Chapter Four

There was an Icelandic chill emanating from Ana’s body as she shuffled to a seat upon the bed, her nightgown crippling her in all its ruddy, torn shortcomings. She did not know if she could speak. Her mouth seemed to be plagued with a delicate film of glue, and though she glanced about the room upon a disoriented glare, Claire, though worse off than her, seemed to hum to life.

“I simply cannot believe this,” Claire proclaimed, “All of this, it seems to be just like a memory of the past.”

Her words were dedicated to the off-chance that Vatrossa’s décor fragmented bits of the Beauchard home. Ana flinched precariously at her words, and limply held herself, weak and leaning ever closer to the edifice of insanity.

Ana nodded loftily, feeling as if her head was too dense to lift, “He killed my father, he must have,” the conclusion thickened on her tongue.

“No,” Claire argued, “No, there must be some reasonable explanation for this,” she swayed about the room like a rotting skeleton, inspecting it all in all her filth and grunge.

“What if,” Claire began, “What if your father and Vatrossa bought from the same man?” She seemed to settle upon this answer, and then came up against Ana, kneeling before her, “Do not throw away the only hope you have left, precious. Your father will pay your ransom, and then all of this will be back to normal.”

It was difficult to take Claire in all her confidence, serious, as she was dressed in a nightgown, her hair was practically black and was crusted from dirt, and her entire body was drenched in a disgusting sheen that was bodily oils and sands. Ana knew that she herself must be in the same state, and she looked to the floor.

“You do not understand,” Ana supplied, “My father is not the type of man who cares for his daughter. He will not pay.”

Claire seemed to be deep in thought. Ana then added, “Tell me Claire, how did you ever know my father, in the first place?” Ana’s eyes turned shifty, and her lips thinned to a cold line.

The truth that Ana wanted was hanging by a thread and for a seconds time, Ana knew that Claire would break to the pressure, until her answer proved Ana very wrong.

“I already told you the genuine truth, and your skepticism is rather insulting,” Claire breathed, “I knew of him through Alphonse, who knew him through business.” Her voice was tight and filled with angst, and she stood with fervor, leaving Ana sitting mechanically still in her chair.

“Forgive me,” Ana sighed, “I do not know where that came from,” Though it was a lie, it was surprisingly effortless to slide into her response, “I think this entire situation has gone to my head.”

“It has gone to all of our heads,” Claire affirmed somberly, “We must be patient, and wait till we reach the Port of Marseilles.”

Claire then gasped, alit with an urgency that suggested some sort of excitement. Ana jolted her neck to view what it was that rallied Claire’s entranced gaze. To the right of the spacious chamber, there was an open door, displaying a beguiling peek of bathtub. Both girls were rid of their weariness, and trampled like barbarians into the restroom, which called like a sweet song to the grime and soil on their bodies. To the side of the tub, were two large buckets of water. Not warm in the least, but without an ungrateful pause, they exchanged zealous expressions.

“You have no notion as to how badly I have yearned for a tub!” Ana crooned, delighting in the rest of the airy lavatory. There was set an elegant vanity, with pristine mirror plates. To the side of this, there was a washing basin, and a bundle of exceptionally new soaps from the origin of the orient, perhaps Siam. Ana lifted the soap to her nose, the citrus scent clinging to her as she swiveled to watch Claire empty the water into the tub, stripping without any poignant sense of shame.

“Look here Claire, soap!” Ana handed a bar of the oriental soap to the crisp grasp of Claire, and Claire seemed to have died of happiness.

“You would think we’d never been treated so kindly!” She chuckled as she slipped her body beneath the surface of the water, head and all. As she emerged dripping, she laughed with clear, bell-like joy.

“You would think that Vatrossa was almost half decent,” Ana commented blandly, fumbling in a cabinet for wash cloths, though, beneath the banded ribs of her voice, there was a prominent disgust.

Claire shook her head, slicking the soap down her arms and neck, even scrubbing her hair with the fragrant soap, “I doubt of that much.”

Ana sat in a lavish armchair set conveniently before the vanity. Her appearance was horrid, almost more-so than she felt. She lifted a tendril of crisped hair, rid of its natural curl and grilled to a mussed wave of frizz and grease. Her face was caked and mottled with dirt and sand, as well as the rest of her body. Her night-robe was sodden and dyed a ruddy brown color. She sighed a sigh of hope. If they might be treated kindly, and if Vatrossa was true to his word and delivered them back to her father, her life would remain somnolently tolerable. Just then, the weight of her mother’s death pressed the breath from her, and she felt startling tears sear her eyes.

