“Miss Clemtione?” 

That was not her name. The lit of the word fell on flat ears, spiraling down until it molded itself against the carefully polished wooden floors and soaked against the crevices domed out by countless footfall over the years. She was not Miss Clemtione, in fact, Miss Clemtione was a nineteen year old noblewoman. She was a small woman, petite in a way that made her an easy target to many. Her hair was crested and golden and always perfectly curled to an updo that had no real name. When she walked into a room, other people paused to take in her sheer beauty, or the smell of wealth that radiated off her like heat from a winter fire. Miss Clemtione was a musician, her hands carefully crafted in many instruments, but particularly the organ. She was a frenchwoman, and seven months ago she had promised to make the journey back home from her estate in the Ottoman Empire in order to marry Sir Plemington. 

Unfortunately for the pair of them, that would never happen. Miss Clemtione, whose real name was Cordelia, had decided that she was to travel by means of a ship across the Mediterranean Sea for her voyage. This was a preposterous choice, as it added several more months to her travels, but it quickly became clear that this was her goal all along. All because Miss Cordelia Clemtione absolutely loathed the idea of being betrothed to Sir Plemington, a man infamous for his stale humor and even staler breath. 

That was how Cordelia ended up safely locked on the back of a rotting pirate ship, her own gold encrusted ship overtaken mere days after her departure. In hindsight, the plan seemed like quite possibly the stupidest thing any of them could have imagined. 

Currently, Cerys Dumont was standing in front of a shiny mirror, hair loose and kissing her collarbones as early morning sunlight casted a golden shadow across her sharp cheeks. Cerys Dumont was not currently herself, but Cordelia Clemtione. Identity theft was not a common crime that pirates took to, but it seemed as though this situation had been dire enough. 

It started when Cerys was eighteen years old, birthed and grown on a rocking ship littered with illegal paraphernalia. It started when her mother passed away, a sea sickness never named, leaving the girl the only woman on the ship. It started when they lost respect for her, because her big and looming mother was no longer there to protect her. Female pirates were shunned, that was the way of the water. It was a joke. Women could not own anything. Not goods, not wealth, not land, and certainly not the freedom to be a criminal. They laughed in her face, and pick and prodded as she sat on the deck and strubbed at the blistering cuts on her hands from hours of cleaning that should not have been her job because, really, she’d been on this ship longer than half of the rest of them had. She had no way to prove her worth because a woman could not earn stripes that would never be put to her name. It was a man’s world, whether she was on land or at sea. 

It started, really, when Cordelia Clemtione was plopped onto the deck of the ship, and Cerys came face to face with eyes that reflected her own. It was uncanny. Cerys stared at the pillowed brown eyes as the bow of the ship swayed against the waves. Cordelia was a more beautiful version of herself. Where she was thin and proper, Cerys was tall and stuck with a constantly snarled expression. However, her hair was the same honeyed hue, and her skin reflected the same pale valor of the woman across from her. She sat, gaping, the sponge in her hand dripping cold seawater down the sleeve of her shift. The men followed suit. 

“Blimey.” One whispered, hand stashed carefully across the lip of his hat. 

“Sink me!” Another bellowed.

Suddenly, they had a use for Cerys. A job that none of the rest of them could fill, less they wanted to stuff themselves in a petticoat and stomacher. Previously, the plan had simply been to steal the girl and kill her. 

Plemington was an obnoxious man, who gloated wealth he’d yet to obtain. When he had made a furling deal with the crew, to keep their stock of produce on a go at every port for information, it had taken the man less than three months to blindside and try to turn them in to the French authorities. Plemington was a coward in red stockings, and the pirates wanted revenge. Word of his engagement to Cordelia was hard to not come by, yet it was only by chance they had sailed ways by her ship. It was almost as if the woman was asking to be kidnapped. By heavens, they did want the man dead, but his wife-to-be was the next best option. That plan changed when they discovered that Cordelia and their pathetic little ship hand could certainly pass for one another, and as far as they were concerned, Plemington had never seen his betrothed’s face in person. Portraits were never all that reliable, were they? 

