Five Enchanted Roses: A Collection of Beauty and the Beast Stories

by Kaycee Browning

  “She was,” William said, his tone melancholy. “A fighting frigate, all 110 feet and 26 guns of her. This way now.” He led her toward one of two ornate red doors set on either side of the companionway stairs up to the quarterdeck. As Cecilia obediently followed, she got a clear look at him by daylight, and her steps faltered in renewed horror.

  His hair now looked like slithering eels, his coat appeared to be made of a moth-ridden sail, and he smelled like putrid seaweed. She forced herself to approach him, trying to see what she had seen before.

  “Right in here, my lady,” William said, and opened the door, revealing a darkness far more violent than William’s blue glow.

  Cecilia shivered and peered inside. Her eyes stung, but she kept them open and forced herself to focus on the room.

  A gray sun shining through a glass-paned window revealed the silhouette of a figure wearing a long black coat, and yet beyond the window, all was dense fog and dark ocean. The room itself, what could be seen of it, was shockingly elegant. A Persian rug covered the floor, the table and chairs were ornamented, and gilded chests were shoved against the walls, practically screaming to be opened and the riches inside perused. Dim candles glimmered in the heavy stillness of the cabin.

  The man spun around. Cecilia gasped at the sudden movement.

  “Ma chère, we do not have all day. This would be true whether or not you stood gawking stupidly in my doorway, as there is no day here. But I assume you are more intelligent than you currently appear, and thus I shall also assume that you understand my gist.”

  Despite the amused condescension coating his tone, something oddly alluring in his voice roused Cecilia out of her discomfort and piqued her curiosity. Perhaps it was the strange combination of matter-of-fact sarcasm and a French accent.

  “William, merci. Leave.” His tone was curt and final. William bowed, backed from the room, and closed the door.

  Cecilia sucked in a breath, her curiosity extinguishing like candlelight in a storm, and spun about to stare at the closed door as though it were an impenetrable barrier.

  “I suppose this is all rather frightening,” the captain said. When Cecilia, bracing herself, looked back around at him, he gestured for her to sit in a stiffly upholstered chair. Even as he made the gesture, he knelt before one of the chests and retrieved from its interior two tin mugs. After staring at them for a moment, he huffed, tossed them back into the chest, and then rummaged further, emerging at last with two goblets.

  Numbly, Cecilia took the proffered seat. She eyed the captain, trying to steel herself before her first glimpse of his ghoulish looks, which were sure to be worse than William’s. William was horrid enough, but at least he produced a blue aura. This man, by contrast, dimmed any candlelight and sunlight that might have touched him.

  The spectral captain spun from the chest and placed the goblets and a bottle on the table. Cecilia gazed up at him, trying to discern his features. She couldn’t. The darkness of his heart seemed to have spread, shrouding his face and body in inky blackness. She could see the faint impression of a straight nose, a twisted smirk, and long fingers. Otherwise, his shirt, his trousers, his overcoat—all were dark like his skin.

  Somehow, his entirely shadowed body was even more awful than the soggy figures of his crew. It brought to mind images of the suffering and demons and hell that Father John Francis had warned about from his pulpit.

  “Do you have a name, Mademoiselle?” the captain asked as he uncorked the bottle and poured. Cecilia recognized the dull smell of wine, like metallic blood. It reminded her of the Fee and the whirlpool.

  Her stomach quivered, but she accepted the goblet he handed her and held it tightly with both hands. Rallying herself as best she could, she answered the captain’s question. “My name is Lester. Miss Cecilia Lester.”

  The shades of black on his face seemed to shift as if he raised an eyebrow. “An English surname? And your English is flawless. Yet you look Spanish to me.”

  “Mother is . . . was,” Cecilia stammered. “But I grew up in St. George’s Parish.”

  “Ah. Bermuda, a British colony. And you are of mixed nationality, yes? Tres exotique.”

  Cecilia’s fingers tightened around the goblet’s stem. She suddenly found she didn’t care about anything but getting answers. She set the goblet aside and leaped to her feet, glaring up into the black space vaguely shaped like a head. Words wouldn’t form, so she simply stood her ground.