Claire seemed to notice this, and as she rose from the tub, drying herself with a neat white cloth, she inquired as to what it was tugging at Ana’s face, “What ever is the matter now sister?”

Ana glanced at her and shook her head bitterly, “My mother died,” She confessed unwillingly. Though the words seemed to gush from between her lips, she wished to forget the entire prospect. She dug her gristly nails into the arm of the chair.

Claire’s face quibbled to a troubled wintriness, one that did not especially speak condolences, “To what lives were taken in that shipwreck, I give my deepest commiseration. We shall pray for your mother Ana.”

Ana lumbered unto an impregnated silence, shouldering past Claire till she was standing before the tub, submerging beneath the fresh waters, and scrubbing herself as Claire left the bathroom. Claire showed no recognition as to Ana’s opposition of what she’d said, and left the room, wafting of the citrusy cleanliness.

Soon afterwards, Ana was looking and carrying the aroma much like her old self. She ran her fingers through her already curling, wet hair, and forged a smile from the depths of her being. She must try as she mite to not become a martyr. Though, Ana was not allowed an allotment of time to brood, for as the day progressed, she and Claire examined the room from ceiling to floor, discovering a vast array of gowns, obviously worn but lovely enough, stiff and hung in a giantess armoire. In the drawers below, there was a favorable amount of undergarments, along with the newly fashionable corsets, and stockings. Ana gave a brief overture as to where Vatrossa had come upon these items, lifting her eyebrows disdainfully.

Once the girls had dressed and twined their hair into simple buns, they lounged about the room carelessly, spreading themselves out across the checkered marble floors, pouring over the volume’s and novels that Gustav Hannigan had most likely loaded into the bookcase for décor. She could detect Claire’s disinterest, and ignored the woman’s livid sighs. Despite many people’s opposition of literature, it had always proven as a covert and convenient getaway from the pressures of society. Though, those pressures were far from apparent at the moment, it reminded Ana of the past and the prevalent lifestyle she once reigned.

As the day trudged onwards, the two women were growing uneasy with dread and hunger. But their emotions did not go long without being answered, for at the door to their room there came a scratching as the lock was turned. Claire and Ana looked quickly to one another, and staggered to their feet, slipping on their slippers just as a sallow maid entered.

“Hello Mistresses,” the woman was mouse-like, her lips protruding as she attempted to speak; her voice husky and gyrating, “Captain Vatrossa has sent me to inform your ladyships that he sends you a personal invitation to tonight’s dinner, and he warns you both that manners are necessary; which he requires me to inform you involves civilized behavior, controlled speech, and no bad mannerisms that might otherwise offend him.”

Anamarie stood rigid in her repulse for the man, regarding his words trickling through his maid with a certain abhorrence curling her lip. She did not dare glance at Claire, for she was knowledgeable enough as to perceive what would comb past her pearly teeth. There was only so much a being could say of a person they loathed. Yet, Ana knew on a downcast elevation within her, that she would always have some malignant taste of words unsaid, concerning the Captain, and Claire was as sure as Ana to hold an endless list of aversions.

“You may tell the Captain that we shall attend,” Claire raised an arched eyebrow, wallowing in a smug, imperious state of self.

“I shall see to it that he receives your message Madame,” The wan maid affirmed politely, and withered away beyond the door, leaving the two women in peace.

“My hate grows for that man every time I hear his impinging words,” Ana phrased dryly, “He reminds me of a crocodile, always just beneath the surface and ready to strike; everyone’s at the mercy of his careless will.”

“A crocodile he is then,” Claire glowed, “One must wonder, how do you ensnare the reptile in his own blow?”

Ana sniffed lightly, devoid of any scheme to indulge Claire with. Though the idea was positively alluring, it was something that would not come to pass as any sort of realistic happening. Ana saw no hope, as dreary as it seemed, and shook her head in denunciation, “It’s difficult to say,” she glanced again at her reflection once more before there was yet another insistent knock at the door, her body swathed in maroon, “But I’ll have no part in it. If it’s a true and honest voyage he wants, I will give it to him.”

Claire was skeptical for a few bone trodden seconds before the door was jarred wide, revealing two of Vatrossa’s henchmen. Of course, Ana thought bitterly, the Captain would not allow us the privilege of walking ourselves to dinner. The men gave a grunt of acknowledgment to the women, and took them by their arms gruffly, their heavy hands digging into their skin. Ana harbored a harsh need to pull away, but thought better of releasing her anger forthwith. Instead, she ground her teeth together and held her head high as she and Claire were steered and guided in a jostling manner. As they descended two flights of marble steps, their legs hardly kept up with the wide-spaced pacing of the men, and they thumped hazardously behind them, trying in desperation to keep their footing.

