24 THEY UNHAPPY TWO—UNEXPECTED EMPATHY—A SOLUTION POPS UP—PORK PIES—NED ADVISES ALEX—CLACTON’S ANGELS—CREEVE GETS JUSTICE—NO BECHDEL TEST FOR MEN—CHARLOTTE TAKES AIM—THE ULTIMATE SOLUTION Gentlewomen in England still a-bed would no doubt think themselves accurs’d they were not on the shore promenade of Clacton-on-Sea, and hold their womanhoods cheap whilst any spoke that watched the pirate battlehouses fight each other that morning. By the time Armitage House and Darlington House reached clear skies above the harbor in which to skirmish properly, more than half the town had gathered, flags were being flown, the constabulary had given up trying to get order, and several young fellows in red-and-white-striped jackets were going through the crowd selling pork pies and cheese-on-a-stick. The fire in Armitage House having been extinguished by Miss Darlington’s water cannon, and Lady Armitage keeping her battlehouse aloft by what must have been sheer force of will (or being too insane to realize that she was now flying nothing more than an upper story and half a staircase), the two danced around each other, exchanging shouts. “Shouldn’t they be exchanging shots instead?” asked one woman. Her question was voiced rhetorically but Alex happened to be nearby, so he answered. “Miss Darlington and Lady Armitage have been trying to kill each other for decades. It would be strange if they started actually doing so now.” The woman turned to acknowledge his reply and, seeing he was a pirate, nearly expired on the spot. Scurrying aside, she accidentally stepped on the foot of a blond fellow whose smile was as gleaming as a sword. (The woman felt confident in applying this metaphor due to the literal sword he was holding.) With a shriek, she fled through the crowd. “Still charming the ladies, I see,” Alex drawled as Ned came to stand beside him. “Still making a mess, I see,” Ned replied, eyeing Alex’s soot-stained hair and clothes. “Why are you waving your sword around like that? You could put out someone’s eye.” “There are four pirates and at least two witches in this crowd. I skirmished with Olivia Etterly just now and promised to meet Mr. Rotunder with pistols at dawn.” “Will you?” Behind them, a woman laughed. “I doubt Ned even knows what dawn looks like.” Alex turned to grin at Cecilia, who gave him a cool look then nodded to Charlotte. “Miss Pettifer, how do you do?” Alex watched Charlotte’s eyelashes swoop down then up again, the only sign on her otherwise calm visage that she was rapidly assessing how to behave in this unexpected moment. His heart did a little flip of worry for her, then a little flip back again with adoration. God, but he loved that she didn’t automatically know how to be normal. He longed to fly her away into a wild sky where she’d have the freedom to be as strange and sensual and indescribably wonderful as she wanted to be. “I am well, thank you, Miss Bassingthwaite,” she said after a pause so tiny only Alex noticed it. She nodded with impeccable elegance. “And you?” Cecilia sighed, fanning herself with a white-gloved hand. “To be frank, Miss Pettifer, I am overwhelmed. All this clamor and crowding exhausts my senses.” Charlotte’s eyes grew wide in amazement, but she recovered quickly and gave Cecilia a polite smile, as if she herself was not on the point of doing something terrible, such as scowling, or perhaps even exhaling loudly in exasperation, due to her own overwhelm. Alex bit his lip to stop himself from grinning. “Shall we take a short walk?” Cecilia suggested. “I would appreciate your company as I try to find a quieter location from which to view my aunt’s derring-do.” “Aren’t we supposed to be getting to our house and chasing after the amulet?” Alex asked. Charlotte hesitated. He could sense the conflict in her between duty and a new friendship. Instantly, he knew which one he valued more. Friendship meant nothing to him—nothing!—but he wanted with all his heart for her to have it for herself. And if the two women did become chums, then he would have an excuse obligation to spend more time with Ned. Perhaps he and Charlotte, Ned and Cecilia, could even go so far as to have long conversations, travel together, and meet at dining establishments. He would do it for Charlotte’s sake. He would risk anything, even the perils of emotional intimacy, for her. “Go,” he said. “We have no need to hurry.” Charlotte looked at him doubtfully, and for a moment the whole world seemed to become still, awaiting her reply. Then she smiled. “It would be my pleasure,” she said to Cecilia, who smiled in return. But before she departed she took one more glance at Alex, as if to check again that he was still alive. It reached right into him and squeezed his heart. How long had it been since anyone had cared he was living? In fact, had he only realized, it was the previous week, when Bixby saw him walk in the door after spending the night in a gambling house, bankrupting opium dealers; then six months before that, when he stood beside Ned at the altar, watching Cecilia glide toward them in a white and gold dress; and three months before that, when he flew an old woman’s house to a warmer climate so she suffered less from arthritis; and indeed the whole of 1884, when he smuggled enough flour and sugar into Ireland to keep three villages fed all year. Ignorant of this, Alex gave Charlotte a look so full of love and gratitude that she frowned. Luckily, she turned away with Cecilia before she saw him sigh like a dreamy boy. Ned, however, saw only too well. “You’re in love,” he chuckled, prodding Alex with his sword. Without even blinking, Alex had his gun aimed directly between Ned’s eyes. This caused the other pirate to laugh even more. “Never mind, old chap,” he said, slapping Alex’s arm—a risky move, considering it was the arm with a loaded weapon at the end of it. “I have a book of poetry you can borrow.”
