“My father once informed me that excessive coughing leads to disembowelment,” Pepin said, turning suddenly to smile benignantly at Cecilia.
She narrowed her eyes at him and coughed again, convulsively. Her eyes flashed with anger through the wet strands of hair stuck to her face. She staggered to her feet, and Pepin’s excitement began to give way to worry. He stepped backwards and held up his hands. “Mademoiselle, before you do anything rash . . .”
“You tricked me! You betrayed me!” She marched toward him, shoving her hair out of her face, her eyes as furious as when she had addressed the Fee. “You owe me an explanation at once, sir! At once, I tell you!”
Pepin took another step away. “Oui. Absolument. It will be a good explanation, I swear.”
“It needs to be a truthful explanation,” she persisted, folding her arms over her chest. For all her stance was one of intimidation, she looked like a frightened, wet child.
Sorrow tore away the remaining shreds of Pepin’s glee. “I will be honest,” he said. “I swear this to you.” He paused for a moment. How to explain everything? How to explain the darkness and the anger and the desperation prompting every deceit, every lie, every evil deed? How to make her understand the oddness of his position as captain, the reasons behind his mystical powers?
The answer to all of these was simple enough: Tell her.
“Do you . . . do you remember our conversation about esprit de la Rose?” he asked Cecilia.
“No,” she replied. Then, after a moment’s thought, she added, “Or do you mean . . . how my father told me that a ship takes on the spirit of her captain?”
“Oui. Well, the concept of the spirit of the Rose is actually more than one of my many nonsensically poetic phrases. It is the reason I am the captain. It is the reason I had the power to overcome the mutinous crew. It is—” Pepin glanced away from her to stare at the shack’s rotting wall. “It is the reason I gave you to the Fee.”
Shifting his gaze to the damp floorboards, he explained: “When the Fee punished me, they made me the captain because I was never supposed to be punished. You see, my father forced me from my home to serve as a decoy in the event his service to the Fee failed and they should turn on him. But I am no man’s decoy!” Pepin chuckled ruefully. “When opportunity arose, I stole the mirror and framed my father for the robbery. The Fee arrived, created the whirlpool, and prepared to punish my father, Daviau.
“However, just seconds before my liberation, he shoved me through the whirlpool in his stead. I appeared in the bilge of the Rose, a Royal Navy man o’ war my father had recently sunk at the behest of the Fee. I first arrived as a Solid. I had no welcoming party as you did though. No one was there. I was the first placed aboard the Rose.
“An orb appeared in the gaol, and I went through. The Fee wrested the truth from me . . .” Pepin shuddered at the memory then hurried on. “They were conflicted over my fate. Some argued I should be sent back because I had been pushed in. Others argued that I should be punished since I was the one who stole the mirror. Eventually they compromised. They cursed me, but they gave me power—power to control the Rose’s direction with my mind and power to subdue the crew if necessary.
“Two days ago, the orb appeared in my cabin. I went through. The Fee were frantic, even more frantic than they had been about Curly. You were an accident they had not foreseen. I suppose children and Solid Women are hard to control, even for them. They offered me another deal: If I brought you to this shack and sent you through a whirlpool, they would give me the ship of my dreams and I could go free. I agreed. They gave me the mirror to alert them when we arrived.”
He chanced a glance at Cecilia. She was no longer glaring. Her expression was solemn, her brow lightly puckered. Was that pity he saw in her eyes? Accusation? He could not read her, and he feared what effect his tale might have on her opinion of him . . . which must already be dismally low.
He continued to look at Cecilia, though he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “After I gave you to the Fee, I staggered out of the shack to see my new ship. Before, you understand, I thought the Fee meant the ship would truly be the ship of my dreams. But they meant it would be an image of my true spirit. I beheld it below the cliff, a black, ugly thing, a ship of my nightmares! The torn sails hung upon it like flesh on a carcass, and the holes and rot infecting the wood were visible even from a distance. I knew it would sail nowhere. I was human, yes, but I was still in the Fee’s world. Still in the netherworld. I had assumed that ‘freedom’ meant a return to my own world. The Fee had not intended that at all.”
