A/N: Look, I finally updated! Sorry it took so long for those of you who have hung in there, but I've been overloaded with schoolwork and working pretty hardon my original novel over at fictionpress. Anyway, hope you enjoy, and remember to review!
This chapter contains allusions to rape and beating, fyi. Nothing explicit, but it's definitely there.
Chapter Two: In Search of a Sparrow
Maria stared and stared at the woman leaning in the doorway, unable to believe her eyes. She was quite pretty, with narrow features more suited to the face of a noblewoman than that of a sailor's; her skin was tanned golden by sun and sea, and her black hair was bound back into an economical plait that reached almost to her waist. She wore breeches instead of a skirt, with boots up to the knee and a baggy white blouse, the ties at the neck loosened. A tricorn dangled lazily from one hand, partially hiding the pistol that was tucked into the broad swath of fabric that served as her belt. A sheathed sword hung from the other hip, and a stiletto was stuck in the top of each boot, within easy reach. Her fingers glittered with heavy rings, and there were several piercings in both ears.
"Well, M'ria? What d'you have to say t'yer old friend, then?"
With a shrill squeal, Maria dropped the pot she had been scouring and leapt at the woman, hugging her close. "Ye came back! I always knew ye'd come back fer me!"
"I promised, di'nt I?" Scarlet asked with an arch smile, holding the younger woman away at arms length to look at her. Maria followed suit, drinking in her friend's face. Seven years—seven long years it had been since they had last seen one another. How they had both cried and screamed and carried on that fateful morning!
He had appeared early, scowling and tugging absently at the twin braids of his beard. After downing a mug of rum in one breath, he approached Master Davey and asked after the little black-haired girl.
"Scarlet, get out here, ye little wench!" Master Davey had roared, and his stepdaughter dutifully appeared, black and blue and wincing with every step. Maria watched from the kitchen, peering around the edge of the door. "This th' one, sir?" Davey asked the man.
"Aye. How much?"
Scarlet cast an appraising glare at the man who she recognized as the cause of last night's misfortune, and then turned a frank, frightened gaze on Maria, who chewed her lip in sympathy for her friend.
"How much? Eh... can't say as there's much call fer whores durin' th' day, but she's a right handy bint t' have 'round the tavern..." Master Davey had trailed off, leering. "How much ye got?"
The man had drawn out a small purse bulging with coins, and threw it down on the table. It fell with a heavy metallic thud, and Maria saw the tavernkeeper's eyes grow wide with greed. "That much, eh? For tha,' sir, ye kin have 'er fer good!"
"I was hoping ye'd say that," said the bearded man, motioning for Scarlet to come to him. She hesitated, stepping back towards the kitchen and Maria, but Master Davey pushed her rudely forward; Maria cried out and came out of hiding as Scarlet fell into the bearded man's arms. The black-haired girl kicked and screamed instinctively as he hoisted her, one strong arm around her thin waist.
"M'RIA!" Scarlet shouted, and the smaller girl stood, sobbing, in the kitchen doorway, her hands in her mouth, unable to accept what was happening. "M'RIA! Lemme go, ye bastard—M'RIA!"
"Scar..." Maria whispered, sobbing harder, her eyes hot with tears. "SCARLET! RED! Please, Mas'r Davey, I'll do anythin'—anythin'—on'y don' sell Red! Oh, please!"
The bearded man gave Maria a long glance as the little girl bolted out of the shelter of the shadows and after her best friend, sobbing so hard that she couldn't see. Scarlet still fought, but her strength was giving way to tears as the moments passed. Master Davey only hit Maria about the head with his heavy hand, and then pushed her back into the kitchen.
"Pleasure doin' business wit' ye, sir!" he had bellowed as the bearded man, Scarlet held tight in his arms, strode out of the Blue Dog's front door.
And now, seven years later, Maria was back in her best friend's protective arms—she could almost believe that, later that night, they'd sit up in the nook off the kitchen together and tell stories about sailors and surgeons, about girls with tawny hair and the loyalty of sisters—
"Wake up, ye lazy bint!"
A sharp cuff on the shoulder brought Maria quickly into the realm of consciousness, scowling at her sister and rubbing the abused limb. "Well, good mornin' t' ye, as well, Tabby," she muttered. "Loyalty o' sisters, indeed."
"Wha' was tha'?"
"Nothin', Tabs," Maria said sweetly.
