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There is a certain kind of grief, Max thinks, in being able to see the end of your story before it’s even arrived.
She tries to ignore it for some time, tries to revel in the new life the Urca gold has afforded her, but it is nothing but a fruitless game that she is playing with herself. The gold is as fleeting as anything is in Nassau; it does not turn the sand beneath her feet to glass, and it does not secure for her anything of permanence. It could last a month, a week, or only another day. Max knows this, and she would be a fool to pretend otherwise.
It is easy to accept that one day the gold will not be here. It is even easy to accept that she may have to hand over the gold willingly, happily, and without even being asked, so she may try to secure what she can. All of that, the prospect of loss and humiliation, it is easy to accept. It is less so to accept all else she will lose if the gold goes.
That is to say, it is becoming increasingly impossible to accept that when the gold goes, so will Anne.
She and Anne are not a blissfully endless story, Max knows this, she does, but that does not make it any easier to swallow when she can sense she is moving throughout the last few chapters of their time together, when she can see clearly that their paths will diverge and that they are coming to that fork in that damned road.
Of course, she wishes it were not so, or even just wishes she was not so painfully aware of this narrative she has found herself occupying, found herself playing a part in. Perhaps ignorance would be more peaceful, even if it was less prosperous. Perhaps ignorance would shorten this grief she feels, instead of drawing it out how it is now, arriving before the loss has occurred. Perhaps ignorance would stop Anne’s presence from feeling to Max like nothing but a premature haunting.
But Max has not been blessed with ignorance, and thus keeps knowing what is to come, keeps turning it over in her mind.
There are so many times that Max is reminded of the inevitable end of the gold, and the inevitable end of her new life, approaching, but that first time is when Captain Flint returns from Charlestown, silhouetted in the doorway of her tavern, murder dancing across his face. Max should have expected this, she tells herself, suddenly still on the other side of the tavern, watching Flint step in and cast a steady gaze across the room, should have known that Flint wouldn’t so easily let his prize be taken from him. This shouldn’t have been a factor she had forgotten, and there is a single note of despair blossoming in her chest. She considered the threat of Spain and England, of course, she had, but those were at least some way off. There would be time to repair the fort. There would be time to create a solid defense for the fortune they possess. But Flint showing up a mere few days after the gold… Max has barely had the time to get used to the freedom it afforded her.
As Flint stares around the tavern, eyes flicking about, clearly searching for someone, Max notes there is something more in his gaze, an anger that seems stronger than stolen gold would warrant. She knows of Flint as an angry man, but a man who can be reasoned with, and yet it seems as though, right now, there is none of that reason left in his eyes. A shiver runs down Max’s spine and she begins to ask herself just what exactly happened in Charlestown when Captain Vane steps up beside Flint and mutters something to him.
Max immediately stiffens. There is something of this story that she has missed, and she would like to not be missing it very much longer. She smoothes her skirts, and prepares to walk over to the captains and ask how she may be of assistance to them when there is a sudden presence at her shoulder; a flash of red hair and a figure cloaked in a leather jacket and tilted hat.
“S’that Vane?” Anne asks, her voice low. “Charles Vane, talking to Flint?”
“It appears so,” Max responds, keeping her voice carefully even. “And I must guess that Captain Flint has come here to lay his claim to our gold.”
“Fuck,” Anne says. Besides Max, she shifts uneasily, her hand drifting near the hilt of her well-used sword. “Jack’s still upstairs, yeah? It’s him they’ll be looking to find.”
“They…” Max shakes her head. “That is almost troubling me the most in this situation. Since when have Captains Vane and Flint been anything but opposed?”
Anne narrows her eyes. “Whatever the fuck happened, we need to get Jack.”
“You are right,” Max says. She turns to face away from the captains for a moment. “I am certain by now Captain Flint already knows who he is searching for, and it is only a matter of time before he finds him.”
“Right.” Anne tugs at Max’s sleeve. “He should be upstairs right now. C’mon.”
“You go,” Max says. “I will speak to them now, and give Jack some time to figure out what he is going to say.” She gives Anne a meaningful glance as she straightens her back and walks calmly over to the two captains, who are now engaged in some sort of disagreement—but still a much more civil disagreement than anyone has ever seen the two of them have. The sort of argument two allies have, rather than two adversaries. Behind her, Anne silently climbs the stairs.
Max would very much like to know what happened in Charlestown, and she would very much like to keep her gold. She can only hope that Jack is up to talking his way out of this one, because a fight between the three captains is not one that would end favorably for her or Anne, and least of all for Jack.
