The Islands

Chapter One,

Oh, show me the way to go home…

The man standing before Isabelle was easily the most despicable character it had ever been her misfortune to come across--Lord Cutler Beckette. He stood in front of a grand desk made of polished mahogany, wearing the fancy clothes she was accustomed to seeing the upper-class in. Various stacks of official looking papers were neatly organized and there were a few person items: and inkwell with his initials on it, a quill, a few books and a globe. He was holding one the papers now, and was scanning its lines nonchalantly, as if barley registering Isabelle at all. This manner belied the grim circumstances that had brought her to the office in the first place.

"You have a decision to make, madam," the man said looking up from the paper at her, "and I suggest you consider the alternative should you refuse the East India Trading Companies' offer."

Isabelle's mouth was set in a firm line, and she was vaguely aware that the sweat on her forehead had begun to bead. She wiped at it unconsciously, and rubbed her left temple. Isabelle was never the most fortunate of ladies; she was reminded of that now.

"Either way I'll still die," she said in a whisper.

He took this comment in stride, "My you're clever one, but should you go…there's always the off chance you'll return."

"We are both persons of intelligence, sir, these sorts lies do not become us." It wasn't a cutting remark, merely a statement she said in a bland sort of voice. Isabelle had dealt with evil men before, she'd also dealt with merchants, and she found that they often worked in the same manner. "If I do agree, I'm sure to die, but, if I refuse the offer I'll be executed. Ah, there's the rub, eh?"

"Tut-tut," he chortled, walking around the desk, his boots thumped loudly on the wood panels. He sat in the plush, high backed chair and began to write on the paper. "It is not just your pretty neck that will fill the hangman's noose. Your farther and brother will join you--as traitors of course--and that little daughter of yours will go to an orphanage, or maybe she'll just disappear altogether..."

Isabelle's fist clenched at her side, her knuckles were white from the strain, and she could feel her fingernails digging little crescents into her palm. "You're a monster."

"You wound me," he drawled, rolling his eyes. Satisfied with the document he had been reviewing held it out to her. There was but one empty line, at the bottom of the paper. "But will you sign a deal with this monster?"

There was only one choice she could make.

---Three Days Before---

Isabelle sighed and hefted the large basket of fish and vegetables she was carrying. It was a cloudy day, but the sun shone through the gloom at odd intervals. She thought she could smell the coming rain, but that, like the blue above, was ambiguous. The crowd was thick in the streets, but it was always crowed during the summer. Meshes of colors, fabrics and faces were swirled about in the throng like a melting pot; some of the faces were recognizable but most were not. She smiled and waved at those she knew, various shop keepers and one homeless man who always seemed to be in good spirits (most probably because of the rum).

Isabelle could feel summer's grip waning; she could practically taste the chill of autumn. The water had even begun to cool, and had turned into a not unattractive, murky gray. With the seasons about to turn the fishing freights would be in the 'off-season', it was an awkward couple of months between the warm water fish, and the cold, but they'd get by. This summer's season of fish had been uncommonly good, and Isabelle had managed to save enough up for her family to get by more the comfortably. She was a little proud of herself for that. The drafts were getting worse though, the sudden autumn breezes that sent shivers down her spin and goose-bumps up her arms--she hated the cold.

The drafts also made keep her hair in place almost impossible, so she wore her black hair in a messy horse tail, and constantly had to brush it out of her face, despite her best efforts. Her tiny Christine silently trailed behind, at her heals and without fail would brush her own blond hair out of her face when her mother did.

Isabelle was a rather tall woman, her Spanish blood shone in her dark hair and tan skin. Despite her mother's coloring, she had her father's English features. Her cheek bones were high and her nose aristocratic. Isabelle's skin was clear and she kept herself presentable. She as lovely, yes, but also a hard worker, her arms were leanly muscled. If she was anything she was a working woman. Isabelle led a simple fish merchant's life. She had a small house by the sea (which she was currently making her way to), where she lived with her father, troublesome younger brother and her daughter.

Her family, the thought always brought a smile to her lips. Sure, like all families they'd had their hardships. When her mother died she was still a child, but her father held it together for them. She was thankful for her father. Isabelle's mother had been his great love--second only to the sea. Her mother had been his wild Spanish maiden (her father was a romantic), and her death had all but broken him.

