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Arabella Smith's mother was alive, and she could not have been more upset about it.
She supposed she was not necessarily upset about the fact that Laura Smith was, indeed, not dead. But the circumstances surrounding that truth were far from ideal. For one, her recently no-longer-deceased mother had spent the last several years of Arabella's motherless childhood pillaging the seven seas for riches and renown. For another, this hadn't even been a recent development—Laura Smith was playing pirate long before she disappeared from her daughter's life.
But the most egregious mark on her record—the thing Arabella is currently seething at her for—was kidnapping Arabella from the Barnacle, without even the smallest courtesy of letting her say goodbye.
It was as though Laura could not decide whether or not she wanted to abandon Arabella entirely. For her part, Arabella wishes that she had. The Barnacle crew made for far better company. She's barely been away for a couple of days, and she already misses them terribly. She misses Jean's jokes. She misses Tumen's stories. She misses Fitzwilliam's properness and frown and furrowed brow when Jack taunts him, and she misses Jack's (albeit at times grating) voice shouting commands across the deck, his wit and jests, his crooked smile. She even misses Constance trying to scratch her. To a point.
And it is not merely the Barnacle that she misses. No, Arabella mourns her independence most of all. Despite the peril she's faced since leaving Tortuga—of which, admittedly, there has been an excessive amount—there was something to be said about the fact that she had faced it all willingly. She was not victim to her father's drunken plight or the whims of the seedy old sots that frequented the Faithful Bride. Jack, for all his many annoyances, treated his crew as equals, which Jean and Tumen and supposedly Fitzwilliam were perfectly happy with, as was she.
But here? On the Fleur de la Mort? Arabella may as well have been that little girl in the tavern all over again, watched at every moment by either her mother or one of her mother's lot. It seemed ever so hypocritical that Laura should expect Arabella to accept all the ways she's changed without a second thought, and refuse to acknowledge that Arabella has changed herself.
She should be happy that her mother lives. She knows that, somewhere beneath all the resentment.
But the resentment is what lingers, all the same.
"Might I sit?"
Arabella looks up from picking at one of many stray threads in her sleeve to see the object of her misery smiling at her, as though this is a sort of typical meeting place of theirs and not, by definition, a hostage situation. She nods, and the moment her mother sits on the step next to her, Arabella stands, brushes off her skirt, and briskly walks to the other end of the ship. Laura calls after her, but Arabella ignores her.
Her escape is only briefly successful. Laura follows her to the bow, frowning when she reaches the taffrail. "Enough of this sulking, please. You're acting like a child."
"Wasn't that our understanding?" Arabella retorts, her eyes fixed on the blue waves as the ship cuts through them like a hot knife through butter. "You treat me like a child, I act like a child, and everyone's happy as a clam."
Laura starts to say something, then must think better of it, sighing and staring out at the horizon. Arabella turns to stare as well, but in a different direction. She has watched the stern quite attentively these past few days, hoping to see a familiar shape on the horizon. Will Jack come to retrieve her, or will he cut his losses as she has known him to do? Arabella would consider them friends, given all they've been through together, but Jack can be far less sentimental. Though—and she knows he tries to hide it—his heart often wins against his head in the most dire situations. How dire does he consider hers?
"You could at least try to understand," Laura says finally. "Arabella, I had to do it."
Arabella doesn't know which crime her mother means to justify: stealing her from the Barnacle or abandoning her in the first place. She decides for her. "Then why even bother giving me a choice?"
"You didn't know what you were doing," Laura refutes. "I can only imagine the kinds of dangerous things you've been dragged into, sailing along with those–"
"Stop it!" Arabella snaps, turning to face her mother fully. "Whatever you're going to say about them—just stop. You're wrong about my crew. You have no idea what we've been through together. They've protected me far more than you ever did. They actually care about me. I know they do. And I care about them. I wanted to stay; I told you as much. And still you took me from them, twice. The only one dragging me into things I don't want is you."
Laura's jaw tightens. "You don't know what you want. You're a child. I did what was best for you."
Arabella glares fiercely back. "Like you did when you left me with Pa? When you left me to fend for myself in Tortuga? What, did you expect him to magically step up and turn into the perfect father with you gone? Did you think that he wouldn't just drink himself into a stupor, or worse, a rampage? Who do you reckon had to pick up your slack?"