Her sister, a week's worth of whore's makeup caking her face, just scowled and muttered something obscene—her usual greeting. "Juss see tha' it stays tha' way, ye hear me?" the older woman growled, rearranging her décolletage to show a little more plump breast. "I've 'ad 'bout enuff of you an' yer snarky tongue—I'd as like rip it out as not." Maria stood, lips pursed and eyes dark, challenging her sister. Why haven't you, then? her direct gaze demanded. "Mas'r Davey, unforchoonately, 's got too great a likin' fer tha' tongue o' yers."
The glare that Tabby sent Maria's way was nothing short of murderous. I'm the whore, and you're the kitchen girl, that glance said. What gives you the right to warm the master's bed, when it's what I do for a living? Filthy baggage.
No matter that Maria feared the master's bedchamber like she feared nothing else. No matter that, if not for that overly strong, innate need to live, she'd put a pistol in her mouth and pull the trigger before laying a finger on that flabby, cruel flesh. She shuddered at the mere memory, looking away. Assuming that she'd won some sort of victory over her younger sister, Tabby smirked, made a content, condescending sound in her throat, and flounced out to awaken the last of the previous night's customers with a lewd invitation to help soothe away the pains of hangovers.
Maria sighed, a physical ache gnawing away at the warmth within her core, and willed her exhausted body to roll onto its knees. Her thoughts lingering on the fast-fading dream, she let her rose-gold hair fall from its messy twist and raked her fingers through it absently. When she closed her eyes, she could almost remember the feeling of her mother combing her hair, so many long years ago. First Mum, then Scarlet. Aye, this life's a grand 'un. With a jaw-cracking yawn she climbed to her feet; muscles tight from sleep stretched and strained over tired bones. She braided her hair deftly over one shoulder even as she padded out of the cubby-hole and into the kitchen to stir up the fire.
Another bee-yootiful day at th' Blue Dog Tavern. Wake up, wish I was dead, make fire. Bake bread, make stew, serve customers, serve Mas'r Davey. Wish I was dead, fall asleep, wake up again. Aye, 'tis a fine, fine life I'm leadin' here in the Blue Dog.
She grunted at the mordant thoughts as she turned her attention to her tasks. She could grumble all she wanted internally, as long as Mas'r Davey had no reason to complain about her... she sneered in self-contempt... performance. She dug her fingers harder into the floury dough, getting bits beneath her short fingernails, feeling salt sting in a small cut in the fleshy bit between her thumb and forefinger—a gift from Mas'r Davey's precious hound, a brindled beast with a coat so dark it was almost blue. One of its forefathers, probably just as vicious its progeny, had inspired the tavern's name. Chewing on her lip, she beat the dough into submission, picturing the tavern owner's corpulent face on the formless mass. A soft stream of murmured—and, she had to admit, rather creative—curses accompanied the marcato punctuation of her balled fist thumping into the hapless lump.
By the time the bread was ready to bake, Maria had worked herself into a fine lather. She leaned against the rough-hewn table, sweating in the heat of the kitchen. Shaking with indignation and anger, she wiped the back of one hand across her moist brow, leaving a stark smear of flour across her skin, and turned her back to the hearth. Through the open door, she could see a triangle of brightening sky, framed by the high gables of two shabby buildings and the splintered top of the doorframe. The gibbous moon hung like a drop of trembling dew to one side of the little framed picture—it was exceptionally clear tonight. This morning. Whichever. She could see the shadows on its surface, which, by the stories Scarlet had told nearly a decade ago, were the shadows cast by the man's facial features—and maybe just a hint of a five o'clock shadow. Maria couldn't help but smile as she mused dreamily, propped up against the blocky table with her arms folded over her stomach.
"WENCH!"
Lips pressed tight, Maria exhaled noisily through her nose and turned as Mas'r Davey entered the kitchen. "Aye, sir?"
"Th' customers're hongry. Z'that stew done yet?" he demanded.
"No, sir. A'most, sir. Jussa few more minutes."
He narrowed his puffy eyes at her, bloodshot from a night of carousing. The pasty skin on his brow pinched into wrinkles as he scowled at her, one hand fingering his belt suggestively. She looked at it and quickly quit her daydreaming, building up the fire and stirring the stew so fast that hot splatters came up and stung her hands. Even more than she feared her master's malodorous bedchamber, she feared being beaten. Scars the length of a tall man's shin criss-crossed her back and stomach and legs, and every time a new scar was added atop those, the pain increased exponentially.
