disservice to the reader. I actually didn't expect the truth to come out so soon, but such is life, I guess. Review please, many nice reviews + free time = new chapter, but you all know that.
I have a wonderful gift for knowing when I'm dreaming. It's spared me from many a nightmare throughout my life. If the politic parts of my brain are more taciturn these days, that indescribable area in which dreams come to be is my closest ally. I do my best thinking when I'm asleep, if that makes any sense.
In this nocturnal sojourn I find myself unsurprisingly steering a grand ship through a murky fog. Unease makes me nervous, I feel a storm brewing to the west, coming fast. I'm not alone on the boat, but the crew around me seems made of shadows and they treat me as if I'm a shadow to them. Their blurry shapes could be that of my gang, maybe also my parents, maybe only strangers, but they remain just out of focus. They busy themselves with ship duties unaware of the coming trouble. I tilt the wheel east, hoping the burgeoning winds of the storm could blow us out of harm's way. To my surprise, it works, and the fog begins to lift slightly. A glint catches my eye in the distance. Squinting at it, I'm almost blinded as the sun suddenly radiates light upon a small island with masses of gold gleaming and shimmering and sparkling along its sandy beach. My spectral crew seems to dissipate in the glow so all that remains is me, guiding my vessel towards my fortune.
About this time that moment of realization that comes in every dream arrives. I blink at the abrupt shock; it's not real, the island is not real and any gold upon it will be left there. You can't take it with you, the phrase drifts across my mind. I find myself wondering about that honoree, of all things, as I continue to approach the island.
"What's he up to, now that he's a decorated officer?" I looked to my left to see a mirror reflection of myself leaning against the ship's railing.
"How should I know?" I ask her. I'm not alarmed by her presence. Like I said, I do my best thinking in dreams, but it's no good doing it alone. I need someone to bounce ideas off of. So, I bounce them off myself.
"He was cute."
"Yeah," I reply acridly, "in an over-eager puppy dog kind o' way. You jis' wait an' see they'll get to him soon enough... Besides, that's not your point."
My reflection looks mildly defeated, but it's just an act, "You're right, 's not. Do you want that treasure?" She tilts her head towards the dazzling mountains of gold on the beach that never seems to get closer, though we're still sailing towards it.
"Yes."
"My point is," I perk up at this. It's very rare that I straight out say what I'm driving at, "Maybe he's not so attached to his uniform as he seems."
I grin at her, "Yer talkin' gibberish! Did you see his face on that podium? 'Bout ta' piss himself, he was so happy. An' let's not forget exactly what he was bein' honored for: the merciless execution of scores of pirates! Or have we forgotten our sea-farin' counterparts?" The image says nothing, but looks appropriately cowed, "That's right. So jis' what exactly makes you think he'd help me?"
"Dunno," she says, her timid look melting back into a sly smile, "Jis' a feelin'."
"Yeah, well, feelings don't win treasure." We both nod sagely at each other. I look out at the island, which actually seems farther away than ever. I feel a depression coming on, a weight in my eyes and neck. Looking behind me I see why I won't make it to the luminous island. Great iron chains bind the ship's backend to the house of Turner, which stands tall and immovable amongst the waves. The raging storm I just barely escaped was approaching behind the house, and this time I let it take me with a tired sigh.
The next time I sigh is at my image, only this one can't talk back, encased as it is in the confines of an actual mirror. It also doesn't look much like me, with its fine day dress on, and a tumble of dark curls falling past its shoulders. Whenever I put the wig on I'm reminded of how girly I can look. Not that I'm anything to compare with someone like my mother. No, it's nigh impossible to compare the two of us, we're so different. Father insists my mossy green-brown eyes come from his mother, but again Will Turner's not much of a liar. My small chin and high cheekbones could be called reminiscent of my mother, but I know there is simply no accounting for my skin. It's darker than both my parents' could ever hope to be. Now, that effect is augmented by my time outside, but I recall an incident in which Mother felt attempting to box me into the house for a few weeks might diminish my unfavorable facets. At the time of my release, my color was the only thing that diminished, and that only quite slightly.
"Are you ready, Guinevere?" Lucia calls from outside my room.
"As I'll ever be," I murmur to the reflection that is not me. I'm about to respond to Lucia when I hear Mother scolding her for using my Christian name.
"You are working in this house, I am paying you. Now, would you pay a craftsman of any sort if you received a shoddy product from them?" There is a pause as I imagine Lucia's mumbled reply. Mother continues, "Of course not, and I do not want a shoddy product from you. As such, you will adhere to proper protocol-"
"That's quite enough, Mother," I say coolly as I fly to Lucia's defense, "I asked her to call me Guinevere." Without explanation I take Lucia's arm in mine and guide her down the hall, ignoring Mother's gaze boring into my back and saying quietly, "We'll have to be more careful about that, haven't we?" We share a hushed giggle as we walk to the carriage waiting outside.
