The Very Nearly Honorable League of Pirates #1 (7 page)

Hilary hadn't quite decided what to do about her luggage. Unpacking all her belongings seemed an awful lot like the first step toward staying at Miss Pimm's forever. Then again, she certainly wouldn't be dragging her woolen bathing costumes and dancing-sheep cardigans off to sea; those, at least, could safely be left in the dormitory wardrobe. “I'd love some help,” she said, dragging her trunk across the floor and flipping its latches. “That is, if you really don't mind.”

Claire stared at the gold-plated trunk and whistled. “Is your family very rich?” she asked. Then she clapped her hands over her mouth. “I'm sorry,” she said; “I know that wasn't ladylike. Oh, I've already gotten off on the wrong foot!” She hopped from one foot to the other a few times, and Hilary wondered which was the wrong one.

Hilary rolled up a woolen bathing costume and shoved it in a drawer. “Please don't feel bad,” she said to Claire; “I promise I don't care a bit. And my family isn't
very
rich—at least, I don't think they are.” She had never really thought about it before, but it had to be quite expensive for her parents to employ all the cooks and servants and stained-glass-window cleaners, not to mention Miss Greyson. She blushed. “I don't really know. My father works for the queen.”

“Oh, he's not
Admiral
Westfield?” Claire dropped the petticoat she was holding. “He's always on the front page of the papers. We try not to wrap fish in him.” She picked up the petticoat and dusted it off. “My parents sell fish, and I help at the market most days. Or I did, until now. My parents are very excited for me; they say that once I leave Miss Pimm's, I'll be able to enter High Society and never wrap fish again.” She sighed and placed the petticoat in a drawer much more neatly and tenderly than Hilary had done. “But you're probably used to much grander sorts of people.”

“Grand people,” said Hilary, “are mostly horrid, and I can't stand High Society. At least fish are friendly.”

“I suppose they are,” said Claire, “when they're not dead. But if you don't want to be in High Society, what
do
you want to do?”

“Actually,” said Hilary, “I'm going to be a pirate.”

“Oh, that's brilliant!” Claire hopped up and down again. “It sounds so thrilling. And you could meet all sorts of dashing sailors.”

Hilary squirmed. The only sailor she knew particularly well was Oliver, and he was only dashing in the sense that whenever she was near him, she wished he would dash away as quickly as possible.

“And there's treasure, of course,” Claire continued. “But girls aren't allowed to be pirates, are they?”

“Apparently not.” Hilary tried to close the drawer, but it had been stuffed too full of stockings and petticoats. It would just have to stay open. “I'll find a way, though.” She wished she felt as sure as she sounded.

“That explains the sword, then,” said Claire cheerfully. She pulled Hilary's sword from the bottom of the trunk. “I'm afraid I don't know where this goes.”

“It should be safe in the wardrobe. You don't think they come around and inspect our rooms here, do you?”

Claire shuddered. “I hope not. I absolutely cannot
stand
making my bed. It's too similar to wrapping a fish.”

“Maybe we'll have to take bed-making classes here. Or petticoat-folding classes.”

“Ugh.” Claire closed the lid of the traveling trunk and sat down on it. “I'm awfully glad you're not one of those stuck-up girls. I had nightmare visions of being the most awkward young lady at school. Oh, goodness, not that I mean—” She clapped her hands over her mouth again. “I'm so sorry. My sister, Violet, says I don't think before I speak, and you know what, she may be right. She was a student here, too, before she entered High Society. She's more or less perfect.” Claire kicked the thing nearest to her foot, which happened to be Hilary's canvas bag.

“Hey!” the gargoyle yelled as the bag skidded across the floor. “What do you think you're doing?”

Both Claire and Hilary leaped up at once, and Claire turned pale. “I think,” she said, “your bag just spoke to me.”

Hilary rushed to the bag and snatched it up. “It's—well—”

“It's
me
!” cried the gargoyle. “The gargoyle! And,” he added, “I do
not
enjoy being kicked.”

Hilary sighed and unfastened the bag. “Now you've done it,” she said to the gargoyle. “Have you already forgotten what Miss Greyson said about unscrupulous people?”