She stiffened as she felt that mass of blubber and cruelty come up behind her, pressing himself against her back. As his fetid hot breath caressed her ear and cheek, she held her breath, willing him to go away; her teeth clenched to hold back a scream of fear and revulsion as his fat fingers trailed along her neck and down to her collarbone. "Tha's a good girl."
His hand was traveling further down when the tavern's last employee, a boy of about nine who ran errands and did most of the waiting on customers, came running in. "Mas'r Davey, there's a fight!" he yelped as the sound of splintering wood echoed in from the main room.
With an explosive curse, the tavern keeper pushed himself away from the girl, muttering under his breath about bills and stupid drunks. Maria collapsed with her forehead against the warm brick of the fireplace as he left the kitchen, gasping for breath and shaking. Chewing her lip and not daring to think, she doled some of the thin, watery stew into wooden bowls and set it out. The boy, whose name she neither knew nor wanted to know, would take them out soon enough. She looked down at the runny stew and abruptly put one hand to her mouth. After only a second's horrified hesitation, she threw herself out of the kitchen and towards the putrid privy.
When she had emptied her stomach, she crept back out of the reeking privy and wiped her mouth with the back of one hand. Disgust filled her, and she took a few trembling steps towards the trough and began to work the pump, splashing water on her face and arms with her free hand. Now clean—and rather cold—Maria stepped back into the kitchen.
The fight had not ended yet; the noise of bellows and shrieks and rending furniture ricocheted back through the kitchen, and the bowls of cooling stew were still sitting on the table. With a sigh, Maria picked up the roughly carved bowls and dumped their contents back into the massive pot, swinging it back over the fire so it would stay warm. "This bloomin' place'll be th' death o' me," she muttered as she crossed her arms over her chest, looking down into the fire.
With no warning, the kitchen door burst inward, nearly wrenched from its frame. Maria screamed and jumped away as a man was catapulted in, splinters and ale foam in his hair. He fell with a groan onto his stomach, limbs splayed outward awkwardly. She stood a few feet away, shocked, and stared, unable to make herself move towards him—and unwilling to do so, besides. The men that frequented this tavern would have been all too pleased to find themselves unchaperoned in the warm kitchen with an unarmed maid...
But she wasn't unarmed—not anymore. Glancing around, she took up a butcher's knife and held it in front of her with both hands. "All righ', you," she growled in the most menacing tone she could manage. "Get up an' get out. Now!"
Her only response was another groan. The man painfully pulled his arms underneath his body and attempted to lever himself up, but now Maria could see that there was a long scrape on his forehead, blossoming with blood and already beginning to swell and bruise. She bit her lip, her resolution wavering—but the knife never left its position. Mas'r Davy was bad enough—but let a rough like this take her so easily? Not on yer life!
"Get on, a'ready!" she shouted at him, her eyebrows pinched together anxiously. "Get on! Go! Shoo!"
"Peace," the man muttered, having managed to lift at least his head and most of his chest off of the dirty floor. "I'm no threat to you, girl."
Maria lowered the knife involuntarily; he certainly did not speak like one of their usual customers. For sure, his tone was not exactly upper-class, but he spoke with an educated inflection and did not slur or chop his words. She bit her lip, hesitantly edging forward.
"Do you think you could help me up? I seem to have... hit my head." He frowned as he spoke, shaking his head as someone newly awakened would shake off the fog of slumber.
With this tentative inquiry, all of Maria's hesitancy flew out the window. She wasn't sure quite what it was, but there was some—some—some indefinable quality to this man that made her want to trust him. Maybe it was the paleness of his face beneath the bloody wound. Perhaps it was the kind but sad weariness to the smile that he turned towards her as she approached. Perhaps—
She was scarcely a foot away from him when the back door opened and, looking around furtively, a tall boy with curly dark hair crept in, knees bent and body low. Maria was so startled at this apparition's entrance that she uttered another small scream, jumping backward. The boy shouted in surprise, ducking back behind the table. Maria's fear began to subside as she saw a sun-browned hand groping sightlessly above the table for a knife like that which she herself held.
A hoarse, pained chuckle emanated from the fallen man. "'S alright, son. The lass won't hurt you."
