Throughout the small community of salt merchants that occupied Grand Turk, Mr. John Hughes was considered to be, by far, the most frugal man of his peerage. He was a plainspoken, religious man of sixty-seven who considered the lavish lifestyle of his contemporaries to be exceedingly sinful and never passed up an opportunity to sniff disdainfully at a neighbor's newly purchased carriage or tapestry. Such blatant displays of wealth were 'atrociously wicked', as he delighted in saying. With his miser ways and stern head for business, there were several who thought Mr. Hughes would perhaps be better suited in one of the northern Puritan colonies; but those who spoke of him as such were forgetful of one rather important fact concerning Mr. Hughes: his love for money.

It was good for him that he did live in the lavish Caribbean for such an earthly love would surely result in his exile from any Puritan society- and possibly excommunication as well.

John Hughes loved money. He loved money more than he loved his children (which, regrettably, was not much at all.) He loved money more than he loved his late wife, Anne (God rest her soul.) He even loved money more than he loved the Holy Father. Mr. Hughes was going to spend eternity in Hell and, frankly, he didn't care one bit. Knowing this about him, it should not come to any surprise that his marriage to Anne was wrought purely for profit and not for any misplaced affection. Nor should it surprise any to learn that both of his children's betrothals were more akin to financial contracts then they were matters of the heart. All in all, this was not so bad when one considered that his eldest, Thomas, was a mirror image of John and Blanche possessed virtually no personal conviction at all.

And while it's hard to fathom how any man who loved coin as dearly as Mr. Hughes could possibly be a devout miser, not many could truly say that they knew John Hughes. Indeed, Mr. Hughes possessed a most complex character. For instance: for all his gruff demeanor, many would not have believed that Mr. Hughes was a very vain man- and yet he was, very much so. So great was his vanity, it nearly equaled his greed. A frightful thought indeed.

On the eve of his fortieth birthday, it was discovered that John was developing grey hair. Being the incredibly vain man that he was, Mr. Hughes immediately launched an obsessive mirror purchasing campaign. Big, small, rectangular and oval they cluttered the walls of his bed chamber and it wasn't long before Mr. Hughes instructed them to be hung everywhere within the house, in every room and in every hallway- ultimately allowing John the ability to examine his aging features at will. Why, it was even said that the late Mrs. Hughes died because of those mirrors, having happened upon one in the dead of the night and ultimately frightened herself to death.

It was difficult to avoid one's face in a house filled with mirrors, as Blanche very well knew. Outside of her own bedchambers, there was not a single location in the entire house where she couldn't see her own reflection; and as a result, she had been dissecting her features for as long as she could remember- the mirrors themselves being in place long before her birth. Everywhere she looked, her face was reflected back at her; and around every corner was unavoidable evidence that she was a plain girl. Positively, wholly unremarkable.

When she was younger, Blanche had been thoroughly convinced that the problem lay with her nose, but over the course of the passing years, she had been forced to accept that it was the overall appearance of her features. Long nose, long face, thin lips, lank hair-she meticulously catalogued every feature, gazing wearily at her reflection in the vanity mirror as Hannah, her hand maid, reset her curls for the party. Some girls, though cursed with average features, were blessed with extraordinary eyes - Blanche had seen it herself- but her eyes were just as plain as the rest of her. Some called it blue, others called it grey, her brother insisted on green; but the best description Blanche could invent was a disgusting muddy blue. Too grey to be blue, too much gold to be grey and entirely too much brown to be green.

Sudden laughter from downstairs startled Blanche out of her self-examination with a jerk and she was rewarded for her abrupt movement by a sharp prick against her head as the hair pin Hannah was currently threading into her carefully constructed curls came to a rough stop against her scalp.

"Ow!" she exclaimed, more startled than hurt truthfully.

"Oh!" Hannah exclaimed, eyes wide and clamping her hands over her mouth to stifle her gasp. "I'm so sorry, ma'am!" Her horrified expression might have been comical to any other, but Blanche, accustomed to the girl's constant dramatic reactions, only found it irritating. One would think she had just threatened to decapitate the girl.

"It's of no matter," she said, crossly. Her reflection's scowl elongated her face more than nature intended, which only served to deepen her scowl. "Get on with it, else I'll be late."

"Yes, ma'am," the girl said quickly, properly chastened, her small fingers resuming their task.

