Page 94 of A Prince Among Pirates
“Thomas,” I say. “I mean—damnation, I should be calling you Lancaster.”
“Thomas is fine, Your Highness,” he says as he steps out of my room. He sees the box, and then my face, and understandsimmediately. With a nod, he makes his way to the wine decanter in the corner of the room and quickly pours three glasses of red wine.
Once he has handed them out, I take a long drink to fortify myself, then set the glass on the table beside my mother’s memory box. I lick my lips and brush my fingers over the lockless latch. Then I flip the clasp and slowly lift the top.
I can tell at once that it hasn’t been opened in many years, likely tucked away from the moment my mother left this earth. The inside of the box smells of dust, and jasmine, and citrus. I lay the top back all the way and reach in to touch the folded piece of silk on top of the pile. It’s beautifully preserved, the mustard yellow and red and orange design still seems as vivid as the day it was made. I pull it out slowly and unfold it.
It’s some kind of large scarf, the silk so fine and delicate on my fingers. I swallow again as my heart creeps up into my throat, then bring the silk to my nose and inhale deeply. I imagine this is how she smelled: like earth and oranges, and a hint of cinnamon.
I look back into the box and see a tiny golden tincture jar sitting on a bit of velvet. I lift it out and turn it over in my hands.
“What is that?” Kitty asks.
“I have no idea,” I say, holding it out to her.
As she examines it, I reach in again and lift out a small velvet pouch, not unlike the one in which Henry stored my rings, but red with a golden string tying it shut. When I open it and pour the contents into my palm, recognition sets my heart skittering all over again.
“Her earrings,” I gasp as I stare down at the perfect pearl drop earrings my mother wore the day she was painted in miniature. I stare up at the ceiling and blink a few times, then reach for my glass of wine and take another long gulp.
Keep it together, Kit.
“Ah!” Kitty exclaims, and I am glad for her cheerful interruption. I look at her and see she is holding the tincture jar in two pieces.
For a moment I am horrified. She’s broken it!
But then she puts them back together and twists, and I realize the jar was meant to open.
“What’s inside?” I ask, putting the earrings back into the pouch and sliding it into my waistcoat pocket. I reach out for the bottle and Kitty hands it over.
“It’s like those tiny glass perfume jars,” she says. “But it’s brass… and the top twists off.”
I twist and lift the top off myself. A copper rod covered in black powder slides out of the jar, and I stare at it curiously. I touch the tip of it with my finger and black smears across my skin. I furrow my brow as I stare at it, but I don’t want to mess my clothes, so I close the jar again carefully and rub my fingers together to get the black smear off.
“I know what this is,” I say. “I don’t know what it’s called, but I saw a Turkish man in Nassau with black smudged around his eyes. And my mother’s portrait is the same.”
The last thing inside the box is a worn but beautiful book bound in painted leather, embossed and inlaid with gold leaf. Ilift it out carefully and draw in a shaking breath as I run my fingers over the textured surface. A deeply detailed design of leaves and flowers borders the cover on both sides, and there is a matching design on the spine. In the middle of the border is a beautiful array of similar flowers, mixed with birds and great colorful moths.
“What’s that?” Kitty asks, and even Francis has stepped over to see.
I stare down at the book and its worn edges, then gingerly open the front cover. The writing inside is unfamiliar to me, and I realize with a pang that it must be Turkish. “My mother was a follower of Islam,” I say quietly, as if to speak too loudly while holding this book would be somehow irreverent—something I’ve never felt while holding the King James Bible. “This must be her holy book.”
She must have been so lonely, my poor mother. No one to speak to, only my father and his servants to keep her company, and none of them able to communicate with her. An infidel’s baby growing in her belly—for that’s how she would have viewed it. Henry said she loved me and wanted what was best for me, but in truth I think she must have hated me.
She must have hatedhim.
I should have believed Captain Sharpe. I should have listened to him when he told me the truth of how it likely was between them. My mother had no advocate. She had no choice. She was entirely alone in this world, and I was the final curse that took her from it.
I lift my gaze and suck in a tremulous breath as I close the book and press it to my chest. “Thank you, Kitty,” I whisper. “This is the most wonderful Christmas gift I could ever ask for.”
She looks startled at that, but she smiles and shakes her head. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “I can’t take credit for bringing this to you.”
“I know it was you who insisted Henry give it to me.” I lean forward and press a kiss to her cheek. “And I am more thankful than I can possibly say.”
I wrap the book in the silk scarf, set it back in the box, and lay the brass jar on top of it. Then I reach into my pocket to pull out the earrings once more. “Does anyone know how to pierce ears?” I ask as I admire them.
“Christopher-Henry,” Francis gasps. “You can’t possibly.”
Kitty’s eyes widen, as if she, too, wants to protest but can’t find the words.
