The Very Nearly Honorable League of Pirates #1 (9 page)

Philomena looked up and down the table at the other girls. None of them was laughing anymore. “Poor Claire overturned her plate, and her lunch flew everywhere. It was rather clumsy of her, don't you all agree?” Some of the girls nodded. “Miss Westfield, I'm sure Miss Pimm has no time for silly stories. And what could possibly possess her to take your word over mine?”

“She's right, you know.” Claire wiped at her dress miserably with a handkerchief. “Please, Hilary, don't waste your time on my account.”

“But it wouldn't be a waste. . . .”

Claire stood up and let fish sticks fall from her skirts. “Hilary,” she said quietly, “would you be good enough to accompany me to our room? I believe I've lost my appetite.”

C
LAIRE HURRIED UP
the dormitory staircase without saying a word, and Hilary could hardly keep up with her. As soon as they'd reached their room, Claire slammed the door behind them, threw herself onto her bed, and covered herself in blankets.

The gargoyle looked up from the pages of
Treasure Island
. “Oh, good,” he said; “you're back. Is it time to go to sea?”

Under the blankets, the lump that was Claire let out a great and tragic wail.

Hilary shook her head at the gargoyle and ran to Claire's bedside. “Let me take care of Philomena,” she said. “If Miss Pimm only knew how horrid she was, she wouldn't stand for it.”

The lump sniffled. “It was my fault,” it said. “I shouldn't have laughed. Oh dear!” Then the lump gave a great heave and resumed wailing.

“You didn't do a thing wrong,” said Hilary, patting the lump where she thought Claire's back might be. “You defended your honor like a true pirate. But Philomena's got magic somehow, and she's even more awful with it than without it. We've got to do something!”

The lump writhed about as Claire attempted to untangle herself from her blankets. She sat up at last and blew her nose on the handkerchief Hilary offered her. “You don't understand,” she said. “There's nothing to be done. It's not only Philomena who acts that way—who uses magic to be nasty, I mean. You should see them at the fishmonger's. All sorts of grand High Society gentlemen come in with magic coins, enchanting extra trout into their parcels. They don't pay for them, of course.” Claire tugged at her blankets. “They do laugh quite a bit, though.”

“But that's terrible!” If a grand gentleman ever tried something of the sort on Hilary, he'd quickly find a cutlass pressed against his linen-ruffled throat. “Can't you do anything to stop them?”

Claire laughed, but she didn't sound happy. “I don't have a gargoyle to protect me, and I'm not a pirate like you. I thought things would be better at Miss Pimm's—I thought no one would dare use magic on a High Society girl.” She pulled her bedding back over her head. “Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to spend the rest of my life under these blankets.”

“Oh, Claire, I
do
mind. You can't stay a lump forever. How will you go to class?”

“Lumps don't need to go to class,” said Claire from under the blanket.

“Well, then, you'll need to eat.”

Claire shuddered. “I'm never eating again! What if it's
fish sticks?
”

After a few minutes, she poked her head out of the blankets. “I guess I am a little hungry, though. I hardly got any lunch.”

“You could go to the market,” Hilary said. “You're allowed to go into town this afternoon. And I'm sure they won't have fish sticks.”

Claire sat up and sniffed. “That sounds nice.” She wiped her wet cheeks. “Will you come with me? Oh, unless you have other plans, of course . . . I don't want to be a bother. . . .”

Up on his shelf, the gargoyle groaned. “We're not supposed to go to the market!” he said. “We're supposed to be like the pirates in
Treasure Island
, exploring the High Seas and watching handsome sailors fall in love with golden-haired maidens!”

Hilary rolled her eyes. “You know perfectly well that's not what happens in
Treasure Island
.”

“It is when I read it,” said the gargoyle. “Now, are we going to sea or not?”

Hilary looked toward the wardrobe, where her sword rested under a pile of petticoats. “I'm sorry, gargoyle,” she said at last, “but a pirate simply can't abandon her friends.” She turned back to Claire. “Of course I'll come with you.”

T
HE
P
EMBERTON MARKET
was a bustling rectangle of stalls set up every morning in the town square. Behind the stalls were farmers and butchers and chefs selling every type of food imaginable; jellies and marmalades glowed like jewels amid stacks of frilly greens and slabs of smoked meats. Claire's eyes lit up at the sight of roast chicken legs, and Hilary bought one for each of them, along with little cups of custard for dessert. They walked through the market as they ate, watching customers haggle and listening to a street musician endeavor to play the bagpipes.