Mother started taking me to these little luncheons when I was twelve. After the very first one I knew this wasn't the life for me. Since then I've proven that inane chatter is only fun when inebriated. Otherwise, it's as boring as the do crafted by the victims of yesterday's stunt. Nearly as pointless, as well.
"Pass the marmalade."
"Please, Guinevere, try to remember please. It's a request, not an order."
"Maybe for you."
"Don't mumble, Guinevere, people would like to hear what you are saying."
"I doubt it."
"Still mumbling, sweetheart. Oh, what was that Mrs. Odell?"
For about the hundredth time I wish Sparrow was here. Obviously I can't bring him to one of these upper crust get-togethers, but his absence is more than noticeable. It feels as if there's a hole in my clothing at my right hip, and a clammy wind continues to brush my skin. I once attempted to get Father to make me a sheath for Sparrow at my calf where I could carry him undetected, but it was hopeless. I'd never seen my father so adamantly against anything, but that revelation went unnoticed when we launched into a fight about me having a dagger at all. He threatened to take Sparrow initially, and it took a lot of fancy footwork, verbally- speaking, to stay true to my oath. I am currently saving up to buy a sheath from the local tanners. Unfortunately my only source of revenue of late comes from the beers I don't pay for at the Mermaid's Tale, for one reason or another.
Oh well, better make the best of a boring situation. I turn to the nearest female wig, a woman old enough to give my great-grandmother a run for her money, and start talking. You see, it's not that I don't know all the social graces; I simply choose not to employ them, much to my mother's chagrin. At this moment, I am the most sophisticated, charming, polite young lady this old biddy has ever met.
"I do love the Caribbean dearly, but I just cannot seem to get along without London's shopping district. The sun and the parties and the people are all well and good, but WHERE can I find a decent bargain on a good pair of dancing slippers?"
"Oh, my dear, I quite know you're plight, I am experiencing it myself as of late. My husband, the former high chairman of the agriculture board you know, and I arrived here quite recently and I am simply wasting away for London."
The conversation goes on in this mind numbing vein until I can stand it no longer, a whole twenty minutes. I smile inwardly, a new record, "Hm, yes, I quite agree. Though it must be difficult to get an animal to sit still for a portrait for very long. Oh, by the by, did you know that only humans and dolphins have sex for pleasure?"
"Guinevere!" Mother's voice rings out over the party. Apparently she caught the show, "Come, my darling child, we must be leaving!"
I turn to the biddy to take my leave, though I'm not sure she hears it. Her face, already a spider web of wrinkles, is now pale as a sheet and about as responsive as one too, "Good day to you, madam, I hope we shall meet again."
As I glide from the party I hear a muttered "Young people, why I never!" from behind and end up giggling through Mother's chastisement in the carriage.
"That's it! That's it, that's it, that's it, that's it!" This exclamation seems to be the only thing Mother is capable of saying to her husband during their nightly discussion in the parlor.
"What's it, darling?" Again, the image downstairs unfolds before my mind's eyes. Mother paces in circles around the room; Father walks behind, trying to catch up. I hear a chair scraping and fabric rustling; Mother has sat down at the parlor's desk.
"What are you writing, Elizabeth?" Father's voice sounds strange, as if dreading the answer.
"This has been a long time coming, Will. We broke our promise, it's time we notified Jack of it." I blink in my seat. Jack? Who's Jack? My mind wanders over the innumerable brunches and dinners and parties and holidays, searching for some Jack my parents introduced me to, but it comes up blank. The only Jack I know is the one from my father's stories.
"No, Elizabeth, we haven't broken anything. And besides, just how do you expect any letter to find him. WE don't even know where he is!"
"We HAVE broken it and I WILL find a way to him. He must know we can't take care of her anymore." The realization hits me like my father's heaviest hammer. Jack must be someone from a boarding school, and a horrid one at that. That's it then, I think as unwanted tears well up, they've finally had their fill of me.
"Have you noticed that we haven't gotten any news from him in six years? No letters, no money, not even the hint of his name in the streets. I don't know about you, but I think he may be dead." Upstairs I cock an eyebrow at Father's words. Why would the headmaster of a boarding school send my parents money? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? And just what would kill him? For some reason, I couldn't see this Jack as a decrepit man who would keel over if you coughed on him.
Even from the stairwell I can hear Mother's sharp intake of breath, "Don't say that, Will! He's our only hope!" There's a pause before my mother speaks again, "I suppose the best way to get this letter to him is to send it to the last address he gave us." I hear the rustling of papers and creaking of opening desk drawers and bite back a rush of indignation. So my own parents have been corresponding with some covert boarding school tyrant in the very parlor I grew up in! This emotion is quickly replaced by bitter humor. As if I wasn't leading a secret life as a boy, becoming famous as a thief and rogue! I suppose we all have our secrets.