  The captain chuckled and tilted his head to view her better. “Exotique. That was a rather poor choice of wording, given the circumstances. Though I meant it as a compliment. Ma chère, you have the great misfortune to find yourself aboard the punishment vessel of our mutual friends, the Fee—home of despairing and accursed men-turned-monsters. Welcome aboard the Rose. I hope you do not intend to stay long.”

  Cecilia stared at the captain and felt him returning her gaze, though she could not see his face. At last, feeling strangely satisfied, as though an important question had finally been answered, she sat. “So all of you were . . . are people?” she asked.

  The captain nodded. “Mais oui. Our appearance is part of our punishments. As if being stuck on this appallingly colored ship is not punishment enough.”

  “The Fee were going to punish my father,” Cecilia mused aloud. Worry for her father, his ship, and even his crew rushed into her mind, casting out her momentary calm. Did the Fee spare him? What if they assumed he had been behind her attempt to take the mirror? She gripped the arms of her chair. Had she only made his situation worse?

  “Your father? How did you come to be here, then?” the captain asked, settling gracefully into the chair behind his desk, his goblet in one hand.

  Perhaps motivated by fear, perhaps by her relief at not being killed, or perhaps simply to distract herself from the dark form of the captain, Cecilia poured out her tale as hastily and effectively as she could. She explained how her mother had died of influenza, how she’d been left destitute. She told about how her father had come to St. George’s Parish at last, finding her in the care of kindly Father John Francis, the only man in all the village willing to take in a privateer’s daughter. Captain Lester had promised to carry her back to England by the end of the year . . . to London, where he claimed he had a respectable sister who might just be willing to take in the daughter of her less-than-respectable brother.

  She told of her weeks aboard the Sister Wench, enduring rough and rowdy men, bad weather, and the inconveniences of shipboard life. At last they had taken on supplies at Tortuga, an island overrun by pirates and rampant with degradation, depravity, and despair. Cecilia had observed the port from the safe distance of the Sister Wench’s deck, having no desire to venture ashore. She had been truly happy to put Tortuga astern and embrace the rollicking waves of the ocean again.

  Finally, her tale nearing its conclusion, she spoke of her discovery of Captain Lester’s thievery, of the beautiful mirror that belonged to the Fee, of the wall and the whirlpool—and of her reckless decision to steal back the mirror in an attempt to save her father.

  The captain listened silently, nodding his shadowy head throughout the story. When Cecilia fell silent, her temples throbbing at the telling of her own tale, the captain spoke again, his voice surprisingly soft:

  “You were very brave, Mademoiselle Lester. Not many would have done what you did. Attacking one of the Fee! Tres vaillante.”

  Cecilia did not feel valiant. She hardly knew what she felt. Lost, perhaps. She took up the goblet and, suddenly parched, took a tentative sip. The wine tasted acrid in her mouth, and she wished she’d not tried it. “Please,” she said, setting the drink aside, “did I accomplish anything at all? Did they kill my father?”

  “Non. The Fee do not kill,” the captain said, his accent growing heavier. “They only punish, and their punishment consists of turning men into monsters and casting them aboard this ship. Newcomers always appear exactly where you appeared—in the cell down in the bilge. Had your father suffe
red the Fee’s punishment, he would have been with you.”

  “I see,” Cecilia replied. She eyed him for a moment, then said, “You seem to know quite a lot. Do you know anything about the mirror? How did the Fee find my father?” She squinted at him suspiciously. “And how do you know about them?”

  “Light,” the captain replied immediately. “That is how they found your father, or so I would surmise. If light touches the mirror’s glass while in the world of mortals, the Fee can appear in that location. So long as it is in an ocean, bien sûr. If the mirror were brought on land, they could sense the mirror but they could not go to it.”

  Cecilia sat in silence for a long moment, pondering. Why, why, hadn’t her father left the mirror in Tortuga? If he truly wished to be rid of his servitude to the Fee, he should have left the mirror on land, buried it in the ground, or even sold it. He would have been safe!

  Her father’s verbal rambling before the Fee attacked came back to her: But Cilla, the Fee have gold and riches, and lots of it too . . . I had to keep it, don’t you see?