“Claire doesn't look unscrupulous,” said the gargoyle, blinking a few times in the sunlight and grinning at Claire, showing off his sharp stone teeth. “But she did kick me. Shall we run the scallywag through?”

Claire gave a little shriek and backed up against the wall.

Hilary clamped her hand around the gargoyle's snout. “Behave yourself,” she told him. Then she turned to Claire. “I promise he's not dangerous; he's just had a long journey. He's usually very pleasant.”

Claire didn't unpeel herself from the wall. “I'm so sorry,” she said, “but I didn't expect you'd have magic.” She tugged on her hair ribbon. “He
is
magic, isn't he?”

Hilary nodded. “He used to be part of our house.”

The gargoyle cleared his throat. “Don't forget to tell her about the Enchantress,” he said through Hilary's fingers.

“Oh, very well,” said Hilary. “He wants you to know that he was carved by the Enchantress of the Northlands herself. She fell in love with some long-ago Westfield, and she gave him the gargoyle as a gift—or that's what the gargoyle says, at any rate. He's quite fond of storytelling.”

“How romantic!” said Claire. “Is your house absolutely full of magic, then? I hear some High Society houses are.”

“Ours isn't,” said Hilary, “and Father complains about it constantly.” According to Admiral Westfield, Westfield House had been rather packed with magic long ago, before the Enchantress came along and took away his family's entire stash of coins, cuff links, and goblets. She hadn't taken the gargoyle, though, and no one knew exactly why. Hilary thought it was because the Enchantress was too polite to take back a gift she'd given, while the admiral swore she'd only left the gargoyle behind to annoy future generations of Westfields.

“My father complains, too. We've never owned a single piece of magic in our lives.” Claire took a few cautious steps toward the gargoyle. “May I talk to him? I've never met a gargoyle before.”

Hilary removed her hand from the gargoyle's snout.

“Hello,” said the gargoyle. “How do you do?”

“Hello,” said Claire. “May I pat you on the head?”

“I don't think that would be appropriate,” said the gargoyle. “Would you pat a human acquaintance?”

But Claire had already begun to scratch behind his ears. “Oh,” he said. “Well, now. In that case.” He closed his eyes and leaned into the scratch.

“You're not quite as—well, as
golden
as I thought you would be,” said Claire after a while. “Aren't you made of magic?”

“Certainly not!” the gargoyle said. “No self-respecting gargoyle would go about looking all polished and shiny. I'm Southlands granite from snout to tail—except for my heart. That's the magic bit, if you must know.”

“I see,” said Claire. “So you grant wishes, then?”

The gargoyle drew back in horror. “Wishes!” he said. “If I could grant wishes, I'd have a heaping plate of spiders in front of me right now.
And
,” he added, “I'd be wearing a pirate hat.”

“He's only for protection,” Hilary explained, “and he doesn't like being used. It makes his heart go all fluttery.”

“That's a shame,” said Claire. “Protecting people is a very kind thing to do.”

“It can be,” said the gargoyle. “It depends on who's asking. Thank you for the scratch.” He hopped over to Hilary. “Now, if you don't mind, I'm ready to go on my wall.”

There wasn't a slot for a gargoyle above the door, so Hilary balanced him on the bookshelf above her bed. The gargoyle seemed particularly happy about this arrangement because he was in charge of propping up
Treasure Island
. “Maybe finishing school isn't so bad after all,” he said as he curled up next to the soft leather cover. “It's making my ears feel awfully tingly, though.”

The gargoyle swished his tail in Hilary's direction, and she patted it. “Perhaps you're allergic to finishing school. Curtsying and minding one's manners are enough to make anyone itch.”

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Philomena entered without waiting to be invited. “How rude!” Claire mouthed to Hilary.

“Come along, both of you,” said Philomena. “You really should brush your hair, but there's no time. We're going to be late enough as it is.”

“Late for what?”

Philomena rolled her eyes at Hilary. “For your meeting with Miss Pimm.”

