Author's Note: Hook Enchanted has a blog! Be sure to check it out on Tumblr at hookenchanted . tumblr . com (take out spaces) for journal entries, character profiles, details on upcoming chapters and more. Sorry for the delay for the latest installment, the end of the semester was hectic for us but the summer shall be all ours for writing!

"You are suggesting...what?" Rose asked incredulously over breakfast. She nearly dropped her toast into her teacup when he casually brought up his intent, it was rather amusing.

"At least he is making the effort to suggest in the first place," the younger quipped as she sipped her tea. They sat next to one another, across the small folding table laden with fruit, breads, sweet porridge and a number of dishes too numerous for just the three of them to finish.

"I do not see why you must act so surprised," his voice was filled with mock bewilderment. "So many of your compatriots have tattoos."

"Indeed, but I doubt many of them are property signs." Her hazel eyes fairly sparkled with her fiery temper. "And beyond that, I know for a fact that the methods used for inking skin around this general area are not exactly the most sanitary."

"Let it be noted that you have yet to outright object to my proposal."

"The Captain does have a point."

"Abigail!"

The curly haired minx laughed at her lover's cry of betrayal before leaning over to capture any retort with a long kiss. It was a sight he knew he would never tire of, the manner in which they played together, so affectionately.

"That was not fair." Even as she bemoaned the sweet attack she leaned into the hand stroking her cheek.

"Since when am I fair, dear Rose?"

"Point taken, but that does not factor into the matter at hand."

"You don't get to complain to me," Abigail scolded her, gesturing to the bandage wrapped around her shoulder. "I have my mark. I gave my blood for it, it's only fair that you should suffer some pain too."

"Abigail, you know how scared I am of needles," Rose hissed.

Abigail only shrugged and sipped her tea. "Then this is a perfect opportunity to get over that really fast. You're old enough to face your fears, this will help." Hook thought idly to himself that he for all he now knew about his sorceresses, he never thought to ask their ages.

Rose squirmed.

"Hold my hand through it?"

"Of course," she nodded. "If that helps you get over your fear."

"You'll face down bloodthirsty pirates but a needle frightens you?" Rose glared at him. "That seems rather contradictory."

"Everyone has their quirks," the elder witch went back to her breakfast. "Who would be doing the actual inking?" Hook muttered something under his breath and poured a shot of whiskey into his tea. "That bad?"

"If I had the slightest grain of trust in anyone else to do the job I wouldn't look twice at the man." Oh, this was hitting a nerve. Both witches leaned forward, expectation plain on their faces. "The only crewman aboard that has the skill," he nearly choked out every word, "is Mr. Cecco." He drained his teacup.

For a moment they only stared, their eyes growing ever larger.

Then they were laughing uproariously. It really was too good.

"Am I to assume that my tattoo will be in the same place as Abigail's?" Rose asked, barely holding back her giggles.

"On the opposite shoulder," Abigail patted her hand, "we can be a matched set."

"A fine idea, love! Goodness, I'll have to take my shirt off for that. I'll trust you to protect my maiden modesty."

"I shall defend you valiantly," Abigail toasted her and smirked at him.

"You mentioned being too old to hide from your fear," he quickly turned the subject. "I never felt pressed to inquire, but pray, what are your ages?" Rose turned a little pink, Abigail chuckled slightly.

"I see what you did there," her silvery blue eyes sparkled, "but I'll humor you. I am all of twenty one." Rose took another bite rather than answer. "She's a little touchy about her pushing thirty, when really I couldn't care less, but she's six years older than me." Hazel eyes glared a little but quickly warmed when Abigail lent to press a kiss to her cheek.

"And you both will remain as such, since no one ages here," he smirked. "Which plays out rather well for me, all the better to preserve your beauty, dear ones."

Later that day, for Hook was an impatient man and would prefer to get the matter over with quickly, Rose could be found on the main deck behind a screen preparing for the act. Possessive to the core, the captain would not permit more eyes to see his lady than was necessary. She stripped out of his flowing shirt, her long hair catching in the wind. Abigail gently pulled the auburn mass back with a red ribbon, running her soft hands down Rose's bare skin.

"Ready, love?"

Rose did not speak, only nodded.