  Cecilia clenched her hands, her ragged fingernails biting into the skin of her palms. “Why am I not like the rest of you?” she asked, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “Why am I not . . .” A monster? A ghost? A horror of water and slime? Cecilia struggled for an inoffensive word, though she knew that the captain would only chuckle at her. “Blue. Why am I not blue?” she finished finally.

  True to form, the captain did laugh, sounding as though he had been young at the time of his cursing, no older than thirty or somewhere thereabouts. When he finished laughing, he said, “Je ne sais pas, Mademoiselle Lester. I do not know. What does your omen say? There is no need to fear; I promise to tell no one, and I will endeavor to help you fulfill it.”

  “My omen?” Cecilia asked.

  “Oui. I understand why you did not share in your initial story. It is often disturbing. But, ma chère, nothing good will come of keeping it secret. I can help you.” He sounded earnest, and his French accent grew heavier. Cecilia suspected it only did that when he became too emotional. Her mother’s Spanish accent had been the same.

  Cecilia reached for the wine goblet once more. Anything to distract her from thinking about her mother. She peered into the goblet’s bowl. It smelled like her father, and the previous sip still tasted foul on her tongue. She put it back. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, aware that the captain was staring deeply at her, though she could not see his eyes. “The men were shouting something about omens down in the hull. What were they saying?”

  The captain suddenly cleared his throat. “Where are my manners? I must introduce myself! My name is Pepin-René Marc Daviau. It’s quite long, and I rarely bother to recall all of it, so please call me Pepin. Then again, call me Captain, as I am your superior, but you may think of me as Pepin, if you like.”

  “Daviau?” Cecilia asked. A conversation with her father not two weeks prior rushed back to her. “The privateer?”

  He huffed. “There is no need to insult me. S’il vous plaît, use the term ‘pirate.’ It is far less offensive.”

  Cecilia sat back in her chair, staring at the shadowed figure with new awe and fear. This was the man who rode into Tortuga and pillaged it, stealing everything—from the gold of other pirates to wooden beams from fallen homes—just to toss it all into the ocean. This man defeated an entire fleet of British warships by tricking them into a kraken’s nest. This man held the entire pirate world, even her father, in a constant state of reverence and terror. They whispered his name only after several bottles of rum, and even then they glanced over their shoulders and hissed for silence.

  She wasn’t surprised that he had run afoul of the Fee; she was surprised that they had actually managed to punish him. Though, after looking at the cabin—which more closely resembled a king’s court than a captain’s quarters—and remembering the way the men quivered and obeyed, it seemed the punishment had affected him little.

  “I suppose your father told you stories of me?” Pepin asked. Cecilia could almost hear the smug grin she was sure he wore beneath the darkness.

  “He told me you sank to the bottom of the ocean along with the Bête de Diable during a battle off the coast of Florida,” Cecilia said.

  A torrent of what was no doubt French invective flew from Pepin’s mouth. Cecilia drew a sharp breath, frightened and suddenly glad that she did not understand French. He stood and began pacing furiously across the cabin, never pausing his tirade to draw breath.

  Finally he calmed himself and turned toward Cecilia. “Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle Cecile. It is not every day one receives word that one’s imbécile fath . . . first mate decided to go after the Fountain of Youth, following a map that was clearly a trap set by the British, which then results in the destruction of one’s friends. Sacrebleu, quand je sortirai d’ici . . .”

  He ranted on in French while Cecilia, suspecting it would be perilous to interrupt, waited for him to finish.

  He stopped at last and bowed to her. “Mademoiselle, I again bid you welcome aboard the Rose. We sail an endless ocean, and landing is impossible. Food and drink mystically appear in the galley. It tastes horrid, but none of the ghosts have died from it, so have as much as you please. There is a room for you below. At least, I assume there is. Cabins always seem to appear when some new poor soul arrives, though by rights the ship shouldn’t be large enough for another. It will be dry and stuffy, with an aroma that calls to mind images of the ocean. Particularly the fish part of the ocean. Most particularly the dead-fish part of the ocean. There’s only one port we can anchor in, and we could not enter it before you came because we needed a solid person. But now that you are here . . . well, we shall see. Perhaps we can return you to your father.”

