by Debra Dunbar
Dear Madame and Monsieur Guillot,
You do not know me, nor will you know my name. I am Gerard Gallagher, a humble and yet observant blacksmith living in Havana by the Queen's command. I work solely for the EITC and have for many years and have been in good service with them, as these are my credentials.
Three years ago the ship I sailed to Havana on was attacked by pirates. A few of us survived, and I still have nightmares of the encounter. Yet there is one pleasant memory I carry with me, and that was of friending your father, and your brother, Monsieurs Francis and Robert Guillot. I was heartbroken when I learned they were lost.
On October 7 I did in fact meet a young gentleman in the company of many others, inside a tavern called Muerte de Dama. He was quiet and well mannered, but deadly in handling a bold if not vicious man who accused one of those in his company of cheating at cards. He stared down the man and the man fled the bar. Many of the patrons ran from the bar as well but I, being a practical man, needed to know who this young gentleman was, and why he seemed so familiar to me.
I offered to buy him a drink, which he did not touch, and he told me his name was Gandris. It wasn't until after our evening ended and I offered to repair his rapier, that I realized I knew the young man's face.
It was Robert Guillot.
I have not seen this man since that night, but there were others who confirmed the encounter was real. I do believe Robert Guillot lives, and strays often into Havana under the name Gandris. I have sent a private messenger to get this message to you. Please, find me in Havana so we can find Robert Guillot once again and reunite your family.
PS The next morning the man who accused Gandris of cheating was found dead at the docks, his body crucified against the tavern's wall.
Truly yours,
In God's Name and Service,
GG
Solange read the letter several times before she refolded it and put it back in her apron. She heard Catherine yelling down the hall and hurried to open the closet, picking out what might be appropriate attire. Yet her mind continued to replay the letter. Had the young man really been Robert? But Robert would never be in a Tavern. He had always disliked them, same as Francis. He had used the name of Gandris, and yet it wasn't an uncommon name. Gandris had been the name of Robert's dog when they were young. And if he were truly alive…why had he remained in Havana for three years with no word to his family?
Questions. So many of them. Too many to worry about now. She needed to get her Mistress packed, and then herself.
Solange was determined she would find this man herself, even if Catherine didn't believe it was her brother.
Solange had never been on a boat before. Between being sick and trying to sleep, she served her Mistress as best as she could. Uncle George helped where he could and assured her things would improve once they arrived.
Havana presented a entirely new set of sights, sounds and smells. So many people, many of them with darker skin than her own! She did as she was told and was scolded heavily when her attention roamed to the bright colored clothing and accents. And the water…it was so blue and not the muddy color that soaked the banks of the Mississippi!
She gaped at the swaying palms as they traveled by carriage to their lodgings, a house overlooking the beach with the name La Colina, rented by Uncle George for their stay in Havana. The first chance Solange got she ran down to that beach, took off her boots and tiptoed into the surf. She stood ankle deep in the warm water, looking out at the ocean, at the boats as they came and went into port, and listened to the cries of the seagulls overhead.
Solange pulled the note from her apron and held it to her breast. He was here. Robert had to be here.
Sundown arrived and Solange busied herself with the kitchen staff as they prepared dinner. They were nice to her, a bright change from her life in New Orleans. Some of them spoke good English and taught her words in Spanish. The spices and aromas of chickens and goat on the grills made her stomach growl. The cooks plied her with tastes and conversation as she asked them questions about Havana and they wanted to know more about New Orleans.
The mood at the table as she served Catherine was somber. Solange learned that Uncle George had visited the blacksmith only to find the shop locked up and no one knew where Gerard Gallagher was. But at least they did know who he was.
It wasn't until dinner was finishing that someone came to the door. He was escorted into the parlor where George and Catherine met him. He had a note for them and Solange listened outside on the veranda. The door to the parlor was kept open as was the window, to allow a constant flow of cool air.
She looked in from the shadows of the veranda and watched as Catherine snatched the note from the messenger and tore it open, nearly ripping it in half. She looked at and frowned. "It's from the blacksmith. Says he's been called away but he's back now and wants to talk to us tonight."
"Where?" Mr. Guillot asked.
"At his business." She handed the note to her uncle. "It's already dark outside."
He read it and nodded. He looked at the messenger and handed him a coin. "Thank you."
"Begg'n ya pardon, your grace, but I have to receive a written reply," said the skinny man.
"Of course," Uncle George said and proceeded to motion Catherine away from the desk. He sat down, took out a quill and ink and paper and wrote a reply.
Solange moved back a bit as the messenger left and then listened to them.
"We have an hour before the meeting," Uncle George said. "I suggest we get ready."
"This all seems so clandestine. It's nearly nine, uncle."
"You'd rather wait till morning to see your brother? Demand answers?"
"Solange!"
Solange nearly squeaked when Catherine bellowed her name. She carefully moved back inside and once in the parlor, Catherine waved at her. "Get my coat ready and get yourself dressed for an outing."
"Yes ma'am," Solange said and hid her smile. She was going with them!
