Captain Ire Stormholden was a man of few words but when he used his voice, booming commands directed at his crew below, they hurried to obey. His mates respected and feared him- the way a good crew should- and Captain Stormholden ran his ship, 'The Dauntless Mistress' with an iron fist. They plundered other ships and took coin from the crooked magistrates of the port hubs.

Their treasury had grown fat over the years. And because of this, each of his men, grew fat with it; all were entitled to their cut as long as they stayed on the straight. Murder was forbidden under Stormholden's watch. He was a pirate, not a damned heathen.

This was how their machine worked aboard The Dauntless- that was, until The Scarlet Reef had appeared and threatened to break their very well oiled and gold heavy machine.

Few knew of The Scarlet's existence, and this was no oversight. She was a thief, an excellent thief, and you only heard of her if you'd had an encounter with her, one that ended with your purse or pockets wiped clean by her polished fingertips.

The captain had run into her once already, though at the time-and to his regret- he had let her go. He caught her aboard his ship when they anchored down at Masship Port in the west. She had been fattening her burlap sacks with their hard earned treasures and Stormholden saw to it his men were always paid their dues.

Against the captain's nature, something stirred within him as he first gazed upon the red haired thief below deck. She was slim and well groomed, a lacquer of red splash on her nails, the same red painted on her pouty full lips. Her eyes were like jades, stolen from a sultan's  treasury maybe, glittering with mischief and a hint of tragedy. She had wept and pleaded with him that night to take her head.

"Stop me from living this life," she had stammered through sobs. "I can't stop myself but I don't- I don't want to continue," she had finished, cupping her lovely tan face in her hands, her red hair curtaining her face.

Stormholden had held the thief at the end of his knife; a single thrust could have easily ended her life. He could see the hold of mischief her wet eyes still held and saw through, what he thought, had been a phenomenal job, but he had shown her mercy regardless.

It wasn't because his justice held him to a line he wouldn't cross with bloodshed but it was because of the air of truth that wove around her words as she had spoken them. The rehearsed speech, the tears being shed, perhaps this was the way she had truly felt if she would only have allowed herself to feel.

As the captain stood behind the helm, the once smoothed wood now splintered and rough, he heard the faint sound of a voice he could not place. He looked about but found no one else on deck.

It was nighttime, his favorite time, and he shared the vast ocean with the stars overhead and the creatures swimming underneath. The soft lapping of the waves against the Mistress's hull rang out like a siren's song, tempting him in the same way it had when his beloved Matilda had passed.

With parents claimed by the Red Plague and a love freshly buried behind her family's brownstone, he had nothing holding him back anymore and so he took to the sea, giving up the land that held only loss.

A soft muffling of a few crewmates not quite as passed out on the rum as the others, joined the song, giving it a liveliness that the captain only found at sea.

As he returned his attention due south, their next port the one in the Southmouth Isles, he heard the voice again, breaking the harmonies of the siren's song.

"-per!" The voice shouted, echoing off the protruding rocks of the Devil's Bay.

The captain's thick unkempt eyebrows knitted together, his face a mix of tension and confusion. Perhaps this was part of The Scarlet Reef's bag of trickery, though how she'd stage such an elaborate trick on the wide sea, or to what end, baffled the captain more.

"Miss Peneloper Auttsley!" the voice shouted again, the captain's shock making him pull hard to starboard. The boat lashed out causing the Stormholden's footing to slip, threatening to throw him to the sharks.

The man acted quick and stabilized himself on the ship's railing, his gaze downward, the icy waters welcoming him to his grave. He forced himself forward and upward, the ship sailing at a harsh angle now, reaching for the helm to straighten the Mistress back out.

As he steadied his ship, and steeled his mind, he heard the confused and angry voices of his crew in the hull, hollering back and forth for answers. Some had been lucky enough to drink themselves into a coma. Their shouts were of no concern to Captain Stormholden though. The ship rode the sea on the straight and a lull returned to the night.

