Chapter Ten
The cobblestone burned Miranda's bare feet as she dashed across the road toward her brother. In her small fist she held a scone stolen from her mother's luncheon.
"Can't catch me!" Quentin sang, making a face at her. Miranda dodged the nanny pushing a pram and hurtled herself at the ten year old, knocking him to the ground.
"Gotcha!" she cried delightedly, sitting soundly on top of him, but Quentin grabbed her sides and tickled her. Miranda shrieked with indignant laughter as she toppled off him and curled up, trying to avoid his hands. Quentin snatched the scone from her loosened grip and jumped to his feet victoriously.
"No, no, no! Quentin, that's mine!" Miranda cried, leaping up but not being tall enough to reach the pastry.
"Oh, fine. If you're going to be a baby about it . . ." Quentin broke the scone in half and handed her the larger end. Miranda accepted the treat happily and plopped down on the step of old Miss Brembley's house. Quentin joined her on the stoop and the two devoured the snack in vast, childish content.
/\
Miranda tasted blood on her lip as she bit it trying not to cry. Merry sunlight poured through the window of the cabin, but she shuddered in pain as the memory faded from her mind.
The events of the night before came rushing back, and Miranda hugged her knees tightly to her chest, as if straining every muscle would make the horror of the memories go away.
She tried telling herself that Quentin had died to save an entire crew from a curse worse than death.
But it wasn't just Quentin, another part of her argued. It was so many others that needn't have died . . . needn't have been murdered by pirates foul even before the curse and unchanged after it.
Miranda closed her eyes and felt the memory of Barbossa's hand on her heart.
A distraction was in order.
Miranda left the bed and winced as she stood. The pain was still demandingly present, but she could ignore it. Miranda knelt by the bed and pulled out a trunk she had noticed underneath the day before, but had been too preoccupied to investigate at the time. Opening it, she was not disappointed, for the chest was full of a wide assortment of clothes. Crumpled, torn, stained, but clothes nonetheless. Locating a simple blue shift, she pulled it over her head and felt almost like her old self again: decent. She cinched the dress with a worn leather belt, and searched the bottom of the trunk for shoes.
It seemed her luck ran out at the dress, but not disheartened, Miranda piled the clothes she'd tossed about the room back into the trunk, slid it under the bed again, and cracked the door open.
The men were at work; something in their effort made Miranda wonder if they were nearing a desired destination, for their movement was more eager and swift. She slipped out of the room and nodded pleasantly at the men as she passed, hoping her nonchalance would detract attention. It worked to some affect, and she was able to reach the location with little difficulty.
"You?" Erin asked incredulously, rising to her feet as Miranda opened the door at the top of the steps.
"I thought I scared you away," Erin continued, amused, leaning against the bars.
"I've been held captive by cursed pirates for weeks," Miranda replied, forcing her voice to be bolder than she felt. "You'd need to work harder to frighten me."
"Touché," the woman agreed. "And how will you help me escape, little miss?"
"I'm not much better off than you."
"Least you can move about freely. I'm losing money for every hour I'm locked up."
Miranda descended the stairs and sat on the bottom one, splashing her feet in the salt water that still flooded inches of the floor. She beheld Erin thoughtfully until the woman began narrowing her eyes at her.
"Of all the things you could do with life . . . " Miranda began, but Erin barked a laugh and finished, "why be a whore? It may sound strange to you, Little Miranda, but I like what I do, and I like getting paid for it."
"You have no regrets?"
Erin grinned. "Only a few, but those were purely personal reasons. The ugly goats paid well enough at the end. Now it's my turn." Erin straightened up and looked hard at Miranda.
"How is it a girl like you has survived this long on a ship of blood-thirsty pirates?"
"I don't question good fortune," Miranda replied honestly. "A week ago I thought I'd die of starvation, days after that I thought I'd be eaten by cannibals, and just a few days ago I didn't think I'd ever be free of the cell you're in right now. Things will get better for you, too, I'm sure."
Erin swore abruptly, a darkness passing over her face. Miranda stood up and took a few steps nearer. "Are you--?"
Jerking her head up, Erin bared her teeth in what she must have hoped would be a smile.
"Girl, I was caught stealing gold from violent pirates. Cursed, violent pirates. I don't know why I'm still alive."
"These men are different," Miranda began, wildly wondering why she was defending her captors. Erin's forced smile twisted even wider.
"No, they're not. I assume the only reason they haven't killed me yet is because they've been too busy."
"They won't." But Erin caught the uncertainty growing in Miranda's words.
"Says who, you?" She laughed. "From the looks of it, the only person the captain loathes more than me is you, and you won't get a crew riled up to rebel for the sake of a whore."
