A black silhouette swept across the Plaza de Triunfo, cutting through the golden evening light before disappearing in the welcoming shadow of the towering Cathedral. The veiled face threw a last, vigilant glance over a black-clad shoulder; hurried steps slowed to a halt in the protective shelter of an alcove. Leaning back against the cool stonework of the awe-inspiring building's outer wall, safe beneath the saints' watchful gaze, the figure drew a deep breath and, with a swift movement, escaped the veil's confining darkness. If anyone had born witness to the secretive event, they would have been surprised to find that the gesture revealed neither thief nor murderer, but a young woman of fragile, almost translucent appearance.
Everything about her, from the golden olive of the smooth skin covering her aristocratic cheekbones to the unfathomable depth of her black, glittering eyes, hooded with fatigue, seemed attributes of an otherworldly being rather than of a woman of flesh and blood. Indeed, there was no denying Elena, the second daughter of the Marques Antonio Raphael Octavio Hernandez, had always been different. Earth's reoccurring miseries had no impact on her angelical existence, and even when she walked, her feet barely seemed to touch the ground. So far from the material world was she that those who saw her floating through the halls and corridors of her father's house couldn't help but think her a ghost. Wherever she went, her presence was but an ethereal breath of wind: a trail of fading sound, rustling skirts and the faint scent of lilies.
In the growing dusky rose light, she didn't care for the places or buildings she passed as she strolled with Doña Yolanda, she viewed the world through a thin veil of pastel so she could discern the scents and whispers the passing spirits left behind. The past was banished from memory, the whispering spirits silenced by her painful mourning for the guileless ignorance of a childhood forever lost. Her thoughts no longer soared high amongst the clouds with the birds, but rested instead firmly beneath her feet, in the dusty streets of Sevilla, weighted by the knowledge of a secret she couldn't share. She needed a moment for herself in the streets of a city that had been home to her for 19 years; when the summer had passed, she would be gone, and no matter how fortunate the winds of her fate would blow, none would ever sweep her back to Sevilla.
They'd stopped, the doddering elderly woman and youthful nymph, at the Cathedral to say their prayers to the Holy Mother in one of the numerous small chapels framing the central calle. As was her ritual, Elena assisted Yolanda to her knees and kneeled beside her, waiting impatiently until her niñera was hypnotically sequestered in her nightly prayers. Using the chanted vespers to muster her courage, she sprung to her feet and rushed past the richly adorned pillars, ignoring the accusing glances the Saints seemed to give her from their various resting places depicted in stained glass windows. She didn't stop until she was sure the feeble and decrepit Doña wouldn't be able to follow her. Later, when the inevitable inquisition came, she would claim the overwhelming scent of burning incense had made her sick, forcing her to leave the church and rest in the shade of the cloister. No one would doubt Doña Yolanda's fading eyesight had prevented her from finding her, and the incident would quickly be forgotten. Elena was not one to cause trouble, and though her unique qualities were a heavy burden for her to bear on her narrow shoulders, they had their distinct advantages--no one would suspect her of prowling around the city on her own..
When the ache in her sides had vanished, she stepped out of the shadows to see Sevilla for the first time in her life, an introduction that carried the bittersweet flavour of goodbye. In blissful ignorance of her status, she crumpled her veil and carelessly dropped it to the ground in a heap. She looked at it wondrously before she accepted the omen the image foretold and walked past it without a single backward glance. She crossed the Plaza de Triunfo, went past the Puerta de Léon behind which the magical realm of the Real Alcázar opened up and down the calle leading straight to the river. She was fascinated by the wealth of colours, scents and voices, but especially by the people who passed without recognizing her. When she concentrated on them, she could feel their aura, shared in their happiness and grief. For a precious moment, she no longer felt the need to seek refuge in the regions beyond which opened up to her like a book written in a coded language few had the ability to decipher.
Elena could smell the river long before she saw its shimmer in the distance, a warm orange glint reflecting the evening sky in all its jewel-like resplendence. The Guadalquivir was Sevilla's lifeline, a languid stream traversing the city with its ceaseless abundance and was the sole source of the city's legendary prosperity. During the Siglo de Oro, the white sails of the country's proudest ships, their holds loaded to the brink with gold arriving from the colonies, peacefully travelled the glimmering blue Atlantic and by the time they had reached Spain, the sea's purifying waters had washed away the natives' blood clinging to the magnificent riches.