"Lie down," they had brought out the chaise and covered it with a soft old sheet. Abigail helped her lover ease onto the cushions, her arms braced on the high edge. "It's going to be alright. You already made a soothing salve this morning to quicken the healing."

"Friends would tell me that after a time the pain dulls and they enter a kind of trance," Rose was trying to calm herself. "I hope that happens in my case."

"Mr. Cecco is swift at his art," Hook traced the curve of her spine, smiling at her shiver. "All will be finished quickly and efficiently."

"I cannot believe you talked me into this," her breath hitched when the man in question appeared with his tools in hand. The Italian was also nervous, avoiding his captain's eye and most definitely avoiding Abigail who tried her damndest to at least get him to see her wink at him. He looked at nothing but his hands as he warily approached Rose.

"You are to keep your eyes on her shoulder," Hook instructed plainly and briskly. "And only her shoulder."

"Aye, sir," the man stuttered.

"Consider this to be your masterpiece, I will settle for nothing less."

"Certainly, sir."

A small table was set next to the chaise, Cecco placed his tools there and took a seat on the folding wooden stool that matched it. He mixed the powdered ink, a deep indigo color, with water and set the bottle aside when the consistency pleased him. Her shoulder was cleaned and wiped down with with alcohol, at Abigail's insistence. The curly haired witch kept her sharp eyes on his hands as he dipped the sharp instrument into the ink.

"You're not going to draw the design on her first?"

Rose's hand shot out and Abigail gently took it in her own.

"Some might need the help of a drawing, signora" the pirate said as he took up the little mallet in his free hand. "But I need no such crutch."

"Is that so," she kneeled down and kissed Rose's cheek. "It'll be over quicker this way."

"If you say so," hazel eyes looked back at her with equal parts bravery and apprehension. The first bite of ivory teeth into her flesh was accompanied by a hiss through clenched teeth. Several more times this happened, the rhythmic tapping of brass on ivory matched beat for beat with a small whimper. But she held back any cry which might have escaped her lips, determined to put on a brave face. A soft rag mopped up the droplets of blood and excess ink every so many minutes, a short respite before the process began anew. Despite her hope that a numbness would overtake her quickly, this was not the case. It hurt, a lot. The artist explained that he was starting with outlining what would make up the thicker strokes of the letters. Only when that was completed would he fill them in and would finish by adding in the cursive flourishes.

"How long will this take?" she asked when she could breathe at least a little easier, as Cecco was refilling his ink pot.

"Hard to say, signora," the man answered. "But you're doing very well, some men have screamed for their Mamas by this point."

"I'll take the compliment," her head fell back on the pillow. "How does it look?" she asked her girlfriend. Abigail leaned forward, looked over to see her back.

"Bloody."

"Thanks."

Abigail giggled and squeezed Rose's hand.

"From what I can tell, though I'm no professional, it looks very nice, love."

Though there were times when the pain was almost too much, especially when already inked flesh needed to be gone over a second or even third time, she did eventually find that blessed numbness. And when Cecco declared his work complete Rose might have sang in happiness. The remaining blood was cleaned up, excess ink carefully removed so it did not stain her skin where it wasn't wanted and the salve prepared earlier was liberally applied. Through it all, the captain said nothing, acting more akin to a bodyguard. When it was done, he cooly thanked the sailor and relieved him of his duties, Cecco seemed more than happy to get out from under the Hook's watchful eye. Abigail helped bandage Rose's shoulder, exactly as her own was dressed and slipped her loose shirt back on.

"I need chamomile," Rose mumbled, "lots of it."

"Of course, darling," Abigail threaded her arm about her waist as they walked back to the cabin. "It'll probably be worse come tomorrow."

"Oh don't I know it," hazel eyes glared back at the captain strutting behind them. He looked quite smug. "Happy?"

"Immensely."

He could hear humming from behind the folding screen. The gentle splashing of water accompanied the tune, no matter how hard he searched his memory he found that he could not recognize the melody. A large Moroccan lantern hanging above the large copper bathing tub, casting a shadow through the thin paper screen. And then there were words.

"Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye. Remember me once in awhile, please promise me you'll try. When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free, if you ever find a moment spare a thought for me."

James sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and simply listened. His Rose had a high, clear voice. She did not know he was in the cabin, perhaps that was why she allowed herself to release her siren's gift.

"We never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea. But if you can still remember stop and think of me. Think of all the things we've shared and seen, don't think about the way things might have been."

It was a lovely song, clearly she had sung it many times before, there was such care placed into every word. He wondered if she would ever sing for him of her own accord with their lover. Perhaps he might entice her by accompanying her on the harpsichord they all loved so much. Her voice grew towards the end, reaching for a crescendo that sent goosebumps rising on his flesh.

"Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned. Imagine me trying too hard to put you from my mind. Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do. There will never be a day when I won't think of you!"

Muses they truly were, his women. Creatures of impossible beauty and gifted in the arts both deadly and refined. He could not have designed them better had he the chance. Behind the painted screen the music died down to merely humming. Through the back-lit paper he watched the shadow of the nymph as she washed herself, the scent of flowers filling the room as she added oils of her own make. Should he make himself known? Did he dare break the spell she had cast?

"Did you enjoy the show?"

James started, turning to the screen. Her silhouette ceased moving, the water going still.

"You're a connoisseur of fine music and I have never had any formal lessons. I hope I did not offend."

"My lady, you could never do such a thing," he moved to stand next the screen. "You forget that I have already heard you, and your lover, sing. What was that lovely song?"

"It's from my one of my favorite stage performances, The Phantom of the Opera. Perhaps you would like it, a gothic romance. A disfigured genius hides in the shadows of a theater, falls in love with his protege but terrorizes her suitor. And though she does not return his feelings he is redeemed by her forgiveness."

"Not exactly a happy ending, for a love story."

"I could sing something from a happier tale, if you like. Though as a warning, many of them are just more love songs."

He pulled a chair and sat down, kicking off his boots and making himself comfortable.

"You do have a penchant for the romantic."

"I wrote short novels back home, Abigail always called me quite the hopeless romantic for a history-book worm."

"A title well deserved," he smiled. "Then tell me, as you are a student of history, of what I have missed," he leaned back into the plush cushions. He watched her shadow as she reached for her sponge, resuming washing.

"Anything in particular that you want to know?"

"What news from the realm of Antiquity?"

"Ah, yes, of course. You do have a penchant for the Classical world," there was a smile in her words, he could hear it. "Mount Vesuvius erupted in the year 79, it was cataclysmic in its destruction. The first discovery of any of the towns the volcano covered was in 1709, when the ceiling of an ancient theater caved in. Excavations began in earnest in 1738."

"Was this Herculaneum? I recall reading some news, a fading memory but I remember how exciting the idea was at the time."

"Indeed it was. And ten years later the town of Pompeii was found as well. Remarkably preserved, the heat of the eruption petrifying everything from bread to bedroom furniture." James sat up a little straighter, which Rose must have seen as she giggled a little. "Falling ash created a kind of cushion, the townspeople of Pompeii were captured in their final moments, from these casts were made." He felt an excitement he had not experienced in years, the old thrill he used to get from academia. Ancient Romans preserved in ash? Two whole towns from nigh two millennia in the past, preserved so well? The possibilities of scholarship were mind boggling.

"What else?"

"The art on the walls, beautiful mosaics and statues with much of their brightly colored paint still intact."

"Painted sculptures?"

"Contrary to what was thought before, the marbles of the Greeks and Romans were not pure white but painted with brilliant pigments."

"Seems rather garish. How so?"

"To some, I rather like them actually. The skin is left white sometimes but mostly is flesh toned and the eyes are always very lifelike. Bright blues, reds and yellows are popular in clothes and hair. For example, Artemis or Diana is often depicted with ginger hair." One brow raised at that.

"What about records, there must have been libraries in both towns. Did they burn up in the inferno?"

"On the contrary. The lists of free citizens were carved in stone and survive, a high percentage in Herculaneum were freed slaves who made their fortunes there. Records still on their wax tablets were carbonized and left impressions still readable on the wood underneath. Scrolls still on their shelves were turned to a kind of charcoal and through modern technology they can be read. Many of which are assumed to be texts previously thought to be lost."

"God Almighty."

"Thought you might like that. Though the exclamation is a surprise. "

"In this moment, I think that I am allowed some semblance of decorum, otherwise said exclamation would be something entirely uncouth."