The streets were lined with gas lamps and the carriage jostled over cobble stone streets. People moved back and forth, taking their lives in to their hands with the drivers as they cracked their whips at their horses. Uncle George had insisted Solange ride in the carriage and not up with the driver as he didn't trust the riffraff of the city's nightlife.
The driver came to a stop in front of a single door and a sign that had an anvil and hammer. Solange jumped down and waited for her Mistress to step off. Catherine had wanted her blue velvet cape and hood, something that nearly hid her from view. In the shadow, Solange couldn't see her face inside. Uncle George knocked on the door.
No one answered.
With his lips pursed, Uncle George tried again.
Still no answer.
"Should I stay here, Mr. Guillot?" said the driver.
"Yes, please." He knocked a third time, with more force.
Still no answer.
"This is insulting," Catherine said and grabbed the door handle. It opened and the door moved inward.
With a smile at the two of them, she gathered up her skirts and cape and barreled in. "Is anyone here? Mr. Gallagher?"
Uncle George gave Solange a tired look and sighed as he followed his niece inside and Solange started in—
But stopped. Something pressed along the back of her neck and she turned. Putting her hand to her shoulder, she looked around.
"You okay?" the driver asked.
"Yes I just…It felt like someone touched me."
The driver nodded. "Full moon. Does that on nights like this. Some said they've seen Dawn's Justice in the harbor these past few nights."
"Dawn's Justice? What is that?"
"A pirate ship. It comes in the dark, and people die. Mostly it's bad people, like criminals. And not just the kind in the jails either." He looked around him and leaned down to her. "Some of the more crooked officials have died as well. Can't say it's been all bad."
"When you say died, you mean slain? Swords? Duels?"
> "Oh no, no. It's not like that. This happens all quiet like. They die in their beds, or in the arms of their whores. Just…dead. All bled out, but with no blood."
"No blood?" Solange put her hand to her chest. "You lie."
"No ma'am, I'm don't. Been happening here for near on a decade. And not every full moon. Mostly this time of the year. The story is—"
A blood curdling scream came from inside and Solange jumped. The horse reacted and reared up as well as the driver tried to calm her down. There was shouting inside and Solange ran inside to see what was happening.
The heat from the forge was like a wall to her left. Half finished swords, daggers, knives, rapiers, tools, all hung from leather straps and pegs from everywhere. The nicely finished pieces were displayed on a different wall, and it was against this wall that she saw a man crucified against the wooden wall. His wrists and ankles were nailed to the wall and a spike of some kind had been rammed through his mouth and into the wall as well.
Catherine had her hand in her uncle's chest and he had his arms around her. He looked at Solange. "Tell the driver to get the constable. There's been a murder."
Solange nodded and ran back outside, catching her breath in the cooler, salt tinged air.
The driver was on the cobble stone, his hand on his horse's reins. "Was it the pirates?"
"Someone crucified the blacksmith," she said and felt nausea settling into her stomach. "Get the law!"
"Won't do no good," the driver said as he jumped back on his carriage. "Gallagher done something bad." He took off down the street as people began to gather.
Not wanting to go back inside, she stood at the door and watched the people, looking at their faces until she sees—
Her eyes grew wide, and her jaw dropped when she saw his face. His blond hair was nearly white under the lamplight, as it fell forward, framing his face. He wore a cloak and the hood was up…but she would know him.
Solange would know him anywhere.
He smiled at her, and bowed just slightly. Solange started toward him just as several horses came thundering down the street. She recognized their blue and yellow uniforms. The local law had arrived. She looked toward them, then back to him—
But he was gone. She ran forward, moving between bodies and searching for him.
But he wasn't there.
Solange put her hand to face. Had he been there?
Had she really seen Robert?
Each of them was "questioned" by a man named Jarod Pinkerton, a displaced magistrate whose ill expression and even ill-er smell made Solange gag within three feet of him. She kept her sleeve over her face as she spoke with him, feigning shyness when asked why she kept her face hidden. Pinkerton demanded the facts and didn't particularly like them as they were given.
"You're looking for your lost brother, reportedly killed by pirates some three years ago," he said once he had everyone together again in the blacksmith. The body of the blacksmith had been removed but Solange wasn't sure by whom. "But there was never a body."
"Yes sir," Uncle George said.
Pinkerton, the top clip of his collar unfastened, sweated profusely in the warm room. The forge fire had receded more than half, but the heat remained trapped since he ordered all the windows closed for his private investigation. He kept his hands behind him, though not joined. He couldn't be called a fat man. More stout was the word that came to Solange. She wanted nothing more than to douse the man with a bucket of water just to tame the smell. "You received a note from our blacksmith that he'd seen your brother, one Robert Guillot, recently and declared him to be the same man he'd met aboard the doomed ship from New Orleans."
Everyone nodded.
Pinkerton made a rude noise. "I believe none of this."
"But sir—" Uncle George held out his hand.
Pinkerton waved for him to be quiet. "The man known as Gandris is not your brother, Mr. Guillot. I'm afraid you have been duped. Did this blacksmith demand payment for this information?"
"No."
"Any kind of recompense?"
"None. But we hadn't spoken to him directly. We were here to—"
Again, Pinkerton waved for Uncle George to be silent. "You weren't able to speak to him because you killed him—"
"What?" Uncle George said in honest surprise.