In awe, Elena marvelled at the Torre del Oro, the tower that had guarded the harbour for centuries; the building had withstood the changing tide bringing war and peace, wealth and poverty, death and salvation and still stood proud, braving high waters and summers so dry the river would turn into a muddy pool, and she found herself wondering if her life yielded anything of comparable steadiness. In moments like this, she sometimes wished that her ability to see the future like others looked back to a faraway past would surrender its services to her own wishes rather than come and go as it pleased; the spirits providing her with a knowledge usually kept from mankind. As long as she could remember, she had been able to see what was meant to rest under the never-lifting mist of premonition, but it had never dawned on her that there was anything unusual about her gift until one day, almost 14 years ago, when her secret was revealed to prying eyes for the first time. She still remembered it with striking wealth of detail, and because she knew she wouldn't be looking back once she was gone, she granted herself the luxury of reviving her own past.
Her father had been beside himself with rage all day, for the return from several days spent with a friend in the country had yielded an unpleasant surprise. The loss of a purse filled with several gold coins was troubling the Marques, and soon, the whole house was trembling with various accusations, ranging from sloppiness, to theft, and, in the end, to murder, though no one could quite discern how the charges had escalated to slaughter. When Elena learned from her elder sister where the angered outbursts were originating from, she pulled a startled face and said: "But the purse is underneath the drawer in the dressing room. Don't you remember it fell out of father's coat when he took it off?"
Two hours later, when her words had proven to be true, the whole house was in uproar. Had the child taken the purse to play a prank on her father? Had she hidden in the dressing room for no particular reason and witnessed the mishap? No one listened to Elena's desperate explanation that she had known the location of the purse without having seen it or having entered the dressing room. A little girl's word was never taken seriously, much less if it required the acceptance of a supernatural explanation, but only one week later, everyone was disabused. Elena had woken in the middle of the night sobbing, claiming that a terrible accident was going to happen. Her dreams had been filled with the echo of hoof beats on a cobbled street, a sudden scream, and then, the horrible crunch of cracking bones. The silence that followed had been flooded with crimson, and when she woke, she instinctively sensed that what she'd seen was real. She was sent back to bed with a dismissive smile and a kiss on her forehead, but only few hours later, the family learned that Maria, the eldest daughter, had been run over by a carriage on her way to the Cathedral.
In a country ruled by superstition and religious fanaticism, Elena's gift was a dangerous one and might easily have brought the family into disrepute. While their peers might not have burned a child at the stake, there would have been little doubt in their minds that Elena was possessed by the devil and surrounded by the dark aura of deadly witchcraft. Even the Marques and his wife came to see their daughter through different eyes, their looks no longer filled with tenderness but with veiled doubt and fear. In the days after Maria's death, they searched for Lucifer in the girl's distant expression, in the way she moved and the circles her little fingers drew absent-mindedly across the tabletop, but the only thing they found was a guileless child, innocent and completely free from only the slightest trace of malice that might have banished her as hell's wilful servant. Unable to see their daughter for anything else than their beloved niñita they chose to shelter and protect her from those more gullible than themselves, and so she spent most of her time in her father's house under Doña Yolanda's watchful gaze, never to cross the richly ornamented gate alone.
While she stood at the harbour and watched the fishermen prepare for their nightly foray, a feeling of immense solitude crashed over Elena, threatening to pull her fragile body to the ground. Admittedly, she had never been close to her parents, but the invisible bonds were made more tangible with the threat of loss and she felt she would never quite overcome it. When the spirits had revealed that she'd leave for a distant shore to find her husband, they had been mum as to whether she'd be able to love the man she was going to marry. Hard as she'd tried to find out, the question of her own happiness remained surrounded by thick, impenetrable clouds. Sighing, she watched the lights protrude into the slowly approaching darkness of the river, and when the blackness penetrated her soul, she shivered and turned to wend her way home.
The next morning her father announced that they had found a husband for her – an honourable man who cared nothing for her oddities or that she had already exceeded the age that saw young women married. Taking his entire positive attributes into consideration, it was of little consequence that he owned a plantation in a place called Hispaniola, somewhere on the other side of the world.