  As he spoke he motioned for her to rise and, without touching her, somehow managed to propel her toward the door. “The ship is yours to roam, though I suggest avoiding most of the men, especially Jack. They would be unpleasantly happy to meet you. William and Frank are good sorts though. Also, stay away from all of the rooms other than your own, all of the lower decks, and whatever you do, stay away from the little room in the bow. That is where I keep the insane ones. Don’t touch anything that looks odd. Don’t touch anything that looks normal. Other than following these few trifling rules, feel free to do whatever you want. Good day. Or night. Whichever you wish to call it.”

  He bowed again and ushered her out, shutting the door firmly behind her. So Cecilia found herself standing alone in the endless fog and contemplating the mystery that was Pepin-René Marc Daviau.

  Chapter 4

  THE NEXT MORNING . . . or evening—it was truly impossible to say which—Cecilia awoke with burning eyes and a throbbing head. Several agonized moments passed before she could bear to allow herself to remember where she was. When the memory came, she wished she might fall asleep again. The nightmares she’d experienced in sleep would be a welcome relief!

  But instead she lay in her hammock, gazing at the red boards above her until they blurred. Last night both William and Frank (good sorts according to Captain Pepin, if his word could be trusted) had escorted her down the companionway and through what seemed like miles of winding passages between bulkheads before arriving at the door of her cabin, which, they said, had appeared suddenly upon her arrival. Reason told Cecilia that it shouldn’t exist at all.

  Exist it did, however, beyond all reason, and her two ghostly escorts had urged her to remain inside. She wondered now, upon waking, if they had forgotten all about her. At the same time she wondered whether her door was bolted on the inside or outside.

  She blinked. Her vision cleared, but the stinging remained. Cecilia rubbed her eyes and sat up, careful not to overturn the hammock. Staring blearily around the room, she took in its wooden walls and floor, a clothes chest against the far wall, a flickering lantern on a hook (had it burned all night?), and a bolted door—all perfectly ordinary other than the blood-red of the wood. A small space and spare in i
ts furnishings, but ultimately she felt Captain Pepin had exaggerated the cabin’s unpleasantness. She doubted she would have slept at all had she smelled dead fish all night. The room actually smelled strangely pleasant, like flowers in the spring.

  As she thought back over her conversation with the captain, her mind focused on a single word: omens. Why had Captain Pepin avoided the subject? Somehow, now that she considered the topic, she knew it was important. Why else would he shy away from it? He had been forthcoming about everything else . . . or had he? She wasn’t certain.

  She had been tired and frightened last night. She was tired and frightened now, but determined, too. She rose to pace across the room, running her fingers through her hair to undo her frazzled braid. When she turned back she noticed a tortoiseshell comb lying atop the clothes chest. Within a few minutes she had combed and braided her hair and secured it with her limp hair ribbon. She checked her wan reflection in a polished brass mirror above a vermilion dressing table, then poured warm, scented water from a china pitcher into a basin, washed her face and hands, and dried them on a soft white cloth.

  It was then she noticed the gleam of daylight falling on her reflected face. Had that window been there a moment ago? She pressed her face to its wavy glass to peer outside, then, noticing a latch, opened it wide and leaned out, breathing deep as salt spray dampened her cheeks. Dense fog curled and smoked above the black ocean, twisting like a shark savoring blood.

  Somehow her cabin was located high in the bow of the ship on the port side. Above and to her right extended the bowsprit, with its spider web of lines and a small sail filled with wind. She looked down and sucked in a breath. Though the water was dark and shadowed, it, unlike the captain, still held its definition and shape. She watched the bow cut into a wave then rise amid foaming currents and spray. The fog obstructed her view ahead, but even so she knew that the Rose was moving faster than any ship she had ever heard of. No breeze could propel a ship, certainly not one the size of the Rose, this quickly. Perhaps in a strong following wind a normal man o’ war could sail at half this speed, but how could there be wind in such a dense, inert fog?