They had armed Cerys with a cutlass and sent her on her way with a complete new identity. She was lucky to have five months with Cordelia, who seemed frighteningly willing to teach her the ways of nobility before her day came. 

“Miss Clemtione?” A shrill voice rang out, and Cerys’ head shot to the side. The mirror in front of her had begun to fog against her breath, and she took a step back. Clad in only her shift, she felt particularly vulnerable against the harsh stare of the woman standing next to her. A maid, Plemington had told her with a sloppy girl on his face. Her name was Annie, and she was middle aged with graying dark hair and eyes that held fire. Cerys thought she must’ve lost her kin young, because no one could be that unhappy all of the time. Luckily, however, every slip of the tongue that bested Cerys was taken as an act of defiance by the woman and all was well. 

“Pardon,” Cerys muttered, smoothing her morning gown. “I’ve been feeling some few bit not like myself.” 

Noble spoke so poshly, Cerys thought glumly. 

“Well hie up, Sir Plemington is expecting thou for breakfast.” Annie told her with a sharp tug to the blue boned stay that she shrugged over her head, knotting the thing expertly. Cerys wondered how she learned. Perhaps on the late Mrs. Plemington. Maybe that was why he was so bitter, and she was as well. A noble household never did well without a mother, and the Plemington’s had not had one in their ranks for over ten years now. Perhaps that was why he was so desperate for her hand. Cerys had been at the residence for what she was certain was around three months. The seasons changed trice, and every day that passed grew more dim without sight of the water. Raised with boat legs, Cerys was not used to the life of a noble in France. She dreamt of the waves, and the slow lull that they made when they crested in foamy brilliance. The way the moonlight reflected off of its surface, and how its cold touch could send shivers inking down her arm. She dreamt of how it protected itself and its livelihood, raging against forgotten bodies and ships within its waves. The sea never forgot. Sometimes, Cerys was convinced that it was actually an ancient being. A tangible mind, with waves as its fingers, face, and hollowed eyes. 

Another tight tug pulled Cerys from her haze, light hair bouncing against her shoulder as Annie tightened the ties at her back. This was something she had to get used to as well. She’d never had someone help her dress before, and she’d certainly never worn such constricting clothing. Sea faring required fitted and comfortable garments, less a person wanted to overheat in the blinding sun. She was silent as Annie’s careful hands worked her through her petticoat and gown, both rich in a dark blue fabric that she was unfamiliar with. The first night she’d seen such beautiful clothing, Cerys had gaped. Annie sent her a mystified expression, for a noblewoman should be used to such luxury. Cerys had learned to control her expressions after that. 

Other than a slight slip of her tongue when she told Annie to scupper a cap on her first night, all was well. 

“Alright, You’re all set. Should’st I walk thou down to the commons?” 

“No, Annie, that’s just fine.” Cerys told the women, hands smoothing down over the top of her dress. 

She was quick to exit the room, perfectly coiled strands of golden hair dropping around her shoulders from the intricate style it had been pulled up in. The hallways of the manor were large, the ceiling looming far ahead. It was decorated quite nicely, she thought. The wood at her shoulders was neatly carved, swirls and loops folding across lines and filling the walls with crested designs. The Plemgintons were very wealthy, or so she had heard, and the estate seemed to only enhance this image that she had built in her mind. The dining room, where all the meals were had, was blocked by large and doubled doors. The handles were bronze, and curled around itself in a design she was unfamiliar with. When she pushed her palm flat against the handle, a shiver went down her spine. 

The room beyond the door was very extravagant. She had grown accustomed to it now, but the arched ceilings and velvety, blood red curtains had caught her off guard at first. There was a large wooden table at the center of the room, seven chairs long on each side and at the head of the table sat the man of the estate himself, Elias Plemington. He sat rigid, like he always did. The man’s posture was pin straight, his pale hand rested carefully on the hardwood. Plemington was an irreversibly ugly man. Even to a pirate, this looks would not have gotten him very far. He was lean and spindly in all the wrong places, his hands bony and his neck far too long. His hair was in a constant state of grease, bronze in color and mousy thin. It was always combed up, and he’d often brush his skinny fingers through it, the tuft of his coat muffling the top. His eyes were crystalline blue, ghostly in a way. When they flicked up to her as she entered, it felt like he was staring straight through her. His gaze was always predatory, like a man waiting for a hunt. He stood at a height similar to her own, though he may have had a few inches on her when his feet were encased in the pointed heels he wore every time she saw him. 