Charlotte and Cecilia strolled arm in arm through the crowd, a process made easier by the fact that most people recognized Cecilia as a pirate (the piquant little red hat was a clue, not to mention the two guns strapped to her waist) and hurried out of their way. “Goodness, but it is close,” Cecilia said, bringing forth a handkerchief and waving it delicately in front of her face. Charlotte noticed that it was the one Captain Lightbourne had implored her to pass on, several days or a lifetime ago, in the British Museum. The glimpse of Asiatic lilies made her heart sigh. She too loved lilies, but Cecilia had even this. Although I’ve always loved lilies of the valley best, she reminded herself—and then flushed in horror as she realized she had spoken aloud. Panic began swelling into her throat. But Cecilia only smiled. “To each her own, Miss Pettifer,” she said. And just like that, Charlotte could breathe. A single sentence from the pirate and years of reproachful Plimmish education unraveled, making her feel at last acceptable in all her shy, brittle sensitivity. The irony was so Jane-Austen-like, she almost laughed. “I am glad you were able to save Captain O’Riley,” Cecilia continued blithely, as if validating a woman’s true heart was such everyday work for her she did not even need to pause afterward. “Beneath his weapons and roguishness . . . and bad manners . . . and simply awful language . . . not to mention that catastrophe he calls a battlehouse . . . and then there are the dubious politics and the tendency to drink a little too much when he is in a bad mood, which seems to be often . . . er, yes, beneath that, he is a good man.” “I will agree that he has a few worthy qualities,” Charlotte said. “And he’s remarkably handsome,” Cecilia added. “He is tolerable to look at, I suppose,” Charlotte agreed. “Also rich.” Charlotte paused, thinking back to the first day she met him, the outrage and the secret wry appreciation she felt, as a fellow swindler, when his briefcase opened and shredded paper fell out. “Money isn’t everything,” she said. “Good heavens!” Cecilia ejaculated. “I fear you have inhaled too much smoke from the fire, Miss Pettifer.” Charlotte did not answer, for she had noticed how Darlington House was casting out a grappling hook, as yet unsuccessfully, and a dreadful thought occurred to her. “Pardon me, Miss Bassingthwaite, I may be prejudiced in the matter of aunts, but what if your Aunt Darlington was to get the amulet from Lady Armitage?” Cecilia smiled complacently. “Aunt Darlington is a noble character who will keep the best interests of England first and foremost in her thoughts,” she replied in ringing tones. “I’m pleased to hear it,” Charlotte said. “Or to be more precise, we are doomed.” At that lowering moment, a voice called out from the edge of the shore road. “Ladies! Ladies! Over here!” Charlotte turned to see Constantinopla Brown standing before a garishly colored popcorn stall. The young pirate leaned one hand in a proprietary manner against its shuttered frontage, while with her other she waved cheerily. Cecilia turned to Charlotte with a smile that was now less complacent and more wickedly piratic. “I say, Miss Pettifer. Are you by any chance up for an adventure?”