The tall boy straightened, smoothing his tunic, and frowned contemptuously at Maria, who was desperately trying not to grin. "Never thought she would. She just startled me, is all." So saying, the boy looked pointedly away from her and down at his father. "Oh, Da. Mum's going to kill you."
"Not if she doesn't find out," the other replied with another throaty laugh. "Give your old man a hand, would you, Tom?"
As the boy—Tom—helped his father to his feet, Maria replaced her knife on the table where it belonged. She turned when the boy swore.
"There's so much blood!"
"'Ead wounds tend ta do tha'," Maria said. The men, who seemed to have forgotten entirely about her presence, turned to look at her.
"What do you mean?" Tom asked.
"They bleed loads," she said with an air of weary patience, like a mother explaining something to her child for the umpteenth time. "Somethin' 'bout th' way blood flows to the 'ead."
"Do you know how to bind wounds, girl?"
This query came from the father, who was looking rather gray beneath his wound. Dark blood trickled down the side of his face and matted his sideburn, mustache, and neatly trimmed beard. Even as he spoke, one crimson drop fell from his eyebrow and splashed onto his cheekbone. He raised one hand to dash it away and winced as the fingers collided with the bruised skin.
"Eh... I know a bit, sir. Not much. An' I've naught in th' way o' bandages." She bit her lip, thinking. "Wait! 'Ere, I'm no surgeon, so ye'd best 'ave tha' wife o' yours look a' this when ye get home—bu' I think I may be able ta jury-rig you a bandage. You," she said to the boy, "Mas'r Tom. Set yer father o'er on tha' stool there, by th' pantry. An' don' neither of ye look in this direction 'til I says ye can, savvy?"
"Savvy," the older man replied, though Tom looked curious.
When she was satisfied that they were occupied by getting Tom's father seated without falling over, she turned her back to them and knelt, pulling up her outer skirt. She tugged at the hem of her petticoat, but it stubbornly refused to tear. Cursing under her breath, she finally took the hem in her teeth, exposing her bare shins to cool morning air for a few seconds. Once she had a good width, she tore a strip from the whole circumference of the petticoat. When she was finished, she made sure that her outer skirt was back in place, and went over to join them.
"'Ere, this should 'elp," she said. "May 'urt a bit, though."
As she applied gentle pressure to the growing bump, Tom's father sucked in an agonized breath, hissing between his clamped teeth.
"Beggin' pardon, sir," Maria murmured automatically, wrapping the bandage securely.
"I am honored," the man said with some humor, despite the pain he was in. "You sacrificed your petticoat for me."
Had Maria been a young woman of standing in society, she would have been properly appalled at this stranger's casual mention of her underclothes. However, Maria had grown up in a tavern where her sister and best friend were both whores. She herself had been appropriated as Master Davey's own personal toy, and had been subject to more lewd comments than she cared to remember. She only harrumphed at this, though to her amusement, Tom blushed profusely.
"'Tis th' cleanes' cloth ye'll find in th' Blue Dog, sir," she said, tucking one end under another to secure the bandage. With a smirk firmly in place, she brandished the wash rag, a filthy piece of fabric that reeked to the heavens, to make her point.
"Still, I owe you a petticoat."
"Da," Tom hissed, glancing sidelong at the strange, frank girl who was so calmly discussing the state of her undergarments with a virtual stranger. "This isn't appropriate. What would—"
"Your mother would agree that the girl here—" he looked at her, eyebrows raised questioningly.
"M'ria," she offered.
"Maria," Tom's father said, inclining his injured head to her briefly before wincing, "had done us a good turn, and should be repaid. She's not as much a prude as you think, my boy."
Tom flushed again under his father's rebuke, and fell into a sullen silence.
"As I was saying. Maria, tomorrow morning, or the day after at the latest, you will find yourself the owner of a brand new petticoat—and you are, right now, the recipient of my heartiest thanks. I seem to find myself in the wrong place at the wrong time quite often these days." This last comment was quieter, more introspect, and Maria wasn't sure whether he was speaking to her, his son, or himself.
She snorted, discomfitted by the silence of her two unexpected guests. "Th' Blue Dog's a'ways th' wrong place, mas'rs."
"Aye," agreed Tom's father, looking briefly in the direction of the main room, where Master Davey could be heard bellowing for everyone to get out. "But an old friend of mine used to frequent this place quite often, and I was hoping to find him here again. No such luck, it would appear."