But he was a strong man, and had devoted his life to his two children. They never wanted for anything, not even his company when times were hard and the seas barren. But he never sailed again, he owned a merchant ship, and a fishing vessel, managed their crew, but never set foot on either of them. He believed that this would be proper homage to the woman he'd loved. He was getting on in years now, and fretted constantly over Christine and Isabelle, but everyone loved him and thought well of him.

Then there was Marcus, her brother. He had taken their mother's death worst of all. Like all troubled children, he'd been in and out of trouble in his younger years, but was reforming well. Marcus was always out on the merchant ship, he was a smooth talker and an even better sailor--despite his shady history. Isabelle had been known to bail him out of trouble more than one time.

Then there was Christine, she was six years old and, with the exception of her blond hair and pale skin, was the spitting image of Isabelle. Christine hated the water--which was unfortunate considering her family's occupation--she hadn't always hated the ocean; but her father's ship had sank in a storm she hated it. She'd stand at the water's edge when Isabelle was checking some of the nets in the waters in front of their house, and she'd shake her head and chew on her knuckles. Also, since her father's death, she only spoke in a whisper, and only to her family. Christine also followed her mother around like a duck, hardly letting the woman out of her sight. Christine was Isabelle pale blond angel, and if anything were to ever happen to her…Isabelle didn't like to think about it.

Isabelle smiled and thought of when she'd first came Port Hope--then her Spanish heritage, in a predominantly English port, was an oversight. Hope had been a small, but open community of sailors and merchants; heritage had been the farthest thing from everyone's mind. But now that the Port had been subsidized by the East India Trading Company…well…she was glad Christine was colored like her father.

Isabelle was pulled out of these thoughts by a soft tugging at the hem of her skirt. She looked behind her and saw that Christine was chewing her knuckles. A sure sign something was on her mind.

"Mmm-hmm, lovely?"

Christine glance at the crowd and whispered the word 'Plum'. Plums were Christine's favorite. They weren't cheap, and were hard to grow, but they managed. Isabelle dug into her apron pocket and pulled one out. Christine had a sort of six-sense when it came to her stomach, if she was hungry she could always find something to eat. The girl happily chewed the small fruit, its sweet juice dribbling down her chin.

Isabelle hefted basket, and groaned a little when the blue above suddenly began to drizzle.

"It's raining, it's pouring," Isabelle sang as she quickened her pace.

Christine wolfed the last of the plum down and stuck the pit in her pocket. 'The old man is snoring,' she sang back, matching pace with her mother, and licking her sticky fingers clean.

They came around a bend in the road, the path going down hill to their house. Isabelle could see the smoke gently issuing from the chimney. Good, she thought, he remembered to put the pot on the boil.

"He bumped his head."

'And went to bed.'

"But couldn't get up in the morning!"

They're home was a small one, but it was cozy. Cool in the summer, warm in the winter and the roof didn't leak. It was the house Isabelle grew up in, and now her daughter would too. The bay in front of the house was shallow for a ways out, so Isabelle never had to worry about Christine drowning, or about flooding. The waters were usually calm, but the impending storm made them choppy and hard to predict.

"Pa'?" She called pushing the door open, the hinges creaked horribly. "Pa I thought you said that Marcus was going to fix the door?"

Christine ran past her and settled herself in her chair. The room was furnished sparsely. There was a large table to one side, its surface worn and smooth. In the middle of the floor there was a circular blue rug her mother had woven to look like the sea, with alternating lines of blues and grays. The shelves that lined the walls contained various things: spices, books, a few toys, public and personal records, baskets, and things like that.

There were four chairs situated around the fire place, and one little one for Christine. She sat in her small, wooden chair now, slowly drying, and playing with her doll. It was a doll her father had bought for her on one of his trips. It was a simple cloth mermaid doll, but it was her most prized possession. She stroked its red, yarn hair and hummed contentedly.

Isabelle set her basket on the table and called to her father again, "Pa?" A small note on the table caught her eye and explained everything.

Gone to get your brother out of jail. Soups' on the fire.

--Pa'

Isabelle considered swearing, but then reconsidered as her daughter was within earshot. It shouldn't take too long, she thought, he can't have gotten into a terrible lot of trouble, after all, he's been home the past few weeks. So she resigned herself to washing and filleting the fish.

But, of course, it was only a few minutes before the soldiers arrived.