H
ILARY AND
C
LAIRE
followed Philomena through the stone halls, taking care to stay a few steps behind her so they wouldn't be hit in the face by her bouncing hair. Miss Pimm's office was as far away from the dormitory wing as it was possible to be without ending up in the next town over, and Hilary thought this showed surprisingly good sense on Miss Pimm's part. As they walked, Claire chattered away, telling Hilary everything she'd heard about Miss Pimm from her sister, Violet. Violet said Miss Pimm had once been a great beauty, and quite important in High Society besides. It was rumored that she'd even been friendly with the queen. But she fell in love with an aeronaut, who plummeted over the side of his balloon basket during a terrible storm. After his death, Miss Pimm was so distraught that she abandoned her family and her High Society duties to follow her heart's desire: establishing a school for young ladies of quality. Hilary couldn't imagine how opening a finishing school could be anyone's heart's desire, but clearly it had been Miss Pimm's, and Hilary very nearly admired her for it. Running away and pursuing one's dream was quite a piratical thing to do.

By the time they reached a doorway marked simply with the image of a dancing sheep, Claire was nearly out of breath from storytelling. Philomena opened the door and curtsied to a woman sitting behind an ornately carved desk. “The new girls,” she murmured.

“Thank you, Miss Tilbury. You may go.”

Philomena swished her hair and walked away, leaving Hilary and Claire standing in the doorway.

“Miss Westfield and Miss Dupree?”

Hilary nodded, and Claire attempted a wobbly curtsy.

“I am Miss Pimm.” The woman rose from the desk and pulled two chairs away from the wall. “Please take a seat.” Behind Hilary, the heavy door slammed shut.

Miss Pimm was very tall, taller than Hilary's father. She had a pleasant face—to Hilary's surprise, she was actually smiling—and a braid of snow-white hair wrapped around her head like a crown. On the collar of her purple silk jacket, she wore a silver dancing-sheep pin. All in all, she looked like she might be someone's beloved great-aunt, the kind who gives wonderful presents and is always a bit of a bother when she comes to visit. Her desk was a jumble of papers, punctuated by the occasional fountain pen, and on the edge of the desk nearest Hilary, an ink sketch of an old-fashioned gentleman in a balloon basket smiled out from a silver frame.

Claire nudged Hilary with her elbow and nodded at the picture frame. “Her lost love!” she whispered, and clutched her hands to her chest with a sigh.

Thankfully, Miss Pimm did not seem to notice. “Welcome, girls,” she said, beaming first at Claire, then at Hilary. “I'm so glad you could join us for our summer session. I have already heard so much about both of you.”

Oh, no. What had she heard about Hilary? Considering that her application had been forwarded to Miss Pimm's by a committee of scourges and scallywags, it probably wasn't anything flattering.

“I do like to make an effort to get to know all my girls personally,” Miss Pimm continued, “and I hope we'll become fast friends by the end of our time together.”

“I'm sure we will!” cried Claire, who was leaning so far forward in her chair that Hilary worried she'd topple out of it.

“Very good. Now, you're most likely wondering what you'll be up to this term.” Miss Pimm shuffled through a pile of papers. “I have your class schedules here, and I thought I'd run through them with you in case you have any questions. In the mornings, you'll have handwriting, current affairs, embroidery, etiquette, and fainting. Our more active classes are scheduled after lunch. Those are dancing, water ballet, and archery—a most graceful sport, if one can manage to fire one's arrows without perspiring. . . .”

Miss Pimm's litany of classes went on and on. How many different things did a young lady have to know about? Archery sounded vaguely useful, but when would a pirate ever need to perform a perfect waltz step, or faint on command? Worst of all, it seemed that every second of every day was scheduled. Even if Hilary could find a free moment to run away to sea, she'd probably be too tired from all the horseback riding and soufflé baking to manage an escape.

The walls of Miss Pimm's office were decorated with plaques and awards that Miss Pimm had won from groups like the Delicate Ladies' Society, the Eligible Bachelors' Club, and the Coalition of Overprotective Mothers. Among the awards were a number of framed embroidery samplers emblazoned with tasteful mottoes.
Beware the dangers of reverie
, proclaimed the sampler behind Miss Pimm's left ear, while the sampler by the window reminded its audience that
A lady never shrieks
. Hilary decided that the worst of all was the sampler directly over Miss Pimm's head, which read, in badly embroidered rhyme,
The greatest treasure in all the land—the delicate touch of a lady's hand
.