Maria was on the verge of asking Tom's father who he was looking for when Master Davey came in through the broken door and saw, to his wrath, his girl kneeling before two strange men, one of whom had a bandaged head and the other a vivid blush. "Wha's this, then, wench?" he asked with a sneer. "Takin' on some o' Tabby's rejects, are ye?"
Maria rose to her feet, livid. "I'll be no man's whore, you sodding arse!"
"Eh, but you'll be mine, wontcha, li'l Mah-rye-ah?" he asked, drawing out her name tauntingly. She made as if to insult him again, but in two great strides he had come up before her and brought his hand down across her face.
"Here now!" the wounded man protested, while Tom jumped to his feet, a cry on his lips. "Treat that girl with some respect, sir, or—"
"Or ye'll bleed on me?" Master Davey asked, wiping blood from Maria's split lip off on his filthy breeches. "Set that whelp of yours on me?"
Tom growled, but from behind Master Davey, Maria shook her head pleadingly at him, hands clasped in front of her. If they made him angry, he'd beat them, and then take it out on her later—and as brave as she tried to appear, Maria Bonny was a coward through and through. She'd rather suffer ignominy and complete disgrace than get on Master Davey's bad side. Tom, apparently befuddled by the serving girl's wordless plea, restrained himself, looking to his father for guidance instead.
Tom's father rose to his feet, keeping his balance by resting one arm over his son's shoulders. Despite the wound on his head, he looked like no one to be trifled with; he was not an old man, and was very fit and strong, though in a lithe, whip-like way. His eyes blazed fire and his mouth was set in a firm line.
"I was going to say that you would lose my business."
So saying, he produced a small purse from one pocket, and threw it down onto the abandoned stool. It hit with a heavy, metallic thunk, and Maria could almost see Master Davey's eyes widen with greed.
"Beggin' pardon, sir—brawls like tha' always set my blood afire, if'n ye know wha' I mean. How can I be o' service to ye, sir?" Master Davey asked, his manner going from intimidating to obsequious faster than Maria could have imagined.
"I'm looking for Jack Sparrow. I was hoping you might be able to tell me where he is. He used to come here often, about seven or eight years ago."
Maria moved slowly around the other side of the table, sitting on the floor with her back against one of the unsteady legs. As the men spoke, she mopped up her bleeding lip with one sleeve, fighting against the flood of bitter, hot tears that were rising in the back of her throat.
"Sparrow, ye say? Come to mention it, I remember juss such a cove comin' round a while back. Two braids in 'is beard, lotsa kohl 'bout the eyes? Had a hearty affection fer rum?"
"That's the one."
"Aye, I know 'im! Took such a likin' to one o' my girls tha' he up and bought her fer good. Paid in Spanish dubloons, he did!"
Maria's head jerked up at this comment and banged against the table leg. Restraining a yelp of pain, she bit into her already sore lip and listened, scarcely daring to breathe lest she miss something.
"Why d'ye ask?"
"Well..." Tom's father hesitated. "It's a family matter. Have you seen him recently?" he asked, neatly deflecting Master Davey's query.
"Not since he took th' lass."
There was a sigh. "If he comes back, I'll thank you to tell him that Bootstrap is looking for him." Maria heard a soft clinking sound as several coins were removed from the bag. "There will be more where that came from if you can offer me more information. I'll send my boy here back occasionally to see if you have anything."
"Aye, sir, a'course, sir—thank ye most kindly, sir!"
Maria heard footsteps, and looked up to see Tom and his father approaching the door. Only Tom saw her, and she shrank back into the murkiness under the table when his dark gaze fell on her face. She saw Tom nudge his father, and Bootstrap looked down at where his son pointed to—the bedraggled edge of her skirt, just visible beyond the table's shadow.
"And remember what I said about the girl. If my boy here sees so much as one bruise on her when he returns, you will find yourself less one more employee and with a whole heap of trouble." Bootstrap's voice was low and angry, and Maria closed her eyes, waiting anxiously for Master Davey's reply.
"A'course, sir—not a finger, sir."
"Good."
With that, Bootstrap and his son were gone, and Master Davey was pulling Maria out from beneath the table. His hands were hot on her cheeks as he lifted her face to his. She gazed fearfully into those emotionless eyes, and he grinned, his putrid breath choking her. "Ye've been a good girl, M'ria."
Remember to review! It's good karma. ; )