Pepin forced himself to meet Cecilia’s gaze. “It was not the darkness of the ship that sent me through the whirlpool to save you. It was the darkness of myself.”
Cecilia said nothing. She strode toward him, and Pepin flinched, expecting the slap he knew he deserved. It did not come. She walked past him into the sunlight and gazed over the island, her back to the cliff. Then suddenly she turned and offered him the most beautiful smile. “Captain, you kept your word and saved your crew.”
Pepin trailed after her and followed her gaze. Hope burst through his shame like the first sunbeam on the horizon after a stormy night. Even now on the quay the waking crew discovered their human bodies, stared at their hands, stared at each other, then whooped and leaped for joy. Beyond them the Rose floated, her sails a pure white and her boards an ordinary brown.
She was beautiful.
Epilogue
LONDON WAS NOT the glorious, magical city Cecilia had always imagined. Certainly nothing like the vision she had glimpsed in the mirror room of the Rose . . . though that, she had known at the time, must have been idealized at best.
London, the real London, was a cold, wet, dirty, stinking city, as unlike her dreams as it could be. Very different, as well, from the beautiful balmy islands of the Caribbean. And her father’s respectable sister, though coldly generous to her only niece, did not provide the home Cecilia had wanted. Most of the time Cecilia felt chilled, inside and out.
Sighing, she fingered her hair, considering whether or not she should start to pin it up as her poor aunt kept suggesting. Fashionable women of London wore their hair loose over the shoulders with the rest gathered into a high bun on the back of the head, an ornate headdress, and a short fringe of hair over their foreheads. But this style seemed so strange to Cecilia, and she preferred her simple braid and cap.
Lightning flashed. Cecilia moved to the window and pressed her forehead to the glass, watching the torrents of rain patter against the street. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the skies were dark and the storm was dense. She blew lightly and watched her breath fog on the cold glass. The blackness, the storm, and the fog reminded her of a ship, two bumbling pirates, a fog-shrouded island, and an enigmatic captain . . .
What was wrong with her?
Huffing a frustrated breath, she spun from the window and threw herself into a cushioned armchair, crossing her arms somewhat petulantly. There was no point in wishing or dreaming. She was here in London, just as she had always wanted. Her aunt and uncle were kind to her. Her father’s sister was much more affluent than Cecilia had expected, and Cecilia, who had grown up poor, found herself suddenly surrounded by what she considered the height of luxury.
She dropped her arms, wilting into the chair. At least back in St. George’s Parish she had felt purposeful. She’d had the villagers to resist, her mother to help, Father John Francis to talk to. She was useless here: too rich to work and too restless to enjoy society. If London society could bring itself to accept a privateer’s half-Spanish daughter, which remained to be seen.
She sighed again and stood, intending to find her aunt and ask if there was anything she might assist her with, but thunder crashed and she turned to the window. She squinted, then scurried to the glass pane.
A man and a boy dashed through the streets. The boy wore a cap pulled over bouncy curls, and the man’s tricorn hat failed to conceal his fiery red hair.
Cecili
a bounded from the room, dodged past the housemaid in the hall, and threw open the door.
Captain Pepin stood on the threshold, his fist poised to knock on the door.
“Hullo, Miss Lester!” Curly exclaimed, grinning.
“Miss me, Mademoiselle?” Pepin asked with a grin.
Cecilia felt her face flush. She ushered them into the house and into the drawing room, ignoring the wide-eyed horror of the housemaid. After closing the drawing-room door, she turned to face them. Curly poked at an expensive vase, and Pepin casually tossed his soaked coat onto a high-backed chair.
Pepin whistled to himself as he strolled around the table, running a finger over the wood. “You are perfectly comfortable here, are you not?” Pepin asked. “Unwilling to leave? Completely in love with the latest gossip about this prim lady and that proper heiress, gowns that are all fabric and no heart, and bewigged fops who brave the dangerous seas of English tea parties? Oui, London is quite the adventure for all!”