Peneloper Auttsley?

What was a Peneloper Auttsley?

He had never heard of such a name. His world was quickly turning to nonsense, a name echoing from the darkness, invading his time. Maybe it was sea madness. None of the others seemed to be aware of the voice.

The captain in dire need of some direction, returned his gaze to the sea. It offered him a sense of familiarity and right now, the unknown of the sea, was the only thing that made any sense. The words 'Peneloper Auttsley' flowed freely through his synapses, letting him think of nothing else.

For some reason, Captain Stormholden felt he should know the name, that is was very important to him somehow, though he was very certain he had never heard those words uttered before.

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"Miss Auttsley!" Mr. Howell yelled, slamming his ruler on my desk.

I looked up at him wondering what reason a history teacher had for carrying a ruler. To swat the desks of other bad students? If that was so, he was skewing its purpose.

Clearly relieved he held my attention once more, and not caring about the specific whys, Mr. Howell relaxed, the squareness of his shoulders receding, though it didn’t cause the man to look any less box-like. He was stocky and well built, a man for a different day and age, bred more for fields than classrooms. But he had chosen his profession and welcomed its struggles.

Most of us, except for Evelyn Diners- yes that was her last name and no, her family did not actually own a diner- hated Mr. Howell's long-winded lectures on the past. "We must learn from our past to better the future," he'd tell us.

But I lived in the now of an entirely different world. The past didn't concern me and neither did the future. Mr. Howell turned back to the blackboard. I was about to return to the Captain when a belabored voice spoke.

"The answer to number six, Miss Auttsley," he commanded, the ruler in his hand threatening to land another swat on my desk.

I looked at Mr. Howell with surprise. Not only was I quick to distractions but I was also a procrastinator in many aspects of life. Homework fell into the latter. After a few moments of silence passed between us and Mr. Howell was certain I knew not of what he asked nor cared to muster up an answer, he sighed and his gaze settled upon my notebook.

Ah! My notebook! My treasure! Surely such a possession was a sin for me to have. I was bequeathed the leather-bound darling when I was five. It had looked so big to me then, my small hands wrapping around it, still unsure of whether or not it was truly mine. It wasn't until my father had urged me on that I gained the courage to run a finger across its smooth surface, the inside pages holding nothing and yet at the same time, everything.

It looked as though it was handmade and something about it, cradled in my childish hands, felt right. My father, who saw it fit to give me such a grand gift, wrote a little something in the upper left corner of its inside cover:

"To Nep,
You helped me be a slightly less stupid man. And for that you will always have my (and your mother's) heartfelt thanks.
-Dad."

My father had always been a kidder, a slave to a bad joke and its poorly crafted punchline. But through his jests, I had always found the love. My notebook held the last of his jests, a memory of who he had been imparted to me a few weeks before his death.

"Miss Auttsley, we appreciate your imaginative mind, but elsewhere. School is a place of learning," Howell chided, his voice smelling of garlic and returning me to the now.

"And a perpetuator of teenage boredom," I replied, staring into his wrinkled face, his eyes too far apart for my liking. He grimaced as I continued, "I'm told it's a very serious condition, one that hasn't a cure."

He sighed. I knew where this was headed. We always ended up here.

"The office, Miss Auttsley," he said exasperated, a weathered hand pointing toward the door.

As I gathered my things and headed for the doorway, I saw a pair of obsidian eyes following my movements. Heavensley was in this class and many of my others and I think he found amusement in me. I never let him know that I knew, though he probably already did. He could be reading my thoughts just this minute for all I knew.

As I began for the door and moved past his seat, I heard him muffle a laugh and speak in a voice that was just meant for me.

"Right you are, Miss Auttsley."

He smiled, his face bathed in early morning sunlight, his pale complexion looking less sickly and more like snow, freshly fallen and untouched by human devices. Right then, I connected with my female classmates because I could understand, if only a bit, why they thought Crispen Heavensley was good looking. But to my knowledge alone, he was also much much more than just a face. He was a crow. And the fog. And he knew about all manner of earthly layers and had a penchant for collecting the undesired.

