Parry raised a skeptical brow. Since when?
I will not be drawn. What you did was my due, and I accept it as such—have done, for years now. Yet for all that, I find . . . I cannot leave you.
With this, in one single snap both ghosts stood again full-dressed, each bent on staring the other down: Rusk with his looming height, Parry his imperturbable haughtiness, sharp as the sword he scorned to wear. Who huffed at his last statement, and replied, coldly—
You still could, I hazard, if you truly meant anything of what you’ve just said. If you tried, instead of talking.
Now it was Rusk’s turn to snort. How d’ye know I didn’t ‘try’ every damn day of my time here already, and fail—how can ye, by Mary’s bastard son? By your own admission, since ye could barely tell I was there ‘less you drank yourself half-blind, ye’d never have known the difference.
Which was true enough, they both knew, and Tante Ankolee as well. Yet as they all three also understood, Jerusalem Parry had never been a man who relished finding himself caught out.
I did take such things on faith, once, he allowed, at last, just as those good church-mice who raised me preached—gave the benefit of doubt, even where least merited. But that was all quite a long time ago . . . and if you’ll only trouble to recollect, sir, ‘twas you yourself who finally taught me better.
Then he was gone, unsurprisingly; away in a blue-green blink, leaving Rusk to stand there foolish with his mouth half-open, poised to toss the next retort straight back in Parry’s absent face. Tante Ankolee watched him swallow it, instead, grimacing at the taste—sigh yet one more time, glance over at the very corner where her shade stood watching and cock an unruly brow, as if to say:
Ye see how ‘tis between us yet, eh, cousin? Well, then: work whatever magic necessary t’ come an’ find us, and do what ye must to bring this long rout to its only proper end. For if I cannot help you, neither will I hinder . . .
A claim she much appreciated, empty as it might eventually turn out to be when push came to shove, like so many of her brother’s promises. But now she had her first element, she wrung soul back inside shell with practiced ease and came to still hunched before the mirror like a savage before its god, all stiff and sore with her split palm throbbing—after which she rose up, wrapped the bloody glass in one of her maman’s old scarves and stored it carefully away, saving it for later use.
One down, she thought, cracking her neck side to side.
***
Captain Collyer’s ship was the Malaga Victory, a trim frigate with two masts and guns aplenty; he was unable to restrain himself from detailing its resources at Tante Ankolee a longish while before finally breaking off, seeing she did little but smile and nod in return. “Well,” he concluded, at last, “I seem to’ve made a proper booby of myself and no mistake, since I doubt we will use our cannon for much more than ballast on this run. You are to be our primary source of ammunition, in such a fight.”
And: “Perhaps,” she allowed, twirling one stiff-locked plait ‘round her finger, ‘til the bells braided into it gave off just the very faintest of rings. “Or might be no fight at all, we only plan t’ings out accordingly. Yet I may need some small service, here an’ there, in order t’ guarantee me own particular store of powder ready fah action when at last we come to it . . . ”
“Only ask, madam, and it shall be performed. ‘Tis my charter in this affair to make certain you have all you need; use me as you will.”
Once more, Tante Ankolee let her brow arch, smile deepening. “Be forewarned, then, Captain—for one way or t’other, I do aim ta hold ya to that promise.”
Half-mad though his experiences might’ve left him, meanwhile, Mister Mipps proved a fairly good navigator; they made his last set of coordinates in good time, skirting one storm only to dive straight through another, with Tante Ankolee standing prow-set to switch its center-curl aside with a single fetish-clutching hand. Once there, however, they ran into doldrums that slowed them to a stop under a still and bloody sky. The crew murmured, blaming witchcraft, to which Collyer’s gruff bo’sun merely snapped: “Is all weather to be judged unnatural, now, or only if inconvenient t’yer worships? Back to your work, ye dogs, and don’t think t’bother th’ captain or his guest wi’ such foolishnesses!”
Yet in secret, he in fact did quiz Collyer as to whether or not the sailors might have a point, causing Collyer to later approach Tante Ankolee, in his turn. Night had fallen by then, exchanging shrunken sun for gibbous moon, and he found the decks deserted, crewmen choosing to brave below-decks’ rank humidity rather than risk her overseeing their slumber, since she held much the same place as earlier. As though waiting on his presence, she turned at his approach to show herself wrapped to the tattooed collarbones in an ankle-length cloak of seemingly punishing weight, which—he only realized, upon drawing closer—soon proved to hide nothing beneath it but her own tea-colored nakedness.
“‘Tis in good time you come, Cap’n,” she told him. “Now, are y’ready ta make good on those vow ya made me, earlier?”
And: He did clear his throat a bit, poor man, ever-steady eyes gone a trifle uncertain under that bold gaze, in spite of ‘emselves—yet for a moment, only, ‘fore he squared his shoulders and came to attention, straight and tall as any good tin soldier: well-acquainted with the honor-standard his title required, him! On account of which, she all-of-a-sudden felt a stab of true affection, intermixed with just the slightest shred of pity.
For tonight, ya will see things an’ do things ya never before thought on, she thought. An’ even if you prove more than match enough fah such trickery, as I do ‘spect ya will, I still like ya far too much to lie that what’s t’come will leave no mark behind.
“If that is what’s required, madam,” he said, at last, “then . . . yes.”
The cloak fell away then, unclasped in a trice, yet Tante Ankolee was somewhat impressed to see his gaze held steady; came sashaying towards him ‘cross the deck, each part of her set all a-sway with much the same rhythm as the waves beneath, and stood there with her head tipped back, her own eyes full of mischief: so upright-stiff, still, this big, white man in his unseasonable clothes. Laid one teasing hand on his breeches’ buttons, right under the triangle where one panel of his waistcoat met the other, and let her mouth curve even further, in open invitation.
“You nah a married man, Cap’n?” she asked.
“Me? Lord, no.”
“But no innocent, either.”
“Hardly.”
“Very good.”
So doff that co
at o’ yours, forthwith, an’ let’s us see whah may be seen.