When Whitley winds up on the top of a pirate hit-list thanks to her con-artist father, she must hide her identity and board another pirate ship, trusting in one shape-shifting pirate named Bluff to help her escape. Too bad you can never, ever, trust...
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Whitley
The first thing I notice about the south is the water. Bright blue, like crystal.
Excruciatingly beautiful.
I wiggle my toes in my tight boots and try to bury the desire to rip them off, to feel that water. But my father would kill me.The wind ruffles my skirt as I watch sailors unloading the ship, heaving boxes and trunks and bags. Sweat pours from their faces, red under the high noon sun.
This place, with its sticky heat and beautiful water, is nothing like New York.
A man limps past me, grunting with each step. I try not to let my nose wrinkle in disgust. That's like New York at least-- the smell. Working men smell, that's a universal truth.
My father marches up the dock, buttoned up in his most dapper suit, freshly shaven and beaming with a proud smile. He doesn't look at all like he just completed a three day sailing, not to mention the rushed nature of our departure. Running from the mob in the middle of the night won't make it onto my list of most pleasant memories.
I put a pleasantly fake smile on my own face as he approaches. "Father," I say in greeting.
"Beautiful place, this."
I nod. "Very."
"Infinitely better than New York, I think."
"Perhaps."
This is polite conversation. It's about as transparent as New York City water. Musky brown. Thick with what I wish I could say aloud.
What I'm not saying is: sure, it's pretty, but that doesn't make up for you ripping me from my life and forcing me to follow you on your stupid quest for wealth, prestige, and power. Or at least that's what I hope I'm saying. He probably just thinks I'm mad about Jeb.
Jeb, who'd been my best friend since childhood. Jeb, who was going to propose.
My life would have been just fine in New York. My father's, however, was going more in the direction of the gutter. He owed a lot of debts he couldn't pay, or wouldn't, which ever.
Here my father can pretend to be a rich businessman. When in reality it's stolen money that bought him his stone castle atop the hill, looking out at the beautiful water.
Here, he is far away from the men he owes.
I, of course, must play the part of the doting daughter, never having a choice in anything.
"Come, child," he says, turning from the ship that brought us here. Our escape vessel. He walks up a small hill paved in stone. It's rather steep and I struggle to remain graceful in my heeled boots. My ankle twists more than once, and though I manage to stifle any cry of pain my expression must expose me. My father notices.
