Beauty, whose conquests still are made
O’er hearts by cowards kept, or else betray’d!
Weak victor! Who thyself destroy’d must be
When sickness storms, or time besieges thee!
Thou unwholesome thaw to frozen age!
Thou strong wine, which youth’s fever dost enrage,
Thou tyrant which leav’st no man free!
Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be!
Thou murth’rer which hast kill’d, and devil which wouldst damn me.
-Abraham Cowley, from “Beauty”

It really was all much too much for Almalure’s sense of decorum. The scene unfolding before her eyes was irrefutably hysterical. No human heart, however jaded, could keep from vocal amusement in such a situation. Therefore, our Spaniard laughed. Not, perhaps, a very loud laugh; no such unruly guffaw had passed her lips in many long years. But it was not the high, forced laugh of the courtesan. There was more truth in it than that. All in all it was subtle, laughing with the lips and body more than with the voice. But a laugh none the less.

All mirth, though, was swiftly abandoned in favor of surprise as Jack included her in the female cargo he intended to take on. So she hadn’t needed to put a pistol to his forehead and a knife to his throat to get him to agree? …The threatening had been worth it though: very entertaining. Even so, was it wise to just agree with the pirate? What’s to say he doesn’t think it fitting to drop her off at this Royale place? She considered it briefly before rising, hat still perched crookedly atop her head. “You want me to be your mistress.” This was not said in any kind of incredulous, accusatory or questioning manner, simply a statement of fact. “Well, it was nice of you to ask first,” this delivered sardonically. “No matter, but I have my conditions. Now, if you don’t mind, I am going to go collect my things,” she announced, turning and striking off down the dock, one hand on Jack’s hat to keep it from blowing off her head.

[mm. not sure where in chronology that happens. also: when would you like dear Stephen down here. you won’t leave him in Tortuga, will you?]

A L M A L U R E

Age cannot whither her, nor her custom stale
Her infinite variety; other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where she most satisfies
-William Shakespeare, "Antony and Cleopatra"