“Cordelia, darling.” His teeth pulled into a smile, revealing graying veneers. “You’re late.” In seconds, his tone had turned over on itself, the smiling pulling into a tight line under the harsh shadow that his straight nose casted. 

“Pardon..dear. Annie and I were having a quaffle.”  She told him, making smart work of leading herself to the seat to his left. 

Breakfast and dinner, for that matter, were painful affairs. Plemington was a man of many words, though all of them included an interlude of his wealth and ‘fair appearance.’ He was what men on the crew called a peacock. He spoke of only himself, never asking Cerys how her day had been, or her plans. She supposed that was a good thing, otherwise he more than likely would have picked up on her less than posh speech habits. 

“Don’t let it befall again.” Said Plemington. “Regardless, later today I shall be heading out to spend the day riding. I will not be home till to-morrow, so don’t be too heavy without me.” 

Cerys nodded, her expression classed. This was a wonderful thing. Today was the day, afterall. Cerys was set to steal his booty, that’d always been the plan. The crew had decided that it was better to have her impersonate his betrothed and kill the man himself, rather than just kidnap and kill his betrothed. Unfortunately for Cerys, it became obvious within days that this plan was not going to work. Plemington had many affairs and many people filtering in and out of his manor, and she simply would not be able to kill him in plain sight. So, her plan changed. Stealing his booty was the next best option. For weeks now, she’d been gathering small riches just from under his ridiculous nose and hiding it away in the carriage she’d arrived in. She’d be leaving today, the month to the date. With Plemington gone, her plan had suddenly gotten a whole lot simpler. 

The day went by quickly after this. Plemington left just as the sun set the middle of the sky. He left in a flourish of tailcoat and horse tail. He’d placed a sloppy kiss to the back of her hand before he went, telling her once again not to miss him too terribly, as if she was going to in the first place. She’d resisted the urge to shove her fist into his stomach, and then her day had gotten better. She spent it milling about the manor, speaking with the staff and leaving a smile that none of them had yet to see in her wake. The shining carriage full of jobs sat just beyond the manor, and the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon when she set outside. The land was bathed in molten gold, and the air smelled of triumph. 

Truly, this was her big break. The man who drove the carriage, a very quiet man whose name she did not know, did not even question her trip out to the port. He did not search the carriage either, and she spent the next three hour trip in bliss. She strung gold chains from her neck with light smiles, biting the edge of coins that clinked against her cheek. As they descended into the port, her dark eyes spotted a familiar shape in the distance. The old, rundown and struggling ship that she called home was docked to the side. It was lucky. Cerys had sent a letter when she realized that the plan would not work, and told them her new plan. She hadn’t been sure if they’d gotten it. Clearly, they had. 

“Stop! Hold on!” Cerys shouted, pushing the carriage window open and sticking her curled head out. The coastal wind whipped against her curled head, and her eyes peered around to the front, where the horseman sat. They halted harshly, eyes filled with panic and Cerys nearly toppled straight out of the carriage. The second the large wheels squealed to a stop, her hand pushed against the copper handle and she flung it open. Bunching the skirts of her gown, she pulled herself out of the door. 

“Just a moment!” She called over her shoulder to the man on the carriage. Her feet barreled down the cobbled and bumpy pathway, towards the heightened ship. The wood was greening and chippin in places, the huge bow settling a large shadow over her figure as she neared. 

The next few days were such a blur that even Cerys herself could not pin them quite down. Surprisingly, Elias Plemington seemed to have taken an extreme liking to his false betrothed, and had set out the next morning to the port in pursuit of his beau. His entering of the ship, catching his eye against the familiar crew and how they were bathed in their riches. This death followed swiftly, his feet strung together as he stepped off the edge of the ship- or, was pushed, rather. Cordelia Clemtione was not distraught, in fact, she was grateful. 

Cerys supposed a crew could always include a new member.