That actually gets her to shut up. "Right. So stop pretending that you know who I am," Arabella gripes. "I think we would get along much better as strangers, Captain Smith. That's the way you've preferred me, after all."
And once more, Arabella turns on her heel to leave her mother behind. This time—for a little while, at least—Laura leaves her alone.
It is only at dinnertime, while Arabella is sitting in the mess long after the Fleur de la Mort's crew has vacated the space and chewing on a particularly tough piece of salt pork, that her mother finds her again. When she hears the footsteps approaching, Arabella considers bolting again. But she is terribly hungry.
Arabella stays, not acknowledging her mother at all, even when she takes the seat next to her. Laura reaches for one of the tankards of stout but doesn't drink from it. She and Arabella sit in silence for what feels like an eternity. Arabella might prefer when they argue over that.
"Everything I've done," Laura says softly, "it's always been for you, you know."
Arabella stops chewing. Of course, she knows that. Her mother has explained herself thoroughly ten times over. But the tightness in her chest cannot be cut loose by that knowledge alone.
"Fat lot of good it did me," Arabella replies, "thinking you were dead."
"Arabella, I couldn't–" Laura begins, but Arabella cuts her off. "Yes, you could've. In fact, you should've. It would've been easy enough to leave out all the pirate nonsense in a simple letter. Easier than how it turned out. Or you should've—should've taken me with you then and there. Away from that awful place."
"I thought you would hate it," Laura admits quietly. "That you would hate me."
Arabella stares at her for a moment, then glances away, trying to ignore the tug of sympathy in her heart. "That worked out nicely for you, didn't it?"
Laura frowns, but instead of retorting, she simply looks at the bottom of the tankard, swirling its contents around. They were a funny thing, Arabella muses to herself, would-haves and could-haves and should-haves. Carrying them inside burned like acid in her stomach, to the point that she thought she might die if they weren't spoken. But now that she had, it didn't change the truth of what had happened. And it didn't make them burn any less.
Laura swirls her stout once more, then drinks it down. Arabella can't help but recoil slightly. She doesn't think her mother notices, but when Laura sets the stout aside, it is notably out of reach. "Well, let's see. We can't go back and try it all again. But we certainly can't continue as we are. So, lass, what do you want to do about this?"
Arabella's head jerks up. Laura still looks as stoic as ever, but there is an undeniable genuineness in her tone, the slightest softness to her gaze. Despite her hesitations, Arabella does truly believe her when she says she wants to fix this. And being given an opportunity to set the terms…it is more than most daughters might get from their mothers, she knows for certain.
"I want an apology," Arabella states. When she sees her mother draw back defensively, she adds, "It doesn't have to be now. Just…someday. And I want you to stop treating me like I'm five. I survived this long without you; you don't have to play Mother Hen all the time. Don't drag your crew into it anymore, either."
Laura's lips purse, but to Arabella's mounting surprise, she nods. "Anything else?"
Arabella drums her fingers against the surface of the table. Then it strikes her. "I won't try to run away again. But when my crew comes for me—and they will, I know they will—you have to let me choose this time. Even if I don't choose you. You have to let me do that on my own."
She can't miss the way her mother's fists clench. But Arabella holds her gaze without wavering. That is something she will not compromise on.
Laura mellows. She stands and holds out her hand. "You have my word."
Arabella stands as well, then shakes it. Mother and daughter stand there for what can't be more than a few minutes, but Arabella feels as though Laura is searching her soul for far longer. If she isn't mistaken, could there be a touch of pride in her gaze? Or is Arabella only seeing what she wants to see?
Finally, Laura pulls away with a curt nod and heads out of the mess. Arabella tarries a bit longer, unsure of what to do next. There are so many more things she wants to tell her mother now that they're finally on equal ground—the adventures she's had, the foes she's faced, the friends she's made. Surely these things would prove just how well she could handle herself.
She must get the most important thing out of the way first.
"Mum!"
Laura, heading back to the deck, whips around when she hears her—and Arabella throws her arms around her, burying her face in her shoulder. "I didn't mean it," Arabella says, her voice coming out more fragile than she intended. "When I told you I wished you were dead—I didn't mean it at all."
Laura seems hesitant for a moment, perhaps out of sheer shock. Then she's holding Arabella just as tightly.
"Oh, my girl," she whispers. "I know you didn't."