Miranda sat back down heavily. Erin's words shouldn't have cut so deep, but they burned ferociously at her heart. The woman pressed her face between the bars to look at her more closely.
"Oh, God," she breathed, marking the reaction her words elicited. "You want him."
Miranda felt a jolt shoot through her as she looked sharply up at Erin, who smiled grimly in return.
"I'm right, aren't I?"
"No." The word was meant to assure Erin as much as herself. "No, he killed my brother. He's cruel and heartless--"
"--and you shouldn't feel the way you do, but you do?" Erin contributed. "I've heard the story a hundred different ways. Girls like you can't resist men like the captain. Hell, I was that girl once upon a time. Get over it now, and you'll be--"
"Stop it," Miranda growled through gritted teeth.
"Ooh, kitten had claws!" Erin laughed. "Run along now and rebuild your façade. I won't tell anyone."
"You may be wrong, but I'm going to get you out of here," Miranda hissed angrily. Fuming, she hurried up the stairs, and once she closed the door behind her, she leaned against a barrel and sunk to the ground.
Erin's words shouldn't hurt as much as they did, Miranda told herself. Erin was wrong. Barbossa perhaps didn't delight in her company, but he couldn't loathe it; she'd be dead by now if he didn't get some sort of amusement from her. No one like to be disliked, Miranda told herself firmly to justify her crushed feelings. It had to have been a matter of insecurity on her part to prompt such emotions from Erin's words. And of course, Erin had said a lot of things with which Miranda didn't agree. She had been wrong about a lot of things, but something that flickered in Erin's eyes had suggested to Miranda that the woman was not beyond changing, and Miranda wanted to help her.
A scuffling noise behind her head distracted her from her thoughts, and she whipped around to find herself face to face with the squashed-looking visage of the pirate she gathered was named Pintel.
"Hello," she greeted, hoping she sounded cheerful.
" 'Allo," he grunted absently and turned around to rummage through a crate.
Seizing the opportunity, Miranda inquired pleasantly, "Where are we going?"
"Nowhere 't concerns ye," he mumbled, slamming the lid back on the crate and opening another.
"As long as I'm aboard, I should think it concerns me as much as it concerns you," she pointed out, her voice still even and unaccusing.
"Thought wrong, di'n'cha, poppet?"
"Though' wrong, ya did!" A new voice piped in, and the lanky, one-eyes pirate popped up from another pile of crates.
"Silly me," Miranda agreed, standing. "What are you two looking for?"
"Lost a-"
"Shut tha' hole, ya floppy-lipped sea slug," Pintel barked, and Ragetti shrugged at Miranda.
"We be lookin' fer nuffin," Pintel finished solidly.
"If you tell me what it is, I can help you," Miranda offered, lifting the lid of the barrel against which she'd been leaning and peering inside.
"Da cap'tin can't find a purse of--" Ragetti began again, but Pintel slapped him broadside the head, knocking out his wooden eye.
"He's missing some of the cursed gold?" Miranda asked intuitively. Pintel looked hard at her.
"Now, 'ow'd ya know 'bout 'da gold?"
"I saw several of the men in the moonlight last night. Barbossa told me everything."
Pintel scratched his head as Ragettis pounced on a new box and opened it up, scattering its contents all over the floor. Miranda watched the lanky pirate's work.
"If nothing else, I can clean up after you both." She desperately wanted to keep herself busy.
Pintel considered this, and finally grumbled, "Aye, then."
Miranda soon realized that the boxes, crates, and chests they were going through contained the vast majority of their spoils. One box she pried open contained dresses fine enough for a queen, gem-encrusted shoes, and silken kerchiefs imported from China. Another contained what must have been a shipment of raw stones from India to an English jeweler.
After perhaps an hour of searching and picking up after the two messy pirates, Miranda lifted the lid of a humble, beaten chest. It was mainly full of clothes, but resting on a dull white tunic was a small leather pouch. Silently, Miranda plucked it up and loosened the drawstrings. A familiar golden glow issued from the purse, and she noted there were three coins within. As she pulled the strings tight again, a smell reached her nose that almost sent her reeling. With one hand slipping the pouch into the pocket of her dress, Miranda pawed at the clothes in the chest with a new fervor. She recognized none of the clothes, but leaned down, deeply inhaling the smell of the fabric.
Miranda's grip on the edge of the chest tightened as she felt tears stinging her lids. There was no mistaking the smell of her brother . . . and home. This had been his trunk.
Quentin.
/\
"Miranda, I know you're in there!" the sixteen year old called through the door. Miranda clutched her pillow to her breast and curled up tighter, stifled sobs wracking her body.