But, to Max’s genuine surprise, the captains talk. There is a new rapport to be shared amongst all pirates now that Flint and Vane champion together, and so despite Flint’s fury, Vane is able to stand between him and Jack, and Max’s share of the gold stays, does not even diminish by a single Spanish dollar. But there’s something in it now that is different. When Max flips a coin slowly between her fingers, it is no longer the mortar that will be the new foundation of Nassau's solid ground. It has become impermanent. This gold, hefty as it may be, is no less resistant to change than the rapidly shifting sands that are beneath her feet now. There is no changing the nature of Nassau, and this is something that Max knows now. It is here today, and tomorrow it may not be. That is simply the way of the island.
The weeks begin to tiptoe by, and all of a sudden things settle into something of a routine. Jack throws parties full of food and music and absolute adoration, all directed towards him, and says he’ll fix the fort. Every time Max goes to the fort, it is still not fixed. Anne splits her time between the two of them, ferrying messages from one to the other and expressing her distaste at being the messenger. She spends her nights in Max’s bed, and many of her mornings and evenings there as well. Max grows her power and respect on the street. She does not make enemies, only makes strong friends, and slowly becomes accustomed to the valuable position she holds. She does all this, and spends much of the rest of her time creating a plan for when it all collapses.
That is the other thing she realized, in the week after Captain Flint returned, that when the gold is taken from her, whether by Spain or England or some other force, Anne will be taken from her as well.
It only makes sense for Jack and Anne to flee, especially so if the loss of the gold is caused by the return of England or Spain, for at that point in time, Nassau will no longer be a place that they can call home. Max, though—Max must still call it home. Anne can call it home now because it is where other pirates make their home, but when it has run its course, she can leave for the next place pirates settle in. Max cannot. This street, hard-fought-for and well-earned, she cannot leave it, will not leave it. As well as she knows the nature of Nassau, knows that its sand will shift beneath her feet, one way or another, she knows too that she cannot ever leave Nassau, cannot leave the streets and people whom she embodies so thoroughly now. Max looks outside and sees her own skeleton, inlaid upon the town, uneven ribs constructed of all of its mismatched buildings, lying upon the place she has worked so hard to command. She cannot leave.
Anne does not know this all yet, and Max has not tried to explain it yet. For now, she tries to convince Jack to repair the fort, and leaves her contemplations on the end of the three of them to herself.
Tomorrow it will be three weeks since the gold arrived. Three weeks since Max ran her hands through a chest filled with coins, traced a finger over a solid gold goblet, and saw her anticipation and ambition mirrored on the faces of Anne and Jack. Three weeks, and Max is now one of the most respected and powerful individuals on the island. There are many endings rapidly approaching, but that is the one thing Max most refuses to release her hold on—the position she holds in Nassau, sitting in Eleanor Guthrie’s old chair.
Max is not, however, currently sitting in that chair. She is in her room at the brothel, in her bed with Anne, as the morning makes gold streaks across the chipped paint of her walls.
Anne is still asleep. Max could reminisce on how Anne looks more peaceful in her sleep, calmer, less angry, but it would not be true. Her face, though somewhat slack with slumber, is still troubled, facing nightmares Anne has yet to admit to, and Max has yet to ask about.
The sun stretches a bit further along the wall. Anne will wake up soon. Until she does, though, Max decides to climb carefully out of bed, throw on a robe, and go through some leads from the girls that she should have checked last night, before getting distracted by Anne’s arrival.
She gets distracted by Anne often these days. Max is finding she does not mind as much as she likely should.
She shifts through the leads. Most are what she expects, as there are many pirate crews these days led by inconsequential men who can claim prizes with ease, with the fear of pirates striking its way through the rest of the world’s heart in a way it never has before. In some ways it is good, bringing Nassau to a new level of profit. In other ways, it is less so, for Max cannot imagine that England and Spain and all the other civilized countries will sit by and let the pirates claim victory like this for so long.
Across the room, Anne stirs, and Max stands to cross the floorboards and greet her as her eyes crack open.
“Good morning,” Max says, sliding onto the bed next to Anne. Anne grumbles something under her breath and Max laughs softly. “I see.”
“Been up long?” Anne asks, propping herself up with crossed arms. She looks at Max through waves of thick red hair.
“Not very,” Max says, feeling frightfully seen as Anne’s pale eyes take her in. “I was just going through some leads.”
Anne nods, looking away to cast her eyes about the room. “Anything?”
“No, not especially. Just more news confirming anyone with a black sail and a crew can take a prize these days.”