Once they were down the stairs, a large entrance way arched open before them into a cavernous dining hall, with a narrow grandeur table, set for twenty. Ana’s eyes widened precariously, and immediately she caught herself before anyone might think her in awe of the place. Though it indeed was grand, finer than many dining halls she’d seen in her lifetime, there was still an ardent placement of glacial rebellion swelling just below her heart, and she would not let Vatrossa make a fool of her.

Already sitting rigid in their red velvet chairs, was a mixture of people Ana and Claire wished to race to, and yet turn on their heel and escape from. Alphonse Chardones and Benito Pazini sat constructively elated in their seats, their eyes swiveling to the two women in honest admiration. Ana heard Claire’s sharp intake of breath; a tight whistle of wind gushing into her lungs, and her abdomen clenched all the same. Her eyes rested on the two men, yet the intensity of the rest of Vatrossa’s henchmen came to view and she ground her teeth together. These men seemed to blot into her sighting slowly, splitting her dream at its seams, and then the exotic man, in all his sensational liveliness was spotted at the head of the table. Her eyes narrowed spitefully as she realized his unwavering gaze had found her own, a pert glass of red wine swashing round in his golden hand. His gray eyes seemed to hold the severity of a lion, as well as the twinkle of a mischievous man who’s games he revolved his life in. Before Ana could whisper her disgust to Claire, she found herself dawdling forth, hands stiff at her sides.

There were two places vacant, awaiting their arrival. For a moment, Ana wondered if Vatrossa had specifically set them apart, and then knew it must be so as the man who’d led her the entire way, sat her firmly into a plush velvet chair, just to the right of Vatrossa. Ana glanced up slyly, making brisk eye contact with Alphonse before Vatrossa had thanked his men for delivering the final guests, and had the first course served.

Alphonse held a grave exhortation upon his face, his youthful glean now vivid after a bath, and in the candle light he seemed to glow; a salient man gnawing on deceit. He raised his glass to her, drinking diligently, and Ana lifted her glass in response. The table clanked and clicked with the soft din of cutlery and chewing. There was no speech, until Vatrossa naturally found his tongue.

“I hope you mean to speak normally this evening, Mademoiselle Beauchard, it would be a crucial loss to have ‘conversations with the eyes’, instead of customary conversation,” Vatrossa dictated his words at Alphonse and herself, and she had to tear her eyes away from her plate before acquiring enough strength to brave Vatrossa’s cold stare, which was alight with humor and rough seriousness.

“Well,” Ana rushed, “By all means!” She took a scoop of glittering salad, chewed, swallowed the leaves of lettuce that seemed to be ashy and tasteless to her in this situation, and patted her mouth daintily with a napkin, taking her fair time, “Benito, dear, I trust you are feeling better now that you are being treated properly?”

The boy with his twitchy demeanor swiveled his eyes frightfully up to her own, penetrating fixation. He wrung his hands together, gnashing salad between his little teeth and shrugged irrationally, fearful to speak out as she had before an entire audience of Vatrossa’s men. Though, Ana’s expression was pleading, and toying with Vatrossa’s smart remark, thus, he nodded diffidently, “I’m glad to be here, rather than our last lodgings, Miss.”

“Well of course you are,” Claire interrupted upon an utterance, “I am sure more civil peoples would have brought us here in the first place, which no doubt is normal in other places, which would have spared us last week’s prominence.” There was a sharp complacency to her voice, and Ana hardly inclined her neck towards Claire, who was seated only two seats down, to see her fervent head bobbing as she spoke.

“And how are you, then, Alphonse?” Ana suddenly quipped Claire’s illogical tendencies, and smiled upon a marvelous façade, knowing that all the while Vatrossa was watching as a slave-master might watch his slaves work.

Alphonse grunted stiffly, and then looked up undecidedly on a mellow assembly of features, “I’m sure we share the same opinions, Mademoiselle, on how we feel at the moment,” His voice was tart and brave, full of malicious meaning that Ana understood more than he knew. She simply nodded contrarily, glancing back towards Vatrossa whose eyes had been bouncing from hostage to hostage with plump amusement.

“Better,” He inclined his mop of black braids towards Ana in approval, and his men began conversing loudly, spurning conversation, flinging it from man to man as if they were on the decks of their beloved ship where they belonged. On an undertone, Vatrossa leaned forth, and addressed Ana with ragged formality.