Everything happened as Elena had foreseen it. The last days of summer had faded into the fiery glory of autumn, her name was written down in one of the big, leather-bound volumes in the Casa de la Contración where all the names of those emigrating to the colonies were recorded, and when the leaves began to fall, she found herself onboard a proud vessel sailing for the Caribbean. The ships carrying goods and passengers destined for the colonies left Sevilla twice a year, their cargo so valuable it would have attracted numerous pirates hiding in between the small islands, had it not been placed under the protection of the heavily armed Armada. They left on a Tuesday morning, the sun covered by grey storm-clouds chasing each other across the sky, juxtaposed with the feeling of lingering calamity that had taken over the Marques' house. Down to the kitchen servants, every face was stricken with grief and sorrow at Elena's departure, and it seemed even the spirits were mourning the loss of their favourite companion. In the early morning hours before the maid came to wake her, she'd pulled the curtains from her bed for the last time, had bid the ghosts goodbye with due deference, and when all was said and done, she'd walked over to the aviary in which a multitude of colourful birds was chattering and chirping, taking her feathery comrades out one by one before releasing them into the cool night air. While she'd watched them disappear in the darkness, she'd felt that the time had come for her to spread her wings as well, and all fear and anxiety had left her, replaced by a new-found sense of peace and confidence.
She was calm, almost indifferent, when she bid her parents goodbye; only when her mother fastened an old family heirloom around her neck, a locket in the shape of a beautiful woman's face with locks of silver flowing hair adorning her visage, did a small lump form in her throat. Still the tears didn't come; with her unfathomable black eyes fixed on the horizon, she stepped onboard the Santa Marta, the brilliantly white sails of which would soon take her down the Guadalquivir and into the open sea; her future had begun.
The fates had a curious sense of humour; when they conspired together on the subject of Elena's future they chose that her first encounter would not be an entirely pleasant experience. She had never before been forced before to abandon land's protective stillness; taken unawares by the waves and their age-old dance, she lay in her small cabin, blanket drawn up to her chin, convinced that she patiently awaited death. Her stomach churned and burned, each jarring toss of the waves set her into spells. Alicia, the maid who'd been chosen to accompany her to her new home wasn't of much help either---seasickness had them both over a barrel. Soon, the feeling of discomfort faded and was replaced by steadily growing curiosity; after a week had passed, Elena felt well enough to take a stroll on deck, taking in the new sensations.
It was a bright and sunny day, the azure blue of the sky merging into the water, and her eyes needed a few moments to adjust to the glaring light, breaching the waves with a diamond's sparkle. Elena's head was spinning with all the exotic smells and images only her sharpened senses seemed to perceive: Ginger, patchouli and cedar wood, the sweet odour of coconut and vanilla interlaced with the faint idea of foreign shores and the indistinct longing for a faraway place, somewhere beyond the skies. Lost within the overwhelming impressions that enveloped her like an invisible blanket, she let the wind caress her features, and suddenly, she could hear its voice, soft and melodic like the sea itself. The story it told was one of love and betrayal, of long forgotten promises and a broken heart, and many a night that followed, Elena cried herself to sleep, experiencing a pain so deep she found herself wondering whether it was she who felt it, or some desperate spirit reaching out to her in anguish.
Alicia tried to comfort her as best as she could, believing the strange ailment that haunted her young mistress was nothing but a natural dash of homesickness, and Elena did nothing to correct her assumption. The maid was well-acquainted with her oddities, but if she'd told her the truth, namely that a storm was approaching, blowing with a force that would bring about destruction and change, the poor girl would have been paralyzed with fear, and Elena was far too sensitive to let others see into a dark abyss they couldn't understand. She kept her premonitions to herself, locking them away in a part of her soul where they couldn't reach her mind until the time had come for the storm to break.
Elena felt a strange vibrating within her breast; they had reached Caribbean waters in the dead of night. She reached for her mother's parting gift, the necklace, and when her fingers closed around it, a soft melody woeful and sad, invaded her senses. It was the sound of a music box, similar to one she'd owned as a child, embedded and encased within the necklace's protective body.
Within seconds, she was wide awake, attentive to the tiniest detail of the events unfolding around her. The cabin was dark, and in the shadows, she could see Alicia's peacefully sleeping form, untouched by the uproar the spirits were causing. Elena tried to concentrate on their voices, to let them tell her what mysterious power had taken over the Santa Marta, but there were too many of them, shouting and whispering, crying and screaming, and before she could decide on the appropriate way to contact them, the ship was hit by a giant wave, the collision so violent she was tossed out of bed.