Anne gives a soft hum. “Yeah.”
“Are you going to see him today?” Max asks, a tad more bluntly than she’d planned, but it’s effective. Anne sighs, and moves to get out of bed. “Not now,” Max remedies, leaning over to place a hand on Anne’s shoulder, “it is still early, but—will you talk to him?”
Anne stops, feet hovering a few inches above the floor. She turns back to Max. “I will, yeah. I wanna see that fort repaired too.”
“I know,” Max says, slowly drawing Anne back towards the bed, “I know. I do not mean to pressure you. I am just concerned about the myriad of ways we could lose what we have fought so hard to gain just because the fort is in its current situation.”
“He’ll fix it,” Anne says, voice firm. “I’ll make sure.”
“Thank you,” Max says, and she smiles, tucking a strand of Anne’s hair behind her hair, and letting her hand linger.
Anne leans forward at the same time Max does, and so Max kisses her, once quick and chaste, and then again, a little deeper and longer, and then again, and again.
The sun drips further down the walls, and by the time Anne dresses to see Jack, it has faded from the gold-bright of the rising sun to the mellowed-out amber of the late morning.
The brothel is loud and lively as the early afternoon sun streaks in, glinting off goblets and plates and belts that likely will soon be unfastened. Max is sitting in the midst of it, watching it all, keeping an eye on which members of which crews her girls are talking to, making mental notes of who she may wish to press for leads later on. She is eating lunch, and there is an empty chair in front of her.
Anne will be here soon.
Until then, she traces her finger around the top of a goblet, and if it makes a sound, she cannot hear it over the clamor of the brothel around her.
When Anne walks in, she can hear it, the doors opening with a burst that causes at least a few girls and pirates to look around to see who just entered. Anne ignores them, makes her way to Max’s table, and slumps into the seat across from her. Her brow is furrowed, and there is a strange irritation dancing across her face. Max fills the other goblet and pushes it towards her, and then reaches out as well, placing her hand on Anne’s face as if to smooth out the anger.
“What is it?” she asks, weaving concern into her tone, clear enough for Anne to hear it.
“S’nothing,” Anne mutters, starting to lean into Max’s touch.
“Anne.”
Anne leans closer into the touch for a moment more before sighing, disgruntled, and sitting roughly back in her chair. “Jack called you my husband today,” she says, voice low and irritated. “He was just joking, ‘course, but it—it bothered me.”
“How so?” Max asks. She takes her hand back, and places it on Anne’s hand instead to give it a squeeze. “I do not mind it, I think,” she adds, a tad playful. Anne looks down at their hands and takes a long, slow drink, before breathing out heavily, and glancing up at Max.
“I’ve had a husband before,” she starts, slow and careful, “and you know that, and, more importantly, he knows that, but what I know is that’s not what you are, not to me.”
Max stills. “Anne—”
“You ain’t nothing like him,” Anne says. Her voice is firm when she finishes speaking, but Max can still hear the anger and vulnerability causing a slight tremor underneath. She laces her fingers with Anne’s and reaches out with her other hand to lightly stroke Anne's cheek.
“Like I said, I do not mind,” Max says gently, “but if it is upsetting you, I will tell him to stop.”
“Don’t bother,” Anne says. “He’ll just do it even more then, the shit.”
Max smiles slightly at that. “He might, yes.” She pauses. “What did you say to him when he said that?”
“Told him to go fuck himself.”
“Of course,” Max says. She takes a drink, and hesitates before pressing on. “Has he said anything yet about the fort?”
“Says he’s working on it,” Anne answers with a slight shrug. “Same thing he says every damn time, and then when you go see the fort, it still ain’t fixed. This time he said he’s trying to talk with crews, decide on an acceptable pay rate, but they keep demanding more. Said he’s parsing a few leads of his own too, looking for something else to speed things along, but I’ve no fucking clue what he’s looking for.”
“I suppose we will see,” Max muses, and takes a slow drink. Anne mirrors her, and for a moment they are quiet together in the din of the brothel. After a moment passes, Anne tosses a glance towards Max, head slightly cocked.
“You busy?” she asks, and Max knows what she actually means to ask, and smiles.
“Not at the moment,” she answers, and Anne nods. Max stands, takes her hand, and leads her upstairs.
It’s quieter up here; during the midday most of the commotion occurs downstairs, until evening falls in and they begin to migrate to rooms upstairs. Max can appreciate the quiet, especially when she closes her door behind them and the air is nearly silent.