In the flurry of emotions, I stop listening to my parents until I hear my mother's cry, "But there's no return address on here!"
"Of course there's not, Elizabeth," Father says, sounding tired and frustrated, "Has there ever been? That last letter was given to me at the docks by some stranger. The entire length of our conversations was, 'You Turner?' 'Yes.' 'Letter for you.' I got the letter, never saw him again. Do you really expect Jack to use any regular postal channels? I'm surprised none of the letters washed up to shore in a bottle!"
"Yes," Mother replies in a defeated tone, "I suppose it was foolish of me."
Another rustle of fabric tells me Father has wrapped her up in a hug, "Just give it a bit longer, love. There's no harm in that. Maybe another letter is on the way, but things could work out themselves before that. We don't have to bring Jack back into this, it's our affair now." Sometimes I love my father to pieces.
"No," Mother says, her voice suddenly steel, "No, things aren't working out, Will! You're not there, and you don't see the things she does. She doesn't have to be our affair!" Sometimes I hate my mother to pieces.
"Oh, Elizabeth-"
"I must find a way to tell him. Things can't go on like they are, I'll go mad!" The heavy creaking of floorboards testifies to Mother's resumed pacing, "He told us to keep her away from that life, at any cost. He didn't want that for her. I don't understand what happened. And now he up and disappears just when we need him! Well, now isn't that just like Jack."
"Elizabeth, you know that's not true. He's always been there when we need him. He's a-"
"I know, Will, I know. 'He's a good man' just like you always say. Well, what kind of a man dumps a child into our laps then runs back to sea?!" I have to stifle my own sharp intake of air. All my boarding school notions fly out of the proverbial window. Who IS this Jack?!
Father's reply is measured and calm, "The kind of man who wants that child to have a different life than what he can give her."
Creeping down three more steps, I peer into the parlor. I have to see what the scene actually looks like, not my mind's image of it. I see Mother sitting on the floor, her skirts pooled around her. She doesn't look tired and old, like I expected. Instead she looks young and naïve, far too much so to take care of a child, let alone one like me. I see Father looking at her while sitting sideways in the desk chair. He too appears young and lost in grown-up matters, not ready for the real world.
"But you ARE right, Elizabeth," Father continues, "Things can't stay as they are. Decisions must be made. We'll talk in the morning." My trusty and creaky floor alerts me to my parents' approach, and I tuck myself into the shadows as they enter the master bedroom. As the door shuts, I summon all my talents of stealth to make no noise whatsoever in my journey to the desk in the parlor.
Amidst all the drama, the drawer was left open and I silently thank whoever is listening for the favor. Inside the drawer lay at least a dozen pieces of paper. Large and small, fresh and weather-beaten, long and short notes. All of them are addressed to the Turners. I pull them all out and, suddenly feeling exposed, leave the parlor and reenter my sanctuary. Once safe on the floor next to my bed, I read each and every last letter with a pounding heart. Once finished, I put them back into the drawer, keeping only the very first for myself. I read that one until it is committed to memory.
"To Will and Elizabeth," I whispered, "Let's get the pleasantries out of the way. I hope this letter finds you well and happy, been a while since we last spoke. If you haven't already guessed, I've got a favor to ask of you both. If you're reading this, that means Anamaria did her job and you now find yourselves in possession of a baby girl. Don't jump to any conclusions, firstly. Secondly, I'd like you to look after her for me. So far, unless it's been longer than I thought, you've remained childless since your marriage. Well, let me get the hard part out of the way by giving you a child, fully formed, no strings attached. Don't say this isn't a good deal; I don't have to worry about this little girl, you get your very own first born, and Elizabeth gets to keep her girlish figure." I can't help but laugh at that. This Jack must know my parents very well indeed, "I'll be stopping by in a spell to see how you're getting on with little Guinevere, that's the name we-" The next few lines of the letter are blotted out, as if thought little of in revision, "That's her name. I'm also sending along a few pounds. If you send them back Will and I shall have a rematch and this time I won't go easy on him, savvy? My best regards to you both and Guinevere, Captain Jack Sparrow."
It's a short note, short enough to be folded into a square and slipped into the secret compartment I'd found as a child in the top drawer of the small dresser by my bed. I lie down on the sheets, my thoughts a whirlwind in my head. I'll have interesting dreams tonight.
A/N: See, toldja' it'd be shorter. So what do you think? My greatest fear is to write a Mary Sue, I think it shows an enormous lack of creativity on the writer's part and does a disservice to the reader. I actually didn't expect the truth to come out so soon, but such is life, I guess. Review please, many nice reviews + free time = new chapter, but you all know that.