That night, all the demons of the sea had been let loose; the Santa Marta was thrown back and forth as if made of paper, her sails were shredded to pieces and everyone on board was praying, beseeching all the gods and saints they'd heard of in their lives, and possibly some they'd made up themselves, too, to spare their miserable lives. It didn't matter anymore; even the Captain was overheard telling his first mate that before morning dawned, they'd all be at the mercy of Davy Jones, and nature's fury seemed adamant to illustrate his words. Waves the size of a house crashed over the tortured vessel, pulling brave sailors to the depths, and lightning broke the sky in regular intervals, bathing the scenery in a morbid parody of daylight, so eerie and grotesque some feared that if they closed their eyes for only one second too long, they might wake in the locker's eternal grasp. Only Elena was calm, a quiet smile gracing her fine-boned features while she sat in her cabin, her arms wrapped tightly around Alicia who was shivering and crying in mortal fear. Just as she'd known the whereabouts of her father's purse, as she'd foreseen her sister's death and her own marriage, she knew that the Santa Marta would carry them safely through the night. The storm was not the end, only another step on a path the nameless powers were leading them down, and in a gesture designed to show she understood the meaning of her journey; she reached for the medallion dangling around her neck. Only seconds later, the storm faded into a mere memory, nothing more than a nightmare they'd woken from, and the heavy blanket of silence came down upon the darkened sea.
Captain Alastar Teague was in bad spirits--very bad spirits indeed. The gale that had caught the Captive Swallow had torn them asunder, and now, in the light of the day, things looked even worse. It would take hours – no, probably days – to repair the sails, let alone mend the gaping holes the waves had torn into the rail. He had lost three men, a canon and one of his favourite guitars, and while the damage on his ship and loss of life troubled him greatly little, it was the instrument he mourned with such grave determination. There was hardly anyone on board who didn't fear his quick mind and quicker temper, and on a morning like this, a pirate who didn't cross his gun barrel or the sharp end of his sword was a lucky pirate.
He was hardly 25, but a worthy Pirate Lord, a Captain in his own right, and the nemesis of the Royal Navy. He was also the best musician in the whole Spanish Main; though not considered good-looking according to the standard of the day: a tall, gawky young man with a long, crooked nose and unruly black hair. However, when he began to sing, his fingers tenderly stroking the guitar placed on his lap, there was not a girl who didn't fall for him at first chord. Occasionally, he admired a pretty pair of eyes, a finely shaped nose or an open-hearted smile, but like all young men chasing the horizon in a futile attempt to find happiness amongst the waves, he forever claimed that his first and only love was the sea, the wenches of Tortuga sufficient company and a necessary evil when the creaking planks of his ever-faithful ship began to speak of loneliness. Alastar Teague had never loved until he came to learn that storms could change more than a ship's shape.
He had been checking a rope with a sour expression on his face when the lookout's piercing voice interrupted his dark musings. "Ship ho!"
The news didn't lift his spirits. In these waters at this time of the year, no booty worth mentioning could be expected. A few days ago, they had passed the Spanish armada, and though everyone knew of the legendary riches and the ships sailing in its protective company, no pirate considering himself of sound mind would have attempted to attack one of them. Teague, widely known for his daring and bravery, was no exception.
"Flag?" he shouted up to the crow's nest, sounding somewhat indifferent.
Some moments passed, and Teague supposed his man had some trouble assigning the colours, but Charles Dougald, widely known as 'Cross-Eyed Charley' needed time to digest what he'd seen.
"Spaniards, Captain," he finally replied. "And they're all by their onesies."
"What do you mean? Speak quickly man!" Teague asked back, impatiently. He was by no means in the mood for a pointless discussion with his lookout, and his hand instinctively went to the handle of his pistol.
"The ship bears the Spanish flag – but no other ship what's in sight."
Teague didn't contemplate whether he'd ever heard such nonsense; he pulled out his pistol and shot, missing Charley by inches and adding another hole to the sail instead.
"But Captain!" the frightened lookout cried, fearing for his very life. "I'm telling the truth! Look for yourself!"
Teague considered firing another shot, but looking down, his eyes fell upon the spyglass tied to his belt; on a whim, he pulled it out, deciding that he could shoot Charley afterwards.
He could hardly believe his eyes; there was, indeed, a ship! He couldn't quite see whether it was a Spanish ship, but it was alone – no ships in front or after. He climbed a few inches up the rigging to take another look from there, but apart from the fact that he could discern the Spanish flag, nothing had changed. He stood dumbstruck for almost a full minute until it dawned on him what had happened. The gale, as irksome as it had been, had granted them a favour: The ship they were facing had most likely been part of the fleet of merchant vessels sailing with the armada, but wind and weather had thrown it off course, away from its protectors, and right into the Captive Swallow's grateful arms.
"Out on deck, you filthy bilge rats!" he cried with renewed enthusiasm. "And make ready to board!" Maybe it was his lucky day, after all.