Claire had stopped wailing, though she still wasn't talking nearly as much as she usually did. She caught sight of a woman selling brightly dyed embroidery threads and ran over to purchase some for class, while Hilary waited for her in front of the town message board. People had posted all sorts of announcements on the board: On one flyer, a gentleman announced a great reward for the return of his beloved pet rabbit. On another flyer, a traveling illusionist announced that he had found an unfamiliar rabbit inside his top hat and wished to return it to its rightful owner. Colorful posters advertised country dances, and a grimy scrap of paper gave an address near Pemberton Bay where one could purchase small quantities of magic. In fact, the message board was so overflowing with information that Hilary nearly missed the small advertisement printed on smudged and tattered paper:

WANTED: PIRATE CREW

Established, respected freelance pirate seeking experienced crew members for upcoming voyage. Must be able to swashbuckle, swab decks, swill grog, fire cannons, and climb to the crow's nest. Successful applicants will sign contract for one round-trip voyage, with opportunity for further collaboration if merited. Voyage details to be divulged upon acceptance. Applicants trained in treasure location are of particular interest. Please apply in person to 25 Little Herring Cove, Wimbly-on-the-Marsh, at ten o'clock on Saturday morning.

Eye patches and hooks OK.

Please—no parrots.

Hilary tore the paper from the message board and ran over to Claire, who was carrying an armload of thread. “Look!” she said. “Read this!”

Claire promptly dropped the thread and skimmed the advertisement. “Hilary,” she said solemnly, “you have to apply. Little Herring Cove is only a few miles from here.”

“I don't know how to do half the things they ask for—I mean, I've never even tried to look for treasure—but . . .”

“It's your destiny.” Claire handed the advertisement back to Hilary. “I'm sure you'll be a natural at swabbing grog, and climbing the cannons, and everything else.”

“And it doesn't say anything about having to be a boy, so perhaps I have a chance.”

Claire nodded, but her lip was starting to wobble again. Hilary's stomach twitched the way it had when she'd said good-bye to Miss Greyson.

“It's possible,” she said, “that the freelance pirate won't want to take me on. I'm sure I'll come back to Pemberton on Saturday afternoon, and we'll be roommates, and nothing will have changed at all.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Claire, collecting her embroidery thread from the ground. “You are going to be a pirate, and I am going to help you.”

“Really?”

“Of course. When Miss Pimm asks me where you've gone, I'll have a chance to practice my acting skills.”

“And when I'm a famous pirate, I'll come back to school and tell Philomena that if she's horrible to anyone ever again, I'll make her walk the plank.”

Miss Pimm's Finishing School for Delicate Ladies

Where Virtue Blossoms

Dear Miss Greyson,

(It feels so awkward to call you Eloise. I will have to keep calling you Miss Greyson for the time being. Is that all right?)

Thank you for the news of my family. If you can manage to slip my mother some food—perhaps something flat?—under the wardrobe door, I'm sure she would appreciate it. If I were you, however,
I would get out of Westfield House as quickly as possible.

Your news about Oliver was the most thrilling thing I've heard all day. I hope that sea monsters truly do exist, so he can be eaten by one.

I have met Miss Pimm, and she reminds me a little of you, only much older and more terrifying. She seems very interested in Father's affairs. Do you know if she has a penchant for sea captains? So many older ladies seem to. I don't suppose Father has asked after me. Has he?

So far, Miss Pimm's is not quite as horrible as being eaten by a sea monster. My roommate, Claire, is wonderful. Do you remember that girl Philomena? She has been making Claire's life a misery ever since she found out that Claire is not from a High Society family, but Claire stands her ground valiantly and takes out a large portion of her aggression during archery class. (Frustratingly, we are only allowed to aim our bows and arrows at turnips, but piercing the heart of a villainous vegetable is still quite satisfying.) When she is not busy being nasty to Claire, Philomena mocks me for wearing my hair in a braid and for falling down during curtsying lessons, but
pirat
proper young ladies can't waste too much time worrying about these things. You will
probably be shocked to hear that I am at the top of my class in waltzing, but you will be less shocked by my
difficulty with penmanship. I hope you are able to read this letter. My knuckles have been rapped upon so many times by the handwriting mistress that I worry they will stage a rebellion and escape from my hand in the dead of night.

The gargoyle wanted to send you a pressed spider as a token of his affection, but I encouraged him to send pleasant words instead. He declined, arguing that spiders are easier to catch. But I am sure he
sends his love.

We are so very busy here that I may not have time to write back to you after this Saturday. Whatever else you may hear from Miss Pimm's, please know that I am thinking of you, and I promise to visit
you in your new bookshop when I return to Queensport.

Love,

Hilary