Cecilia blinked at him and felt her smile start to diminish. His sarcasm was harsh, cutting, yet it didn’t hurt. She agreed with each of his sentiments. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
Pepin jerked his gaze away from the table and approached her. His voice was serious when he spoke. “Have you ever heard of a pirate named David Jones?”
Cecilia shook her head.
“Neither had I,” Pepin said. “Until a few weeks ago.”
“Who is he?”
“Nobody. A nobody with a tiny vessel, a scrawny crew, and an uncanny ability to completely demolish any ship he comes across.” Pepin’s blue eyes bored into Cecilia. “I met him briefly in Tortuga. He—rather rudely I might add—informed me that the Rose did not belong to me but to the goddesses of the sea, and that I would be killed immediately and brutally because of my disregard for the wishes of the Fee. He added that he knows where you live and would soon come for you.”
Cecilia sucked in a breath. Curly bounded over to them. “Don’t be scared, miss! He’s not all he wants to seem, I think. Cap’n beat him in a duel, he did!”
“Did you really?” Cecilia asked.
Pepin raised both eyebrows and opened his mouth to reply, but Curly’s chatter cut him off. “He did! ’Course, he had help from William and Frank and the others, but he only got a little beat up! Jones had to run. He didn’t even have a scratch though! Completely eerie, I say!”
Pepin glared at Curly, who grinned cheekily up at him. Cecilia, despite herself, giggled at their silent exchange.
Pepin raised a brow at her. “You find your imminent doom amusing, Mademoiselle?”
“I find your attempt to impress me amusing,” she replied.
Pepin’s smirk returned. “Attempt? Are you sure that is the correct word?”
Cecilia ignored his flirting. “You came to warn me?”
Pepin pressed a hand to his heart and assumed a shocked expression. “What do you take me for, un coquin? Mais non! We are here to take you aboard the Rose and find a safer place for you to reside while I deal with Jones.”
Cecilia stiffened in surprise. “You’re taking me away from here?”
Pepin nodded a bow. “Alas, I’m afraid there is no time for you to bid adieu to the queue of sniveling suitors you have no doubt amassed. We must leave immediately.”
Leaving. She was leaving. She didn’t know where she would go, but she was leaving. A rush of excitement, of joy, burst through her . . . followed quickly by surprise. She shouldn’t be excited about these strange events. She shouldn’t be excited about having a madman pirate searching for her. She shouldn’t be excited to board a ship captained by a man who had betrayed her, or to sail with a crew, the majority of whom had once intended to harm her.
Yet she was excited. Was there any point in hiding it?
She beamed up at Pepin. “Let me pack some clothes and I’ll be ready! May I leave a note to my aunt? Do you suppose this Jones is somehow connected to the Fee? Is the mirror still hidden? How are William and Frank? I rather miss them.”
“Please be quick about it. Oui, but don’t tell her too much. I am certain of it. Yes, I do have that much sense. They are as imbecilic as ever, thank you for inquiring,” Pepin returned answers as rapidly as she had asked questions.
Cecilia turned to dash from the room but paused when Pepin spoke again. “Aren’t you terrified? Aren’t you angry at having to leave your dream life? I thought this would be difficult for you, so I brought Curly along. I figured if he grinned and showed his dimples, you would be persuaded, since my good looks are clearly not enough to persuade you.” The last he added rather petulantly.
Cecilia stood still for a moment then glanced over her shoulder and said, “Terrified? Angry? Absolutely not.” She bounded through the doors and dashed to her room, attempting to stifle the smile spreading across her face. She was embarking on another adventure, and life suddenly seemed beautiful again.
KAYCEE BROWNING is a homeschooled teenager living in North Carolina. She wrote her first novel when she was thirteen and published a novel at age fifteen. When not writing, she is most likely amusing herself by reading, fangirling, hanging out with friends, or (occasionally) doing her schoolwork. She resides with her two amazing parents, her three awesome siblings, and her two bossy dachshunds.
