Stepsister(9)

Eleven


“Hand over the eyeball, Nelson. Now.”

A lively little black monkey, his face ruffed with white, scampered across the ship’s deck. In one paw he clutched a glass eye.

“Nelson, I’m warning you …”

The man speaking—tall, well-dressed, his amber eyes flashing—cut a commanding figure, but the monkey paid him no attention. Instead of surrendering his treasure, he climbed up the foremast and jumped into the rigging.

The ship’s bosun—one hand covering an empty eye socket—lumbered after the creature, bellowing for his pistol.

“No firearms, please!” cried a woman in a red silk gown. “You must coax him down. He responds best to opera.”

“I’ll coax him down, all right,” growled the bosun. “With a bullet!”

Horrified, the diva pressed a hand to her ample bosom, then launched into “Lascia ch’io pianga,” a heroine’s aria of sorrow and defiance. The monkey cocked his head. He blinked his eyes. But he did not budge.

The diva’s gorgeous voice, flowing over the ship’s deck down to the docks, drew dozens of onlookers. The ship, a clipper named Adventure, had made the port of Marseille only moments ago after three weeks at sea.

As she continued to sing, another member of the amber-eyed man’s entourage—a fortune-teller—hastily consulted her tarot cards. One by one, she slapped them down on the deck. When she finished, her face was as white as the sails.

“Nelson, come down!” she shouted. “This does not end well!”

A magician conjured a banana, tossed the peel over her shoulder, and waved the fruit in the air. An actress called to the monkey beseechingly. And then a cabin boy ran up from below decks, brandishing the bosun’s pistol. The diva saw it; her voice shot up three octaves.

As the bosun took his gun and cocked it, a group of acrobats, all in spangly costumes, cartwheeled across the deck and launched themselves into the rigging. The monkey raced up the mast to the crow’s nest. The bosun aimed, but as he did, a fire-breather spewed flames in his direction. The bosun stumbled backward, stepped on the banana peel, and lost his balance. He fell, hit his head on the deck, and knocked himself out. The gun went off. The shot went wide. And so did the flames.

Their orange tongues licked the lower edge of the rigging, igniting it with a whoosh, then rapidly climbed upward, devouring the tarry ropes. Terrified, the monkey flung himself from the crow’s nest to the foremast. The acrobats leapt after him one by one like shooting stars.

As the last acrobat landed, a flaming drop of tar fell onto the fuse of a cannon that had been primed and at the ready in case of a pirate attack. The fuse caught; the cannon fired. The heavy iron ball whistled across the harbor and blasted a hole in a fishing boat. Shouting and swearing, the fishermen jumped into the water and swam madly for the shore.

Certain the Adventure was under attack, six musicians in lavender frock coats and powdered wigs took their instruments from their cases and began to play a dirge. They were nearly drowned out a moment later by the city’s fire brigade, clanging down the street in a horse-drawn wagon.

The diva, at the end of her aria now, hit a high note. The fire brigade, pumping madly from the dock, shot fountains of water into the rigging, putting out the flames and dousing her and everyone else on deck. And still the diva sang, arms outstretched, chin raised, holding her note. The crowd on the dock erupted into thunderous applause. Hats were tossed high into the air. Men wept. Women fainted. And in the captain’s cabin, every window shattered.

The diva finished. Sopping wet, she walked to the ship’s railing and curtsied. Choruses of Brava! rang out.

The monkey scrambled down the foremast and jumped into the arms of his master. The amber-eyed man extricated the eyeball from the creature’s grasp, polished it on his lapel, then gingerly put it back where it belonged. He had no idea whether it was right side up or upside down and the bosun, still unconscious, couldn’t tell him.

The captain emerged from his cabin, brushing glass off his sleeves. He stood on the deck, clasped his hands behind his back, and surveyed the scene before him.

“Mr. Fleming!” he barked at the first mate.

“Sir!” the first mate barked back, snapping a salute.

“Who is responsible for this? Please do not tell me that it’s—”

“The Marquis de la Chance, sir,” the first mate said. “Who else?”





Twelve


Captain Duval was furious.

And Chance was doing his best to look sorry. It was something he was quite good at, for he’d had a lot of practice.

“What about the rigging you burned, the windows you broke, and the fishing boat you destroyed?” the captain thundered. “It will cost a fortune to replace it all!”

“Then it will be a fortune well spent!” Chance said, flashing his most charming smile. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a more exquisite rendition of ‘Lascia ch’io pianga’ in my entire life.”

“That is not the point, sir!”

“Pleasure is always the point, sir!” Chance countered. “It’s not burned rigging and broken windows you’ll remember on your deathbed, but the sight of a drenched diva, her gown clinging to every large and luscious curve, her magnificent voice soaring as the cannon fires and the flames climb. Let the bean counters count their beans, sir. You and I shall count moments of wonderment, moments of joy!”