“The secret to a successful relationship,” Ned was saying as he and Alex ate pork pies they had stolen from a passing vendor, “is communication. Cecilia knows I will never (again) install a tennis net in the parlor without talking to her about it first, and I can be sure she won’t go off harum-scarum without letting me know. This is why we are so blissfully happy. I urge you to take my advice, old chap, if you want the same happiness with Miss Pettifer.” “Uh-huh,” Alex said, watching Cecilia spin a small, portable wheel inside a popcorn stall as it rose above the crowd. Constantinopla was pointing to the dueling battlehouses while calling out unnecessary navigational directions, and Charlotte stood between the two pirate ladies, counting the bullets in her gun. “Of course, I’m blessed to have a wife like Cecilia,” Ned continued. “So gentle, so demure.” “Hm,” Alex said, grateful for the mouthful of pie that restrained him from further response as he witnessed Cecilia bashing a bag of popcorn against a decorative piece at the front of the stall that was obstructing her view. The piece broke off at the same moment the bag split open, sending popcorn down upon the crowd in an appropriately circus-like version of manna from heaven. Alex swallowed pie and said carefully, “By the way, do you have a spare wheel on you?” “Sorry,” Ned said. “Cecilia carries ours in her bustle. Pirate women really do have the best fashions, you know. Visionary, even. Mark my words, one day all women will have secret compartments and pockets in their skirts as a matter of course. But why do you want a wheel?” “I don’t. I was just wondering how your demure wife managed to get that popcorn stall aloft.” Ned glanced up at the colorful little stall flying toward the battlehouses, three women jammed inside. He rolled his eyes. “Another thing you will learn about successful relationships, O’Riley, is that you’ll always be wrong. Besides, you can’t keep a good woman down, and that goes literally for a buccaneering one. I see your Miss Pettifer is getting into the swing of things in a manner I’d not have expected from a Wicken League member.” Indeed, Charlotte was literally swinging herself up to crouch on the roof of the stall, lips moving as she whispered the incantation. She had a gun in one hand and a long pink ribbon tying back her hair, and Alex thought he would swoon at the very sight of her. “Lottie is unique,” he said. “Do you think we should chase after them?” Ned asked without much enthusiasm. “I think they left us behind for a reason. This is women’s business.” “Sounds about right. Be a friend, steal me a coffee from that vendor.” Alex was just about to do so when an angry voice shook through the crowd. “Witch! Witch!” A pale-haired man staggered toward the shoreline, pointing a long, thin finger at the rising popcorn stall. “Stop that witch!” Alex frowned, having no idea who the man was but no interest in stopping to inquire. Drawing his gun, he stepped forward to save the situation. But he was too late. A bag of roasted nuts plummeted from the stall onto the man’s head. He collapsed at once in a tumble of elbows and spindly legs, and the crowd cheered with delight at this clownish addition to the show. “That’s my girl,” Ned murmured with a smile. “Actually, that was my girl,” said a new voice. The pirates glanced around to see Tom arriving. In his arms was an iron ball, its chain still attached to his ankle. Ned smacked him cheerfully on the shoulder, making him wince. Alex turned back to watch the popcorn stall close in on Armitage House, Charlotte riding its roof with perfectly calm balance. “Does anyone else get the feeling,” he said, “that in fact we’re their boys?”
Charlotte rose to stand upright on the corrugated iron roof. Wind rushed against her face and her heart. Magic rushed out. She did not look down, for she did not care who might be watching her or what they might be thinking. She kept her eye on the open window of Armitage House and the shadowed figure inside. It wasn’t that she particularly worried about regaining the amulet. That was a job to be done, but it no longer possessed her heart. The chase was what she’d come to love. The chance to stand in the wild, being wild. She had always thought pirates needed to be more like Wicken League ladies, decorous and sensible, with smaller hats. On the whole, she still did. But goodness, mixing piracy with witchcraft certainly was exhilarating. How had other witches not known about this? Had they never experienced magic surging through them like hot, sensual passion? Or were they prim and proper because they had, and feared it? “Well,” Charlotte told herself, “I am not frightened of being afraid.” At least, she hadn’t been ever since a wicked pirate pushed and shoved and kissed her right off the plank, into the depths of herself. For example, she could admit that falling from this popcorn stall scared her. Although she might easily descendeo lente, she would still drown, since swimming was unladylike; and besides, witches had always been too haunted by the cultural memory of witch-trial dunkings to