Elena was not surprised when a wild-looking, unwashed man stormed into their cabin with an outstretched sword. As soon as it had become clear that their bruised ship would fall victim to a pirate raid, a shaking cabin boy had been sent below to inform them of the mishap. His face had been white, a stark contrast to his dark, fear-stricken eyes that seemed to protrude from his scrawny features as he announced their certain death; Alicia had immediately collapsed with a frightful wail. Elena had tried to calm her with reassuring promises, tender hands and a voice so soft one could almost grasp its warmth, but the frightened girl couldn't take anymore. They'd barely survived the previous night's storm, and the strain had been too great for her to bear.
Sensing that there was nothing she could do for her maid, Elena finally left her sobbing silently on her bed, turning herself to more pressing matters. In an almost dreamlike state, far detached from what was happening around her – miles from the thundering of the canons and the screams – she opened the large trunk that had been placed inside her cabin and took out everything she thought to be of value: the jewellery, the lace and the brocade. She even took off her dress and the pulled the silver combs from her hair, placing them on top of the heap she'd orderly arranged upon her bed. In her undergarments and with her black locks falling in soft cascades down to her waist, her mother's necklace the only possession she'd allowed herself to keep, she sat down with her hands folded in her lap, waiting for what was to come.
She didn't know much about pirates, only that they were known to be criminals, cruel and merciless, which somewhat contradicted her seemingly unmoved state, but Elena hadn't forgotten about the vision she'd had in Sevilla: She was going to marry, and no pirate could change anything about destiny's choices. Her husband was waiting for her at Hispaniola, and she would reach him. So firm was her belief that when said pirate stormed into her cabin, she almost fainted at the sudden realization crossing her mind like a bold of lightning: HE was her future husband, the man she was going to marry.
Alicia was still sobbing in her corner, unwilling to look up while Elena Hernandez and Alastar Teague gazed at each other for the first time. He didn't speak or move; he stared at her as if she was a mermaid or another mystical being he'd heard talk about but never seen himself. Her eyes locked with his, and the world around him faded away. All sounds merged to the soft melody of a music box, slow and dreamy this time, and he thought that the cabin smelled like spring, even though he'd never smelled spring before. He tried to think of the sea, of freedom, of the riches they'd most likely find in the cargo hold, but all he saw was a pair of black eyes, belonging to a ghost, or to an angel maybe, and before he knew what he was doing, he'd dashed forward and grabbed her hand, pulling her up and out of the cabin. The gold and the silver, the lace and the brocade, remained behind, as did Alicia, who would later claim that Elena had been kidnapped by a dangerous looking pirate, seven feet tall, heavily armed and with a laugh so deep and cruel the whole ship had been shaking.
Teague, for his part, would later claim that he kidnapped Elena and told his men to abandon the Spanish vessel because he had expected a large sum of ransom for the daughter of a Marques. The truth, however, was far less pragmatic. From the moment he'd first laid eyes on Elena, his world fell apart and rebuilt to a white castle made of ivory with her sitting in the highest tower on a throne of clouds and morning dew. When his gaze wandered over her finely carved features, lost itself in the depths of her eyes, he became a poet and his song was forever hers. When he took her with him, he swore to himself that he'd never let her go again.
Elena, for her part, was too astonished to protest. She followed him up the stairs and on deck, past dead bodies and blood-stained planks, held onto him when he swung them both over to a ship she'd later know as the Captive Swallow, and even stepped after him when he pulled her into his cabin. It was there her trance ended; she pushed him out of his own quarters with a movement so quick he barely knew what was happening, and the last he heard from her for almost four days was the metallic clicking of a key locking the door.
Finally alone, she ignored the unnerving sound of his fists hammering against the wood and sat down at a vast table loaded with charts, notes and a collection of navigational instruments she'd never seen before. The room was rather dark, but several candles as well as a tasteful collection of East Indian and French furniture rendered it almost homely, and Elena sank back with a sigh, as content as someone in her situation could possibly be. A smile crept to her face when she looked around and spotted a large, turtle-shaped guitar, placed upon what looked like a pile of books carelessly placed in a corner, telling her that her captor was not only a pirate and a sailor, but also a musician and a man who counted books among his possessions. The thought of marrying him had lost its initial horror when he'd granted her a glimpse at his soul, a vulnerable heart hidden behind feigned toughness, and the guitar further convinced her that she wouldn't need to worry for her own happiness. Still, there was a part of Elena that existed beyond visions and ghostly visitors, a dreamy, melancholy part that believed in love and passion, and while she was sitting in his cabin, on his chair, going through his possessions, it told her to let him wait.
