Chapter Nineteen
Nineteen
To say I am relieved to find the twins first thing the next morning would be an understatement.
Mostly, I’m relieved that it isn’t Renard I run into.
They don’t see me initially, as their backs are to me, but I come up behind them and grab Tristan’s elbow to get his attention.
He spins around, startled, but smiles when he recognizes me. “We lost ye last night.”
“I lost myself last night,” I say with a grimace.
“Ye’ve a mark on yer cheek.”
Shit. I hate that. I absolutely hate that.
My stomach gives an uneasy lurch at the recollection of Renard striking me across the face, but I swallow down the feeling and suck in a breath.
The twins are staring at me expectantly.
I reach up to touch my cheek, feigning surprise.
“Ah—the bed in my room was dreadfully tiny. I think I fell off at some point.”
Trevor snorts, but Tristan doesn’t look convinced. I don’t blame him—I’ve hardly convinced myself. Still, neither of them presses me further.
“Ye promised to buy us somethin’,” Tristan reminds me.
I chuckle at that. “I did,” I agree. “Help me find plantains for Billy, then you can buy whatever you want.” I squint a little and reconsider. “Within reason.”
“He just wants sweetmeats,” Trevor says, pointing to a wooden sign at the end of the road that simply says Baked Goods.
Tristan smiles. “I have a sweet tooth.”
“Me too,” I say with a nod. “We’ll go in there after we fetch the plantains. Did the captain say how long we were to stay at port?”
“Just one day,” Trevor says. “He thinks the Frenchmen may come lookin’ for us here.”
That makes sense. And I can’t say I’m disappointed. This island has left a bad taste in my mouth, and I’m eager to put it behind me. “Just as well,” I say. “If the captain asks, I tried to find Mr. Tydes.”
The twins shoot matching quizzical expressions in my direction as we make our way into the market, but I don’t clarify and they don’t ask.
The marketplace is buzzing with activity.
I am fascinated by the riot of color around me.
While many of the men here are dressed in black, there are so many others in bright silks and delicate lace.
More languages than I could count are spoken around me, and the smell of spices and cooking meat fills the air.
Never have I seen so much color or smelled so many different things at once.
I am overwhelmed—but I am enjoying every moment of it.
The plantains, remarkably, are easily found.
Seeing them, I understand now why they are compared to bananas.
They must be somewhat similar, for they look nearly the same, though they are bigger, with a less distinct shape.
I buy as many as we can comfortably carry—although, really, Tristan and Trevor are the ones who each take a handle and carry the crate between them.
I’m grateful to them, but I feel a little like their employer rather than their friend as we continue through the marketplace.
We stop here and there to admire various trinkets for sale.
I am particularly fascinated by a collection of booths lined up together selling food and goods from East Asia.
As we approach, the air around them is heavy with an unfamiliar but intense aroma that sets my mouth watering and my belly whimpering.
I inhale deeply—but then something new catches my eye, and as Tristan and Trevor continue on to another booth, I stop and smile at a young girl sitting on her own beside a beautiful display of sparkling glass and tinkling bits of metal and wood.
A row of miniature wooden huts with little flared roofs sway in the breeze, wooden tubes of various sizes dangling below them from small bits of twine.
They seem to catch the air as they dance, turning the movement into a beautiful cacophony of song.
I reach out and brush my fingers along the tubes to make them bounce together, and they sing back to me.
I smile, and the child beside me laughs.
“These are beautiful,” I say—though I am not sure she understands. “What are they?”
“Wind chimes,” a voice says from behind me.
I whirl to see a man in a simple grey smock coat, worn over some kind of white-and-blue robe that nearly reaches the ground.
His dark hair has been shaved nearly clean off, though I can see the shadow of where it grows back.
He bows to me, but before I can respond, he motions to the singing huts, with a smile.
“They catch wind to sing. For protection.”
Fascinated, I turn back to admire them. “How wonderful,” I say, more to myself than to anyone else. “Protection from what?”
“Evil spirits,” he explains.
I suppose every culture must have its own superstitions.
I have never considered that I might need protection from any sort of evil spirit outside of temptation, but I suppose that is due to my education in the Church of England.