“Why do you insist on creating an alliance against me, I’m only doing what any man would do in my situation,” He spoke as if he were some sort of saint, humble and lowly without a verbose sin to taint his skins. Ana rolled her eyes to her plate, admitting another bite of salad dripping with sauces modestly into her mouth. She chewed, taking in his words with a seething relish, and when finished chewing, she did not even look upon him to give her response.

“Come now, Sir, let’s not pretend to be pacifists,” She smiled then, “You’re an ex general, banished to the seas, I’m guessing? Forgive me if I’m wrong, but taking the survivors of a shipwreck and bending them to your will is closely the definition of a pirate.”

Vatrossa nodded, as if stonily congratulating her enlightening words, something of the truth. She knew that he was not one to toy with, but nevertheless, she willed herself to push his boundaries, caring not of the consequences on a heathen breath.

“Bravo, Miss Beauchard,” came his monotone voice, stinging her ears, “your opinion is impressive, but hardly shocking. Indeed, I was hoping for something rather more,” He flicked his hand in the air, searching for a word with a multitude of options, “scandalous.” He grinned greedily, and sipped his wine once more.

Ana felt her stomach drop, and she returned to her plate with an urge of fear placating through the muscles ridging her heart. She ignored Vatrossa, pointedly assessing Alphonse with a frosty perception. She despised Vatrossa, and the thought of being back in her home with her mother constricted her throat ever tighter in this instance.

“So Albert, read any good books whilst you were up in your chambers?” Ana shed her choking feeling, and awaited his response as the second course of juicy meats, scalloped potatoes, crackers, cheeses, pickles and a cornucopia of foods clanked heavily by the waiters hands, to the surface of the table.

All around her plates filled ravenously, and though her stomach squalled belligerently of its own emptiness, she waited. She could see Vatrossa filling his plate eloquently, taking small, neat bites of the meat as he too awaited Alphonse’s rejoinder. Ana wondered if he saw her weak, as she would not answer him, though the idea created too many extremities in Ana’s blood, which was already boiling.

“Yes, actually,” Alphonse’s bleak tone issued like shallow water to the loud, boastful conversation about them. Ana wondered if Claire and Benito were faring well enough, and glanced at them both before licking her lips and responding to Alphonse. As expected, Benito was bent over his food, insatiable, whilst Claire’s white marble complexion glowed in the candle-light, her head held high as she sat, eating the food with a refrained sense of self.

“Good,” Ana nodded briefly, and allowed her conversation skills to rest, and settle at the bottom of her priorities. She prayed offhanded as she ate meticulously, that Vatrossa would find no more commentary to curse her with, and as the night cruised on in a manner that could only be labeled as ‘tasteful’, there was nothing more he said to her. The foods were luxuries, and the meat seemed to melt on her tongue in a mesh of butter, juice, and stringy beef. There was a moment that she caught Claire’s eye and a smiled dangled on her lips, adoring the food they’d been given, though hating the man that had made it happen.

Vatrossa then clanged his fork on his glass lazily, standing as the rubble and riotous voices dimmed to honor their Captain. Ana’s stomach bulged from beyond the corset as she suddenly was ripped away from gorging herself, and she felt that her chest suddenly had become far too contracted. She’d taken to silence, almost as if cuddling along the finite lines of stillness that her mother had enthusiastically tried to counter was suddenly her most comfortable place to be. She wondered shiftily if this was why Alphonse had suddenly become partially mute; to save himself from question and intrusion of his privacy. She could imagine what her mother might say now, seeing her walled up on each side by men and the ever so ‘outrageous’ Miss Bonteque, without not a word peeping from her aside from the beginning words she’d stimulated. She did not dare glare up at Vatrossa as he stood like a pillar, lounging comfortably in a wait for silence.

“Men,” He acknowledged, “women,” he nodded in the direction of Claire and Ana stoically, “In two weeks time we will be making our voyage to the Port of Marseilles, with or without the, how we say ‘harvest’,” much of the men chuckled grievously, as if his penchant symbolism was too much to bear, “Luckily, my man Gustav,” Vatrossa pointed lithely to the beady man with his fiery hair, “Is on top of his game, and we will make the cut-off just perfectly. Please applaud his overbearing genius, and his generosity in allowing us all to stay in his home.”

The men whistled provocatively and clapped with their beefy hands as if there were never an action made to be preformed lightly. Ana could see Claire sour, and she tapped her spoon on the edge of her plate complementarily and obviously strained. Alphonse did not seem any better, for his face was buffeting from pallor, to a fury bleeding red. Ana tapped her hands together with a fine line of tension weighting her brow.