"This is outrageous," Catherine finally said and stepped forward, even as Pinkerton's guards pointed their weapons at her. "Why would we kill a man who claimed to have informant about my brother? A brother who is the only heir to my family's fortune?" She searched his pudgy face and Solange secretly cheered her on. "Is this your idea of good detective work? Because from what I can see it's lazy and irresponsible. We found the body and are here at the blacksmith's request. Now you have the gall to insult us with his murder?"
"My Lady," Pinkerton began, though to Solange, the man seemed more anxious to shut the woman up than to admit he made a mistake.
"Wait just a moment," Uncle George said and stepped between them. "Constable, you said the man known as Gandris is not her brother, my nephew. Known as. This leads me to believe you actually know of the man the blacksmith met."
Pinkerton pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. "Aye. I've seen the man they call Gandris. He is our most wanted pirate."
Solange took a step back. Pirate? She thought of the visage of Robert she'd seen in the crowd. She knew in her heart it was him, but she'd said nothing to Catherine or George. Not because she didn't trust them, but more because she wasn't sure seeing him wasn't just wishful thinking. But now that the local constable was actually calling a man, a pirate, Gandris…could it be?
"That would not be my brother," Catherine nearly snorted. "Robert was many things, but a vagrant and a thief and murderer wasn't one of them.
"You are sure of this?" Pinkerton said.
"My brother was a soft boy," Catherine said. "No head for business, and no nose for a fight. My brother is not your wanted pirate."
Pinkerton held out his hand to his right and one of the guards handed him a rolled piece of parchment. Pinkerton held it out to Catherine, but it was Uncle George who took it and unrolled it. He gasped and looked Catherine. She grabbed it from her uncle and looked at it. Her reaction wasn't as dramatic. "This could be him, but it could be any number of the Queen's men."
She tossed it upon a table and Solange gritted her teeth, stopping herself from rushing to look at the parchment. She had to know. She had to!
"The manner in which the blacksmith was found is a mark of the Pirate Gandris. It is his sails that have been seen these past few nights of the full moon, Madame Guillot. It is he who captains Dawn's Justice."
Again Solange took notice. The driver had mentioned that same ship!
Solange…
The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she heard her name whispered in her ear. She looked around at the shadows of the blacksmith's workplace and wished there was more light. She felt eyes upon her at that moment and turned suddenly, sure someone would be standing behind her.
There was no one there.
"Solange whatever is wrong you?" Catherine demanded in frustrated tone.
"Nothing ma'am, I just thought I—"
Uncle George interrupted. "Solange, perhaps you should go sit with the driver while we set this man right about Robert."
"But—" Solange said. She looked at Catherine.
"My Lady—" Pinkerton said.
But Catherine wasn't having any of it and gestured for Solange to go so she did. Once through the door she gasped at the difference in temperature and stopped in the doorway. The horses of the officers were lined up to her left and there was no one with her. She wanted to talk to that driver again, to ask him about this pirate ship and this captain…
Solange.
Again the breath on her neck and the sound of her name in her ear. She spun around, her skirts whipping about her ankles. "Who…who's there?" she said in a soft voice. Her voice had deserted her.
There was no answer.
Just the muffled voices from inside and the distant sound of the waves crashing on the shore. Swallowing loudly, Solange turned back to the door, intending on going back inside and just facing her Mistress's wrath.
Only something stood in her way.
Someone.
He was there, in front of her. Still dressed in the cape, his face in shadow. But she knew him. Knew his smile as he looked down at her. "Solange."
"Robert?"
And then she was in his arms and he was carrying her. He kissed her, and she was surprised at the coldness in his lips, the hardness of his body against her. His tongue sought out hers and she opened her mouth wide as she always had, to receive him. To take him in. She drowned in that kiss, in his taste, and in his smell. After three years, he still smelled the same. Of cinnamon and pine.
When he released her she gasped for air and he held her to him, the side of her face pressed against his chest. "My dear, sweet Solange. I've dreamed of this day for so long. But I never dared believed it would happen."
His voice rode the wind as it surrounded her. She realized at the last minute they were standing on top of the tallest tower over looking the blacksmith's shop. She gasped at the horses below her and the soft yellow glow of the light coming through the blacksmith's shop. "How—"
"Don't worry. I won't let you fall, Solange. I will protect you."
She looked up at him. She couldn't seen anything but the hood now, not even his face. But she knew his voice. She shivered as she reached out to touch his cheek and then withdrew her hand when her fingers touched what felt like ice. "Cold," she said to him. "You're so cold, Robert."
"Not in my heart, my sweet." He reached up with one hand and pulled the hood away.
Solange stepped back, her eyes open, her mouth in a perfect O.
Three years had not dulled her memory of him in her mind, but it had sharpened the reality before her. He had always been tall, with a thin build and face, long blonde hair and dark eyes. Most of these things had changed in that time. His hair looked almost white in the lights from the city street below. His frame wasn't thin and frail any longer. She stepped forward and put her hands on his chest again. He was as hard as granite but he was also as well toned as any of the workers on the Guillot estate.