I rather like the thought of beautiful trinkets protecting us from things we cannot control, in lieu of us needing protection from the darkness we are inherently born with.
Still, the thought sends a chill rippling up my spine, despite the heat of the day.
“And these?” I ask, pointing to another row of dangling art.
These are made of bits of cut glass, stained in an array of bright colors, and do not sway as easily in the wind.
They remind me a bit of church windows, but they feel buoyant and cheerful.
As they spin slowly, some catch the sun and sparkle.
Others cast a rainbow of light in their reflections against the ground and on people walking by.
“Suncatchers, for luck,” he says.
I smile back at him, utterly charmed by the simple beauty of these items. I want to ask him more about them, but someone takes me by the arm, and I whirl to see Trevor. “Thought we’d lost ye,” he says. “We’re hungry.”
I nod and turn back to the man in the grey smock, but he has directed his attention to another sailor, so I allow Trevor to guide me to the next booth.
He motions to a table full of smoked meat on small wooden spears, so I buy three, and we step aside to enjoy them.
They are dripping with a golden sauce that bursts with flavor on my tongue.
Never have I tasted anything quite like it.
“What is this?” I ask the twins.
Tristan shrugs and continues chewing, but Trevor has already finished and is licking sauce from his fingers. “I can’t remember what it’s called. It’s some chicken dish from China.”
I lick some of the sweet, sticky sauce from the corner of my mouth. “It’s delicious.” We don’t have food like this at home. “Think Cook would be offended if we asked him to make this?” I ask.
Trevor smirks. “I want to be there when ye ask.”
I grin at the challenge and approach the woman at the booth again.
“Excuse me,” I say, once she’s no longer engaged with a customer.
She wears a simple blue frock with red trimmings along the collar.
The garment seems to button at a diagonal across the front of her shoulder and down the side seam.
It hangs loose around her body, but the sleeves are wide and bare her forearms. It is so unlike anything I have ever known a woman to wear.
I cannot see beyond the height of the booth, and though I am terribly curious, I dare not stare too long or ask any questions for fear of seeming rude.
She blinks at me, then offers me a noticeably forced smile and motions towards the meat skewers. “Another?” she asks.
I consider, glancing towards the twins, who are both staring at me with raised brows and wide eyes.
“Yes,” I decide. “Three, please.” I hand her some coin and gesture for the twins to come and retrieve their second helping.
“I’ve never tried something so delicious,” I say as she hands me my second skewer.
She gives me an odd look, and then her smile grows genuine. “You have good taste,” she says. “Rare for an Englishman.”
I laugh, charmed by her brutal honesty. “I’m sure my father would simply perish if he had to eat anything quite so flavorful,” I say—and now it’s her turn to laugh.
“I wonder, would you be willing to tell me how it’s made?
Our ship leaves tonight, and I can’t bear the thought of never eating this again. ”
She narrows her eyes, but her smile remains. “You cook?” she asks, an incredulous note in her voice.
“Dear God—no,” I say.
“He’d poison us all,” Trevor puts in helpfully, his mouth full of chicken. “We got a cook on the ship.”
She nods knowingly and gives me another assessing once-over. I can see she’s considering telling me no, so I hold up my purse and smile. “I’m perfectly willing to compensate you.”
With a nod, she motions to the skewers on her booth. “It is too complicated to teach,” she explains in her careful English. “But I will make for you. The sauce,” she clarifies. “Send someone strong to carry it. Tonight, after sunset. Not you.”
Tristan and Trevor both laugh, and I feign offense for a moment before I place a generous pile of coin into her hand. “You have yourself a deal, madam.”
She pockets the coin, then clasps her hands together and bows neatly at the knee, tilting her head down slightly.
I watch her for a moment, unsure of how to respond to such a gesture.
All I can think to do is bow to her as I would any lady, so I cross my arm over my belly and bend at the waist, before I allow Tristan and Trevor to usher me farther into the market, with one last glance back at the woman behind the booth.
As we continue on our way, the twins in front and me lagging behind as I drink in the beautiful array of colors and culture, a sliver of royal blue in my periphery stops me dead in my tracks.