While Hannah reversed the destruction wrought by the day's humidity, Blanche toyed with the ring on her left hand. It was a great ugly thing, her troth ring from Edward. In the tradition of all family heirlooms, it was entirely too large and obtrusive for her thin fingers and she had been forced to wrap and length of ribbon about its base in order to prevent the cumbersome piece of jewelry from slipping off entirely. Even still, it had a tendency to roll downwards and snag the delicate fabrics of her skirts. She loathed the ring, an emotion that grew with every passing hour. She often wondered if her uneasiness with Edward was, in fact, a by product of her hatred of the ring. Or was it the other way around? As a consequence of the heat swelling her fingers to a near unnatural measure, Blanche had forgone the wrapping that morning before her brother's wedding ceremony and now the ring twisted and turned on her finger easily as she absently played with it.

"There you go, ma'am," Hannah said at last, standing back to admire her work.

Blanche and her reflection blinked simultaneously. The change was remarkable. Her dark hair was once more beautifully arranged into high curls whose ends coiled demurely about the base of her neck. It almost made her look pretty. Almost.

"Thank you, Hannah," she said, pushing back the stool and rising to her feet. "It looks lovely."

Hannah smiled and blushed delicately at the comment as she retrieved the newly pressed pink gown from the bed. "Why thank you, ma'am," she said, carefully picking up the delicate fabric.

Hannah was a pretty girl. In fact, she was everything Blanche secretly wished she could be. Small boned and delicate with clear eyes as blue as the Caribbean Sea and a delightfully generous bosom, it was a shame such a woman was born common. Her own chest, Blanche reflected, glancing down as Hannah helped her step into the dress, was pitifully small. She might as well have been born a man, she mused, frowning at her reflection.

"Is something wrong, ma'am?" Hannah asked, noting Blanche's expression. "Would you prefer the green silk?"

Blanche shook her head and gestured for the girl to do up the fastenings. "No," she said, "I should think my father would disapprove if I changed my attire."

Hannah hid a smile, but Blanche caught the fleeting quirking of her lips. "Why do you smile?" she demanded, frowning.

The girl blushed for the second time. "No offense meant, ma'am," she said quickly, securing the line of tiny pearl buttons with deft hands. "It's just that Mrs. Brown changed her dress near five times a day." Mrs. Brown had been Hannah's last employer and when she had passed, Mr. Hughes was quick to snap up such an able ladies maid. Or, at least, that was what Blanche preferred to believe- it was certainly better than the alternative. The girl continued, ticking off the occasions that had merited a change on her small fingers. "Morning, Luncheon, Afternoon Tea, Dinner and evening."

Blanche sniffed in disapproval and turned back to the mirror, smoothing her hands over the pale fabric. "Such actions are frivolous," she said sternly, staring at her reflection, "and sinful in the eyes of Our Lord."

"Sorry, ma'am," Hannah said apologetically. "I meant no disrespect."

Her expression was mournful that Blanche made move to say something kind to soften her words, but the approaching storm took that moment to blow open the shutters of Blanche's chamber window. At the sudden burst of noise and movement, Blanche gasped and jumped backwards, her hand fluttering over her lips. Behind her, Hannah shrieked loudly and clutched at Blanche's newly pressed silk skirt.

The long drapes, urged by the strengthening winds, were blown inwards and waved in the wind. They seemed to reach for Blanche, beckoning like seeking fingers, while the wooden shutters banged angrily against the house. The whole effect was quite dramatic and Blanche stood, transfixed with eyes wide like a startled doe. She absentmindedly noted that the room suddenly smelt of the sea and flowers from the garden below. It was a contradictory feeling, for it both calmed and invigorated her. She felt as if someone had… well, she couldn't quite place the sensation; but inside, her spirit soared inexplicably.

Hannah, having regained her sense sooner than her mistress, darted forward, fighting against the flickering curtains and closed the shutters quickly. "Oh my," she said, after finally securing the latch. "It's going to be a bad one tonight."

"I know," Blanche said, swallowing against the tide of apprehension that swept over her. "I saw it approaching earlier."

Outside the wind howled and the rain began, at first light and hesitant but soon developing into a heavy downpour, the force of which caused the shutters to shudder ominously. Hannah frowned at the window, as if expecting it to burst open again. "You best be going, ma'am," she said authoritatively. "You wouldn't want to miss the party."

"Yes," Blanche murmured to herself, heading for the door, "we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

Downstairs was all aglow and filled with only the best of society, but scarce a soul paid her mind as she descended the stairs. It was just as well, since Blanche found herself in a sullen frame of mind. She did not understand why, but the suddenness of the storm blackened her mood and now she dreaded polite conversation. Her upbringing, however, overruled all and she mutely threaded her way through the crowd to Edward's side. Her fiancé spared her a brief, approving glance before returning to his conversation with Major Kensington and his aloofness, though hardly surprising, left Blanche feeling oddly adrift. Perhaps she should have feigned a headache and stayed upstairs.