Anne acts as though she is clearly short on time, since she wastes none of it, walking immediately towards Max the second the door shuts and kissing her, and Max kisses back, leading Anne back to her bed.
When it is over, Anne is just barely asleep, next to her, and the last shreds of afternoon sun have cast themselves across the room as Max lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Today feels like just another stolen moment, a scene taken while the wait for the end stretches on. Max hates it. Existing like this, and more importantly, being with Anne like this, feels to Max like she is already half a ghost, a memory. She holds each moment in this time that she has close to her chest, treasures it and immortalizes it in her mind while it still unfolds in front of her. It feels as though she is haunting the beginning of a tragedy, and only she knows the ending. It feels as though, in some moments, Anne is already naught but a ghost who Max knows will haunt her when the time comes for them to part, feels as though Max is treading through the graveyard of the life she’s still living. It is only natural, then, that the more time Max spends with Anne, the more strongly she can feel the oncoming loss. A keen, piercing grief for something she has yet to lose.
Next to her, Anne stirs, and turns over, immediately catching Max staring at her in far too melancholy a fashion. She raises an eyebrow. “What?” she asks, her hand tracing a path along the side of Max's arm. Her fingers are callused, almost rough, and they are one of the most comforting touches Max has ever known.
“Nothing,” Max says quietly.
“C'mon.” Anne’s hand stops briefly at Max’s wrist. “You wouldn't be looking like that now for no reason.”
“Nothing you should concern yourself with,” Max clarifies. Anne's hand reaches her hip and rests there.
"That so?"
Max sighs, and shifts her head closer to Anne’s. “I am merely contemplating our time together,” she says carefully. “Thinking about... the permanence, of it all. How we stand in relation to Nassau.”
“What's that s'posed to mean?” Anne asks, and Max smiles softly, leaning forward to press a quiet kiss against Anne's lips.
“Merely that I am enjoying the time we spend together,” she says, "and how I would be content if it were to never end.”
“It won't,” Anne murmurs against Max’s lips, a promise made in the haziness that follows love, and Max can feel her chest ache, even begin to burn with all the things she still has to tell Anne. That the end is coming, and it is bringing with it the end of everything they worked together to create, but worse, that when it comes, it will break Anne’s promise.
Max kisses her quickly and buries her head in Anne’s shoulder, hiding in the waves of burning red hair, to avoid the keen and knowing gaze of Anne’s pale blue eyes. Their legs are entangled, and Max does not wish to have the conversation she knows they need to have.
The end lies just over the horizon now, and Max can feel it stronger than anyone else. She can taste it in the air, see it in the street, hear it in the crashing of ocean waves; their time as the holders of the Urca gold is not meant to last.
She sees the end in Anne's eyes, too, when they lay in bed before falling asleep. She cannot stop herself from counting down the days, counting down to a date she does not yet know. Would it not be easier if England or Spain could just post the day they will come to take her gold, their gold, and all of their futures? Would it not then be simpler, kinder, even, for them to let her know how much longer she will be allowed to love Anne?
She does not say anything more about the mortality of their time together for a long while. She tries to enjoy this new life, this wealth she has never before experienced. She dines with Anne, stares at Anne, makes love to Anne, holds Anne in her arms, and silently commits it all to memory to hold onto, for those days when she will no longer have Anne.
It is an early morning a few months after the Urca gold arrived, and the sun is heavy, weighed down by the approaching ending. Max is barely awake, Anne presumably still dozing next to her. Dreams shift, still half-real in Max’s vision, and she leans into Anne’s side, enjoying that warmth and comfort in bed that only ever exists in the early morning.
“You are haunting me, you know,” Max murmurs, sleep weighing heavy on her eyes, making the golden sunlight hazy and thick. Anne shifts sharply beside her, and Max realizes with a start that Anne is much more awake than she is.
“Fuck does that mean?” Anne asks, and Max doesn’t even have an answer, because she hardly knows herself. How can she explain that in these past few weeks, she has nearly convinced herself that Anne is already a ghost, preemptively haunting Max before she has even left, as though that will somehow lessen the pain of Anne’s actual departure. How can she explain that on an island full of specters and regret, Anne is the only one Max is able to see?
She cannot explain, not in a way that Anne will understand, so she blinks a few times, as though waking herself up, and glances over at Anne, whose expression is stony, confusion and hurt bleeding out through the cracks. “I apologize,” she says, “I must have been still half in a dream,” and she leans over to kiss Anne, to feel Anne’s lips against her own, to remind herself that she does not yet live in a ghost story.