"I could go on for hours with the all the history made and rediscovered you missed," her shadow reached for the towel hanging over the screen. She could not quite reach it, sitting down as she was. He stood, sliding the soft linen over the wooden frame until she could grasp it. A murmured thanks echoed in the suddenly quiet room.

"I would like that, very much so."

"Eventually you would grow tired of hearing me chatter on and on," she laughed as she stood. Emerging from the water, even half hidden, it was though he were watching a goddess rising from the sea. Generous curves and graceful limbs, beauty and wisdom blended as though made especially for him.

"Tire of hearing your sweet voice? I highly doubt that."

She walked out from behind the screen and he swore his breath caught in his throat. Long auburn hair was pinned messily atop her head, a few tendrils clung to her cheek and shoulders. Pale skin was slightly flushed from the hot water, the linen towel clung to her still damp body.

"The last thing I would care to do is bore you," she reached for her dressing gown. His hand laid on hers, ceasing her from donning the satin robe. She looked up at him quizzically.

"Allow me." With a practiced flourish, he held aloft of the pale lilac garment, equal to her shoulder height. Rose smiled and turned her back to him, letting the towel fall to the floor. The bandage was still tied around her shoulder, the tattoo was still healing, and she had to be careful with her movements. She slid her arms into the draping sleeves, and he drew the front closed, wrapping his arms around her in the process, ever mindful of her tender shoulder.

"A rake and a scholar," there was a teasing grin on her lips, he chuckled and pulled her close.

"You already knew that, my pet," he whispered against her throat. "Some day soon you shall have to tell me all the fruits of your labor in studying me, I am dying of curiosity." She shivered in his arms and he felt the stirrings of arousal.

"I would be happy to." Warm fingertips caressed his wrist, her head tilting to give him better access to her neck. Her pulse quickened, he could feel it as he pressed kisses along her throat. "History paints quite the contradictory picture."

"But do you find it a pleasing picture?"

"Do you really need to ask me that?" Rose looked across the room, her gaze trained on the bed where their lover slept. A clock chimed, but never ticked, the tenth hour. "I've spent the last four years spending long nights in libraries, taking notes until my hand was sore and applying for every research grant I could find just to continue learning more about you. There is no comprehensive book on your life, and I was determined to be the first."

"And how did our dear Abigail handle such a tenacious agenda?"

"With unwavering support and many offerings of tea and chocolate." He chuckled, holding her tighter against his chest.

"The bond you share," he nuzzled her neck, breathing deep the scent of flowers. "Stirs something deep within me that I cannot give a name to. And in some curious twist of fate, I am allowed to gain some portion of your hearts." Her hands lifted, grasping his arms, her lips pressing a tender kiss to his palm.

"And I thank the Fates every day for you both." She said in a voice barely above a whisper. The ice around his heart cracked and melted. She turned in his embrace, her dark eyes devoid of any untruth, her face an open book that read of naught but affection. Thank the Fates indeed, were he a religious man he would have long since have fallen to his knees before their altar. He kissed her then, he could not help it. She was goodness and magic incarnate. And she was his. When they pulled apart he could see stirring upon the bed, Abigail was waking. They were his.

"It is late, and we have already interrupted sweet Abigail's slumber," he guided her to the bedroom gallery with his hand at her lower back.

"Not trying to seduce us tonight?"

"Later, little one," he pulled back the covers for her. The robe slipped from her body as she climbed onto the feather mattress. She had to sleep on her belly, lest she break open her wounds anew. Sleepily Abigail pulled her close, nuzzling her face into Rose's unmarked shoulder. As the witches settled into each other's embrace, he rid himself of his clothes and brace. While it was not an easy feat to remove the leather harness on his own, he could not find it in himself to ask one of them to rise from their warm nest just for him.

"You're thinking too much," the slightly muffled rebuke made him actually smile, a little. Tired blue eyes looked up at him, half lidded and almost sultry. Her arm lay across her lover, her hand beckoned him to join them.

"Consider all thinking ceased," he said as he relaxed into the silken sheets. He lay on his right side, so that he might reach across with his one good arm to hold them both. "Sleep now, my sorceresses."