Learn more about Kaycee and her work at: www.KayceeBrowning.com
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To my White Knight, for loving me even when my crazy shows through
Prologue
MOONLIGHT BATHED THE Neverway in cold, unforgiving light.
At long last, Merchant Haverly recognized his surroundings. He smelled smoke and heard the river churning as it rotated the water wheel outside the village boundaries. He was nearly home.
In his haste he tripped on his own boot laces and crashed to the ground. He did not rise immediately but moved his trembling hands to cover his face. That monster had left him here, only a few dozen yards from the village boundaries, to deliver horrifying news. It had been a mistake, a dreadful mistake.
He had been on his way home from Pandorum, where he peddled his watches every year at the Festival of Lights. There was only one route over the mountains, and it led straight through the Neverway, a wilderness that began on Pandorum’s side of the mountain and carved a narrow gap through the peaks before spilling into the lowlands on the other side. The bandits attacked his caravan late in the afternoon, driving the travelers from the road and into the wilderness.
For hours Haverly had stumbled in rocky woods, without any supplies, afraid he would never see his precious family again. He knew his village lay to the south, at the base of the mountains, but he had never been good with directions. In the gathering darkness, on his own, he did not climb down far enough.
Instead, he stumbled upon a towering wall of roses. He searched for a gate, but it appeared the briar wall grew untended, that whatever structure lay behind it had been long forgotten. He thought of his children then, his darling daughters, and of the gifts he had purchased, now lost to scoundrels. There had been books for his eldest, a doll with a painted porcelain face for his youngest, and a rose bush for his middle daughter.
He could not replace the doll or books, but it seemed the Ever intended to replace at least one of the pilfered gifts. He plucked a rose from the wall. Only one, to put in his pocket.
The wall had shuddered, and beyond the briar wall some terrible creature stirred . . .
Haverly shook himself to escape the memory, but it clung to him. He now knew that the nursery tales were not quite true. No stories could have prepared him for the real monster that lived in Briarstone Abbey.
He forced himself to rise from the ground and stood facing the village. He could see light from the electric lamps in the watchtowers spaced around the village wall.
He moved a hand across his face, chasing tears. It h
ad all been a mistake. And his darling Sunflower would pay the price.
Chapter 1
Lilybet Haverly – the Merchant’s Middle Daughter
I HAD NEVER been fond of roses. But now I had cause to truly hate them.
I sat near the hearth in the kitchen, watching as the embers turned black. Rosamond and Sookie were near me, squashed together on Mama’s rocker. Rosamond cried as she played with Sookie’s pale curls—even she, ever the optimist, could find nothing hopeful in our sister’s plight. I could hear Papa in his room off the kitchen, weeping. The Spook, who found Papa outside the village and brought him home to us, had left long ago.
The rose that caused it all lay on the floor near the plank table, where I’d dropped it the moment Papa finished telling his tale. I had no inclination to retrieve it but left it crushed and wilting on the packed-earth floor. How could I not hate roses after this? How could I not hate him? Of course I knew what folks said about Briarstone Abbey, but I had believed the stories to be simply that—stories. Some people claimed the Abbey was inhabited by thieves and vagabonds, while others described ghosts and grotesque monsters.
It appeared the harshest rumors had been the most correct. There really was a beast in Briarstone Abbey.
I leaned forward, grabbed a poker, and began to viciously stir the embers until they sparked in protest. I shoved two small logs into the coals and watched as tiny flames flickered around them. Who would have thought a simple flower could cause so much trouble? I didn’t blame Papa. If anything, Sookie was more at fault for putting him in mind of the roses. Everyone knows my opinion of roses, so when Papa asked what I would like as a gift when he returned from Pandorum, my little sister impishly recommended a rose bush.
Five Enchanted Roses: A Collection of Beauty and the Beast Stories Page 9