Chapter Text
among the dead
The heat of the match nearly burned his fingers as he lit the wick. Orange light flared up and highlighted the greasy fingerprints and splatters on the glass cover of the well-used lamp, and the room came into view around him, lit by the small flame’s glow.
Stairs creaked beneath the young man’s feet as he stepped carefully down the well-worn stairs into the basement of his family home. The sun was just setting, casting pink light throughout the house that faded into blackness the further down the stairs he went. It was his favorite time of day to work.
At the end of the stairs was a little hallway lined with brick walls and doorways that opened into dark rooms made for different purposes. He stepped into one such doorway. The place was cool and dry – a relief from the sweltering heat of the island even this time of year – and good for storing things you didn’t want rotting.
It wasn’t a perfect solution, of course. There was still a bit of a smell.
Colin set his lamp down on a table and lifted the lid off of a large wooden box.
“Hello, Mr. Weaver,” he said to the dead body inside.
Mr. Weaver didn’t reply, but something else made Colin gasp. It was cold steel pressed sharply to his throat, and the warmth of someone very close behind him.
“Keep quiet,” someone whispered in his ear. His hands went up, pleading, of their own accord.
“I-I don’t know what you want, but –”
“Keep fucking quiet,” his captor repeated, and the blade pressed closer, cutting him.
His heart was pounding in his chest, but he thought… No. It couldn’t be.
“I’ve a business proposition for you,” the voice he could almost swear he recognized said softly. Its breath tickled his ear. “You’re going to fucking listen to me and you’re not going to say a word. One wrong move and I slice you to pieces. Nod if you understand.”
He swallowed hard and nodded.
“Good.”
“Come back to bed, love.”
Stede hadn’t slept much in the last week. He hadn’t eaten much, either, and it was starting to show in the hollows of his cheeks and the shadows under his eyes. He sat at the desk in their little room at Jackie’s, scrawling away in his journal.
“I can’t sleep, Ed,” he said with a sigh.
“You’re not trying very hard.”
Stede laid his reading glasses on the open book in front of him and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What if –”
“You can’t start that again, Stede.” Ed got up out of the bed and crossed the room to him, placing his hands on his husband’s shoulders and giving a gentle squeeze. He bent his head and kissed Stede’s temple. “I know you’re worried. I’m worried, too, but worrying isn’t going to help her now.”
Stede turned his head to look up at him, tears in his eyes again. There’d been too many tears, lately. “I’ve sent her off into a cruel, unforgiving world, Edward. If she… If something were to happen…it’d be my fault for encouraging all this.”
Ed crouched down. His knee cracked painfully, but he paid it no mind. He laid a hand over Stede’s knee, the other lifting his chin – covered in a week’s beard growth which Ed found stunningly handsome – so he could look into his love’s eyes.
“We need you.” Ed cupped Stede’s face with his hand, wiping a runaway tear away with his thumb. “I know you never wanted to go along with this plan, but we fucked up, Stede, and now it’s our best bet. She’s our best bet. And it’s a good bet, babe. She can do it.”
He hoped his own worry didn’t betray him as he offered a smile.
Of course he was worried about Alma. It was a feeling he was quickly becoming familiar with, as a new dad. Of course these were extreme circumstances and there was real danger, here. He hoped…
He hoped, he hoped, he hoped.
He had spent his own sleepless hours praying to gods he hadn’t talked to in years.
“She’s so brave,” Stede said, his voice breaking on the last word. “Braver than I’ve ever been.”
“You’re brave, sweetness,” Ed said, then smiled. “But you’re right. I don’t think the devil himself could put fear into that girl.”
Stede gave a soft chuckle at that, and Ed laid his head in his lap, wrapping his arms around his waist. They sat there like that for a long moment, Stede stroking Ed’s hair, before finally Stede said with a sigh, “Let’s go to bed, dearest.”
“So, let me get this straight.”
Colin was sitting on a stool in the musty basement morgue. Across from him sat a ghost, still shrouded in shadow, but familiar to him enough. He’d loved her once, after all. He’d never forget her face, though she’d grown taller and stronger in the months since she’d disappeared.
Alma.
She twirled a knife in her fingers, and it glinted as it caught the lantern light on every turn. Colin still felt the sting of the cut on his throat.
“You want me to fence your stolen heirlooms by way of a series of fake estate sales, in exchange for a generous cut of the profits?”
“Mhm.”
“And… if I refuse?”
Alma’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to refuse.”
Colin couldn’t help the spark of fear that traveled up his spine. He had no way to know if she’d been lying about her dangerous colleagues lying in wait outside his home should he make a move against her. About the even more dangerous people on whose behalf she was now here. What he believed was that she was in some grave trouble.
He frowned at her. There was dirt on her face, her clothes were in tatters, and a yellowing bruise blossomed over her forehead. He had so many questions. So many concerns.
“Where have you been?”
“I told you, no questions.”
“Why is this so important to you?” Is someone hurting you? You can talk to me, Alma, I – I only care about you –”
“Keep your fucking voice down, Col!”
Her grip on the knife had tightened, her knuckles gone white around the handle.
Colin sighed, his eyes moving over his former friend with concern. “I can’t agree to this,” he said in a low whisper, “until I know you’re safe.”
Al rolled her eyes. She pursed her lips. She didn’t want to say this, didn’t even want to think about it. But she had to convince him.
“My fathers. They’re…they’re not safe. They’re being held hostage, and if I don’t get this deal, they’re as good as dead.” She blinked back the tears that she really didn’t want to cry in front of Colin. Instead, she turned her fear to anger, and turned it on the boy — no, the man — across from her.
“If they die because of me, I’ll die. And I’m not going alone. Do you understand?”
Colin nodded.
“Alright,” he said softly. “I’ll do it.”
It was quiet in the dim basement that had become Al and Colin’s regular meeting place. Probably a good sign — she’d have cause for concern if its other occupants suddenly decided they fancied a conversation. She shivered and pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders.
It’d been a few days, now, and the estate sale for the piece she’d brought with her had gone off without a hitch. Barrels of gold were loaded onto her pinnace, closely supervised by Iz in her absence, and this would be her last night in this dreadful place she’d once called home. She sat at the worktable, writing a letter to her fathers by candlelight, waiting for Colin to come back with her meal.
But something was wrong. He’d left over an hour ago, and he’d not returned.
There was a sudden sound of footsteps upstairs, and Alma blew out her candle and shoved the half-finished letter into her pocket. Too many pairs of heavy boots on the wood above, causing dust to drift down from the rafters. Her heart raced. Had she been betrayed?
She jumped when someone knocked on the glass of the small slit window high up in the stone wall, the only source of light in the morgue now that her candle was out. She peered up to see Izzy looking back at her, and opened the tiny window as far as it would go. He put a finger to his lips. She stayed silent as a mouse as he extended his hand down through the opening. Alma raised hers to meet it.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Colin’s voice distantly yelled something about respect for the dead.
There was something between her palm and Izzy’s. She held tight to him as his hand left hers, and his leather glove was left in her grasp. She unrolled the tiny slip of paper, eyes scanning the messy handwriting.
You’ve been made.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.
The footsteps grew closer.
“Sorry, Mr. Weaver,” she whispered as she grasped the edge of the coffin on the table and, with all her strength, tilted it on its side until its occupant came tumbling out. She dragged the corpse into a dark corner and tucked it behind a barrel, and then climbed into his now-empty spot, lifting the lid into place over her and sealing herself into darkness. Her heart raced and she clutched Izzy’s still-warm glove to her chest.