In the days that followed, Teague tried everything. He addressed her in a formal way through the cabin door, introduced himself and attempted to convince her that he would do her no harm, for he believed she was expecting him to rape and kill her. When, on the second day, he'd talked for almost three hours, it dawned on him that she probably didn't understand a word of what he was saying and he reverted to use of the few Spanish words he knew to Elena's great amusement.
She had been raised by a father who firmly believed that girls should receive a reasonable education, and though it had seemed she'd never paid attention to her tutor, she spoke and understood a fair amount of English, French and Latin. By the time he was starting to make use of his limited Spanish vocabulary, she knew everything about him, even the secrets he hadn't shared with her himself, and when he told her "Es tu culpa que yo estoy embarazado!" she was falling in love with him.
Believing that hunger and thirst would get the better of her rather sooner than later, he ordered the cook to serve the best of everything the scullery had to offer, but she still wouldn't open the door. She had never cared much for food, and though she felt dazed from the unfamiliar consumption of rum and port, the only drinks she could find in the cabin, she decided that it was worth waiting for one moment more and ignored the enticing smell creeping underneath the door.
On the third day, he began to sing. It seemed that he owned several more guitars deposited elsewhere on the ship, and his songs were as sweet and as the longing in his voice, telling her stories of love, loss and desire. She lay down upon his bed and listened, her head spinning from rum and something else, something she couldn't quite name, yet, and a single tear rolled down her cheek and onto his worn blanket. Elena never cried, but the first tear she'd cried since her childhood was one of happiness.
Teague was growing more desperate with the day. At first, he'd tried to be angry with her for leaving him at the ridicule of his crew, but nothing could have been farther from his soul's fragile condition than fury or any kind of emotion that wasn't solely directed at her worship. He felt he would never be happy again if he couldn't make her love him; he hadn't been near her for much longer than a few, precious minutes, but he knew his life would be forever wasted and empty if she wasn't with him. At night, he paced the deck, sleepless, until he ended up at the door to her cabin – yes, it was hers now, leaning his head against the wood and savouring the feeling of being near her.
After three days spent on the fine line between desperation and hope, between love and pain, he found himself on the verge of giving up – on her, and on himself. The stars had never seemed as bright and yet so far when Teague contemplated ending it all. He knew he wasn't quite himself anymore, and the crew was plotting a mutiny, unable to forgive that he'd let the Spaniards' riches slip through their greedy fingers, but everything seemed to fade into meaningless forms and shadows when compared to the vexation he'd been seized with the moment he'd entered Elena Hernandez's cabin. Caught in melancholy's grip, he strolled across the bridge when a faint voice floated past his well-trained ears. He stopped and listened, discerning words and a melody; the tune sounded a little off, but the song was like a cooling breeze to his overheated mind, pulling exactly the right chords on the strings attached to his heart, and when he recognized the language the lyrics were sung in, his decision was made. Without second thought, he went looking for the source of his temporarily restored hopes, and when he'd found the stupefied crewman, he ordered him to teach him the song.
The first rays of morning light were creeping through the windows when Elena woke with a start. Even before she knew what was going on, moments before the first familiar chords breached her mind, she knew something was different. The change was perceptible in the soft shades of violet the sky painted across the bedcovers, in the comforting movement of the ship and in the way she could feel Alastar Teague's presence, waiting outside the door with the ever-present guitar resting in his lap. When the melody began to unfold, filling the whole cabin, the entire ship and every corner she could possibly imagine Elena rose, her naked feet almost floating above the ground.
Encantadora Maria, yo te amo con ilusión…
With few, hurried steps, she was at the cabin door …
A quién le dare las quejas non gras de mi corazón.
… she turned the key.
Two hours later, she was lying in his arms, lips ghosting over his scratchy cheek while his roughened hands caressed her sweat-slicked back. Resting her head against Teague's shoulder, she shared her latest secret with him. "It's a boy," she whispered, "and his name will be Joaquín Armando Ramón Teague."
Unfamiliar with Elena's gift, he tore his eyes open at the revelation in shock. She smiled one of her reassuring, otherworldly smiles to add: "But we'll call him Jack."
A/N: Es tu culpa que yo estoy embarazado! - 'It's your fault I'm pregnant!"
Many thanks fo sparrowsswann and flowergoddess for helping us with the Spanish!