tolerate anything more immersive than a bathtub. But the fear did not own her. She laughed in its face! (Or, more accurately, she frowned in its face and thought of how it might be improved upon—a shark, perhaps, or a sudden gust of wind.) Furthermore, she did not think she would actually fall, for she was determined to have her happy ending, and therefore reality could just do as it was told for the next little while. In the interior below, Cecilia was expertly maneuvering so as to draw level with Armitage House’s cockpit. Constantinopla was shouting insults at the old pirate—an enlivening, if ultimately useless, contribution. Lady Armitage, clutching her great wheel, laughed with disdain. Her face was smoke-smudged, her hair sagging, but a light in her eyes suggested she had enough spirit (or cocaine lollies) to stay in the fight. Charlotte raised her arm slowly, pushing against the buffering force of magic, and pointed the gun at the mad pirate. “Give me back my amulet!” “Do you mean this thing?” Lady Armitage held up the amulet, swinging it back and forth tauntingly. With the chain wrapped about her fingers, there was no hope of Charlotte incantating it without bringing the whole woman along too, and that much magic would probably destabilize both airborne buildings. “Why don’t you come and get it, little girl?” “Just surrender, Aunty Army,” Cecilia called out. “Then we can all go and have a cup of tea and some biscuits.” Charlotte rolled her eyes. Even the more reasonable pirates were essentially mad. “Oh well, if there are biscuits.” To Charlotte’s astonishment, Lady Armitage moved away from the wheel. But her smile was crooked like an old moon and held just as many secrets. Charlotte took an instinctive step back. “I’ll jump over and hand it to you, shall I?” the pirate asked through that smile. Charlotte thought she was merely teasing, for surely it would be impossible for an old woman in heavy clothing to make a jump of some twenty feet unless she used witchcraft—and Lady Armitage was no witch. For one thing, her dress sense was far too vulgar. But as the pirate stared at the gap between the houses, her eyes squinted, gauging the distance, and Charlotte realized she was serious. She intended to make that leap, regardless of its certain failure. Charlotte could not comprehend such madness! Then again, no doubt Alex would make the same leap. Witches feared too much, but pirates did not fear anywhere near enough. Sighting along the length of the gun, Charlotte began calculating. Not the head; she didn’t want to actually kill the woman. But not the legs either, risking ricochet from the crinoline petticoat. Probably the shoulder would be safest. One good shot, then make the leap herself to recover the amulet—which would be entirely safe and not at all mad, as she’d be supported by witchcraft. (Never mind that Armitage House would surely plummet if its pilot was shot, not to mention the lady pirates on hand who’d immediately snatch the amulet from her, and a dozen other considerations that pirates would have known to factor in. Although, to be fair, they’d make the leap even with that understanding, thus leaving no actual difference between a witch’s arrogance and a pirate’s insanity.) Now if the stall, house, and pirate could just stop swaying in different directions for a moment . . . “For goodness’ sake, Isabella, this behavior is deplorable, even for you!” Charlotte looked from the corner of her eye at the other battlehouse. Miss Darlington was frowning out through her open cockpit window, one lace-gloved hand on her wheel, the other holding a cup of tea. “Besides,” the grand lady called out, “magical amulets are passé these days. Every hero and her sidekick has one. You must learn to take a modern perspective, Isabella. I hear Countess Strabe has a cursed sword that would suit you much better.” “Indeed?” Lady Armitage seemed piqued by this information. She took another step away from her wheel. Her skirt swept against it and something fell out of the shaft, clattering across the floor and out the window. Charlotte remembered Miss Dearlove sitting up from beneath the wheel, screwdriver in hand, a professional degree of mystery in her eyes. “I’m sabotaging the wheel,” she had said in that dangerously calm, quiet voice of hers. The wheel spun, untouched. The house began to tremble. Inside the popcorn stall, Cecilia gave a horrified gasp as she realized what was happening. “Aunty!” she called out—although which aunt she meant, Charlotte did not know. Suddenly the house tilted. Charlotte saw startlement flash onto Lady Armitage’s face. For one hideous moment, it looked like sanity. She clutched at the air, trying to keep her balance. Charlotte’s heart began to race. Dropping the gun, she held out her hand in an instinctive offer of rescue. A dozen words of the incantation rushed up— The house tilted again. And just like that, Lady Armitage was tossed out the window. No grandiose death speech. No wail to wrench at the heart of even those who feared her. In gruesome silence, she fell a hundred feet into the sea. And the amulet went with her.