She heard a scraping at the door and knew he was picking the lock. He'd learned all sorts of mischief and tricks from his friends, and Miranda steeled herself for his entrance.
The door swung open and Miranda looked up from the pillow at her brother, still kneeling at the door. His brow knitting together, he stood up and looked at her.
"Now tell me what happened." He demanded, stepping into the room.
Miranda let out a wail all girls by thirteen learn to perfect and looked up at Quentin.
"He--he asked me to go on a wuh-walk with him," she stammered through her tears.
"Who did?" Quentin asked suspiciously, sitting on the edge of her bed.
"Richard!" Miranda cried woefully, burying her face in the pillow. Quentin rested a gentle hand on her back, and said, "Isn't that good? I thought you liked him."
"I do!" Miranda insisted, looking up at her brother. "But, but when I said yes, he laughed and said he'd been joking--that he'd never want to be seen with muh-me." Another wail slipped from Miranda's mouth and she softened it by hiding behind the pillow.
She felt Quentin rise from the bed, and she peeked up at him. He looked down kindly at her.
"I'll make that little wanker pay," he promised. Miranda sat up weakly at his words, and he continued, "No one makes my sister cry and gets away unbruised."
/\
Miranda clutched the shirt like she had the pillow some five or six years ago. Quentin's scent haunted her mind as she fought to keep more memories at bay. Tears pushed their way out of her eyes as she bit her lip to keep back a sob. Remembering her surrounding, Miranda rubbed her eyes quickly. In one corner Pintel was tossing shoes out of a box with wild abandon. Ragetti was closer to her, gingerly lifting a golden box out of a crate and opening it up.
Seething fury pumped from the icy depths of Miranda's heart as she let the shirt fall back into the chest. She slammed the lid down with one foot, capturing the attention of the two men.
"'ere now, what's this?" Pintel demanded, but Miranda ignored him.
"Filthy-hearted maggots!" she shrieked, violently kicking a barrel over and sending pears rolling across the gently-rocking floor. Without another word, she ran up the stairs, past the sleeping deck and onto the main deck. She flew to the stern of the ship whereat Barbossa stood at the wheel, his gaze set straight ahead.
It wasn't fair that such a good, wonderful man had been killed needlessly by the blood-thirsty whim of pirates. It wasn't right that she found herself in the clutches of the same monsters and hadn't shown them her fury yet.
"You!" she screamed, mounting the last few steps to the level on which the captain stood. Her anger clouded her mind as she rationalized dying for the sake of inconveniencing her brother's murderer.
Barbossa made no motion to acknowledge her save in words.
"Miss Farthin'?"
"I hope you rot for eternity," Miranda proceeded, her voice now low and trembling with hate.
"Now what did I do t' merit that pleasant wish?" Barbossa asked, clearly uninterested.
"You killed Quentin."
"That again?" Barbossa almost sounded bored. "Miss Farthin', we've been over this again and again. 'Twas nothin' personal, his death."
Miranda had no weapons, but she didn't feel any one weapon was necessary; she wanted to strangle Barbossa only with her own two hands. She hurtled herself at him (sickeningly reminded of how she'd tackled her brother when she was so much younger).
Barbossa caught her and threw her roughly to the ground. Miranda's head connected soundly with the wooden planks, and he world went momentarily grey. She looked up at the captain, who had resumed his place at the wheel as if nothing had happened. Using the rail to pull herself up, Miranda felt the weight of the pouch in her pocket. She reached for it and pulled out one of the coins.
"Tell me, Captain," she began, her words coated with anger, "can you swim?"
Barbossa turned, intrigued with the question until he saw the object in her hand. His expression hardened, but did not turn upset.
"I wouldn' do anything rash, lest ye live to regret it."
"I will only regret," Miranda started, her voice alive with fury, "the days I lived without hating you as much as I do now." She flipped the coin out of her hands and watched it arc through the air before landing with an innocent plunk in the waves below.
Miranda dug the last two coins out and hurled them also into the vast ocean. Barbossa fixed his burning gaze on her. "That was a foolish thing fer ye to be doin', Miss."
"There's nothing you can threaten me with anymore," Miranda half-sobbed, her knuckles white from holding the rail so tightly. The pain from her burns seemed to have returned after so much movement. "I don't want to live trapped with the men who killed the one person I held most dear."
"Then I won' make ye," Barbossa growled, lunging at her. He scooped her up in his arms effortlessly and flipped her over the rail, now holding on to her wrist with one hand.
"Now go recover the gold you lost, or don't return a'tall," he hissed, and let go.