Briefly, she surveyed the room. Her father was speaking with Cornel Norton and her brother to Mr. Thompson. Captain Howe was talking pleasantly to Widow Foster- no, wait- that was widow's younger brother, Mr. Foster. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes, the two looked so much alike. She scanned the room, looking for the older woman, but was surprised to see her absent. Wasn't that odd- Widow Foster rarely missed an occasion to mingle with society. Blanche frowned, confused. Upon closer inspection, it became obvious that nearly everyone present was male. How very odd. She wondered what had become of the women.

"Miss Hughes," a pleasant voice at her elbow said. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

She turned and the smile withered on her lips at the sight of Mr. Hawkes. In Blanche's humble opinion, Jonathan Hawkes was a vile, vile man who insisted on treating her disrespectfully. It had been no secret that the local plantation owner had wished to marry her, and while Edward might be disagreeable, he was nothing like Mr. Hawkes. Luckily for her, her father disliked Jonathan nearly as much as she; else Blanche feared her betrothal might have developed quite a bit differently.

"Mr. Hawkes," she said politely, forcing the smile to reappear, "how are you? Well I hope."

The words were no sooner out of her mouth when a great crack rent the air, causing her jump nervously. At first, Blanche didn't know what had just occurred, but the booming thunder that sounded immediately after another lightning strike made it obvious. Jonathan laughed snidely at her reaction.

"Don't worry, my dear," he said with a feline smile. "It's only the storm. Surely you're not afraid of a little lightning?"

She clenched her jaw. "No, of course not, Mr. Hawkes. It merely startled me." Silently, she began to plead with Edward, begging him to take notice of their conversation and come to her rescue. Edward was clearly not susceptible to her mental voice. However, it seemed that Jonathan was.

"It's no use, dear Miss Hughes," he said softly, taking her elbow and leading her away from the figure of her fiancé. "He'll never notice. You're engaged to a most unamusing fellow."

Blanche bit her lip and stared at her reflection in a mirror as he dragged her past. How pale and drawn she looked. She dared not struggle against his grip and she risked insulting him should she resist his physical contact. Vile man, or no- he was still an influential member of Grand Turk society and her father would hang her if she behaved inappropriately. God help her, she was trapped well and good.

He led her out of the room and to the garden door, well into the shadows. "Now tell me, Blanche dear," he said, and her spine stiffened at the use of her Christian name, "how goes the engagement?" Outside, the storm raged on, louder by the doors than it had been in the drawing room.

"Just fine, thank you, Mr. Hawkes," she said pointedly.

He chuckled. "Now, now- we're much too good of friends to use such formal titles, don't you think?" When Blanche remained silent, he laughed again. "Come now, Blanche, you don't want to anger me." From years of suffering through his loathsome company, Blanche was used to his strong-arm tactics and offered him a tiny, reluctant smile- one he returned it in kind. Concession was the only available option.

Abruptly, down the hall the front door burst open to reveal the drenched figure of Richard Blethers, saving her from further conversation with the Mr. Hawkes. Richard's sudden appearance also drew the attention of those present and they flooded into the hallway. "The church!" he said, breathlessly. "It's burning!"

A rush of cold shock ran the length of her spine, chilling her to the bone, and she broke free of Jonathan's grip, moving forward, drawn to tragedy like any other. The words apparently had a similar effect on the men as they all starting agitatedly speaking at once. It was pandemonium for a moment and Blanche had to elbow her way forward, but then her father strode through their mass purposely, his grey eyes stern and lips set in a thin line.

"Well, don't just stand there," he said, shouting over their voices to be heard, thumping his heavy walking stick against the tiled flooring. "Hop to it!"

It was amazing the effect his words had on the men. Before Blanche could blink they immediately calmed themselves and ordered their coats to be brought. Edward, spying her presence, drew her aside.

"What are you doing here, Blanche?" he asked.

"I was curious," she answered truthfully, already knowing his response.

She was not disappointed. "You shouldn't be here, you'll only be underfoot," he said, looking at her sternly, "You should know better."

"I'm sorry," Blanche said softly. "It won't happen again."

"I should hope not. Any wife of mine should know her place."

She could do nothing but nod in agreement and then he was gone from her side. She watched as he shrugged into his coat and joined the other men as they trooped out the door, intent on rescuing the burning church. Moments later, she stood alone in the silent foyer. It was as if they had never been there.

Outside lightning flashed and thunder rumbled darkly across the darkening sky. The heavy rain continued to fall steadily.

And the pirates were very, very wet.