“We very well may be extremely fortunate this season, and judging from my knowledge of our ransom-hostages, their families will be very joyous indeed, to pay a fair sum for the lot of us!” Vatrossa’s voice boomed, and clawed anguish unto Ana’s soul.

She wondered voraciously if Captain Vatrossa was simply fooling with his mates, for he did not know their true names, save her own; and, if he knew her own father in the slightest he would know that the man was ill-tempered towards his daughter, and would never pay a penny for her safety. Her face fell downcast, and she knew that her ‘loving father’ was her only bargaining chip to stay living. There was no option other than to ensnare Vatrossa before he found out that there was no worth to them. She glanced at Claire discourteously, and found that Claire was knowingly thinking the exact same as she.

She could imagine what Claire might say at this point, ‘We must destroy him before he finds out our lies. Men like him do not toy with courtesies like proper citizens.’ Ana withered inwardly; there was a grim set to her face, her lips holding much tension at this conclusion that they all had absentmindedly connected. Somehow, they must speak to Alphonse. He would compliment Claire’s aggressive thoughts well, and would know just how to free them from this predicament. Ana sipped her wine, bringing the glass to her lips shakily as Captain Vatrossa progressed with his speech.

“Also, we have an eventful day planned tomorrow,” he kept on in his low voice that made everyone lean a bit closer on the edge of their seats for want to hear him, oscillating his pointer and thumb over his temples, “Actually, I am planning on taking these fair ladies out to show them the island.” He inclined his head towards Ana and Claire without acknowledging them, whose brows furrowed in noiseless confusion, “Now, how abouts we take a cheer to wealth and irrefutable fortune!”

“Aye!” Came a disorderly chorus of affirming shouts from his henchmen. They raised their glasses and then slammed them back down on the table without mannerisms, which resulted in a flinch from Ana.

“Bloody pirates,” Alphonse muttered under his breath for only Ana to hear as they racked the air with their booming voices. For a moment Ana found her mouth dry, a result of the massive knots of perplexity that Vatrossa had produced so flawlessly, finalizing the entire dinner, save the last of desert. There she sat sporadic, nibbling at a frozen sweetness that the servers had set out at long last.

As Vatrossa sat curtly again in the comforts of his plush seat, he winked at Ana cheekily.

Mortified, full, and repugnant in her alternating expressions, Ana had enough of his roguish words. She sighed on a recalcitrant heave of breath, setting her spoon down carefully, but did not gain enough self control as to prevent the loud clang she created. Vatrossa sniffed lightly, and spoke stiffly to the captives, “You may leave if it suits you. I don’t essentially need you here anymore.”

Ana bolted upright, her chair screeching out behind her. Some of the men glanced up to view the girl displaying imperfect etiquette, whilst Claire, Benito, and Alphonse watched her with elevated eyes, attempting to understand her actions. Claire followed suit, demurely lifting herself from her seat, and situating herself at Ana’s side.

“Well then,” Claire snapped, “Thank you for the dinner, Sir.” She then turned her attention towards Alphonse, who nodded towards her, and stood, holding his hand out towards the woman he’d spent the last ten years of his life with.

“Have a good night, Mademoiselle,” a thin, considerate smile rippled through him and then was absent, leaving that of a ghostly man as he shook Claire’s hand. Ana watched as this careful exchange was made, watching as their hands enclosed upon on another’s, hers white, his scorched with sun. Before she realized what this exchange was, Alphonse nodded a farewell in her own direction. She simply stared back, turning on a crisp stride to leave, her mind and heart racing at what she had just encountered.

“Oh, Miss Beauchard?” A creaking voice snaked past her before she might claw at Claire for answers, and she knew it was the Captain. She had come to know his voice for its low, oily, brevity, “Is there not, anything you wish to say?”

Ana pivoted to face him, a fake glow splitting her face of its corrupted decencies, “How clumsy of me,” she muttered, “Thank you for the generous dinner, Captain.”

Once their succinct interlude had been severed as she pried herself away from the dining hall, Claire leading the way, she followed after her, restraining the excitement that Alphonse and Claire had infused. She did not understand in the least what Vatrossa’s antagonizing blight’s had meant, and the niche of blackness her mind was in seemed to grow, and there was a moment when Ana realized that this is how it would be; evermore veiled from what was truth. As soon as their heavy skirts whipped up the staircase out of view, Ana grasped for Claire’s arm.

“What does it say Claire? The paper he gave you! What does it say?” Ana hissed.