Maybe that's why he chose me. In the rain, in the morning, standing there getting soaked waiting for a friend that wouldn't show up; at that moment, I had been an undesirable. I smiled again, two smiles too many for such a glum day, and headed to Principal Gale's office.

My third misfortune. Not just seeing the beauty in Crispen Heavensley that others saw, but acknowledging it. He had placed a tiny seed in my heart and throughout the day, I had begun nurturing that seed, giving it water and warmth, helping it to bloom.

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A sigh. A lit cigarette. A mug on the desk that read 'Teaching is a work of heart,' on the side, its contents questionable. This was always the way our meetings started. I felt more familiar with Principal Gale than most of my other teachers and because of this, it made me relax and freely converse with her. And that usually meant that I crossed lines that a student or teenager shouldn't cross.

"What's in the mug?" I asked, eyeing the dark golden liquid.

"Apple juice," she muttered, standing next to her office window, being mindful to blow smoke through the sliver of opening. Our school was a smoke free campus. She was on her third cigarette, though I'd been in her office for less than ten minutes. Principal Gale was not like Crispen; she needed to smoke. I leaned in close and took a whiff of the so-called 'apple juice.'

"Definitely not," I retorted, the sourness of the liquid repugnant. Gale just smiled.

"Why must you do that to Mr. Howell? The poor man only seeks to educate you lot."

I eyed her collection of books next; reference materials, teaching guides, histories, and child psychologies. Nothing personal though. Same with her desk. No photos of any loved ones, no handmade knick knacks or cards. Her fingers were bare aside from the splotchy maroon polish on the tips, applied in a hurry, her cuticles stained the same color.

"I don’t do anything. At least nothing I haven't done before. Why must he act so surprised?"

Principal Gale was almost done with her cigarette. The scent of her Newports wafted into my nostrils, making the air bitter, her plan to stand by the window to minimize their smell, defeated. She hated the idea of quitting though she promised she would someday.

Gale was a woman in her fifties and was surprisingly lax when it came to her principal duties. She had flaxen hair peppered with strands of white that she always wore tied in a low bun around her collar. She dressed in drab office attire. Non-offensive creams for tops and dark navys or blacks for bottoms. She preferred pencil skirts to slacks and wore flats though heels would have suited her better.

She flicked the remainder of her cigarette out the window, batted a hand around the room beckoning the smell to leave, and closed the window shut tight. She turned toward me, a half hour into our meeting, a thin smile on her painted lips, taking a seat across from me.

"Your behavior offends him," she said, eyes on my notebook. This was nothing new. All manner of folk seemed to be drawn in by it. Leather was a most intoxicating smell.

It was my turn to sigh. I disliked repetitive speech. "My grades certainly do not," I replied factly. I had been one of the school's best testers. Which made for average grades considering I rarely did any homework. Grades held no standing on the high seas.

"Peneloper, that's not the point," she sighed, placing her hands underneath her chin. Her regard for etiquette was nonexistent. I eyed her elbows on the desktop, then her mug.

"Do you drink because of your students or do you not have time to do so because of us?"

This was a new question I hadn't asked before to which she responded with a chuckle; a side of her I'd never witnessed.

She answered me honestly, "I don’t really have time to drink anymore. But when I do, it is because of kids like you, and it takes very little to get me where I want to go."

I laughed. I liked Principal Gale. I really truly did.

"Now get back to class and try to behave," she said, waving me out of the seat.

"Are you as honest with all your students?" I asked. I was becoming more and more an owl. She looked up from her desk.

"No, Peneloper. Just you. Maybe I like you too much."

I smiled. "You're not supposed to admit you like one child over the other. That's bad parenting."

I exited her office, another of her sweet, bell-like laughs catching my ear, and headed for my next class where I would undoubtedly have more interaction with the odd duck of Potter Oaks.