(There was of course an extensive trap awaiting anyone who tried, since pirates needed only their underwear and a few old wine crates, a stray nail or two, to create something lethal. Pleasance did not dare to even think about it. Thoughts were not safe things. The mind was no sanctuary.)
Nearby, Miss Darlington perched on an overturned box, eyes closed, as if she meditated peacefully in a summer garden instead of a damp, barely lit cellar. The rest of the Society watched her cautiously and whispered behind their hands. Everyone knew about Morvath’s hatred of the Darlington clan, which was equaled only by his hatred of the Bassingthwaite clan, his adopted family the Morvath clan, the Hanoverian clan currently represented by Queen Victoria, the Chapman and Hall publishing clan, and the company that made thosecaramel cream profiteroles that ended up tasting like fish. No one could believe she was still alive. Morvath must be planning something particularly slow and vicious for her, and several conversations were taking place, in the spirit of professional curiosity, as to what it might be.
Pleasance, however, remained unconcerned. Miss Darlington had survived seven decades of turmoil (admittedly, most of it caused by herself), and no sulking crybaby of a man would defeat her.
“Psst,” said a ghost. Pleasance frowned, determined not to listen.
“Psst,” they said again. She shook her head.
A pebble hit her arm. Looking around wildly, she saw that it had not been the tormented spirit of a murdered princess hissing at her after all but a figure in the deep shadows behind an empty bottle rack. She sidled over.
“Pleasant?” the figure asked.
“Begone, foul spirit,” she whispered from the corner of her mouth.
“What?” it whispered back.
“My thoughts are guarded by the archangels; you will not corrupt me.”
“Er, all right. But I’m not a spirit. My name is Ned—”
“I am not so easily deceived, O evil apparition! Only a spirit could appear out of nowhere in this way.”
“Actually there’s a secret door—”
“As if I’d believe something so bizarre!”
The spirit was quiet a moment. Then it relented. “You’re right. I am the ghost of Emily Brontë.”
“Really?” Pleasance glanced in its direction. “I cannot see you through the shadows, but you sound like a man.”
“I had a very gruff voice, people always said so. Oh how the heights do wuther.”
Pleasance gasped. “You are Emily Brontë!”
“I am. After all, where else in the world would I haunt but the cellar of my deranged bastard nephew’s flying abbey?”
“That makes sense.”
Ned rolled his eyes. “I need your help, Pleasant. I need you to tell Miss Darlington that her niece is on board, and if she wants to keep her safe, she must do as I ask so that together we can overcome Captain Morvath.”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself? I’ll bring her over.”
“No, wait! Miss Darlington does not have your psychic sensitivity. She will not hear my ethereal voice.”
“That is true.” Pleasance shuffled closer. “You smell a lot like soap for a ghost.”
“Er, well, cleanliness is next to godliness, you know, and I am in heaven.”
“Except when you are haunting an old Gothic abbey, of course.”
“Of course. Warn Miss Darlington to be ready for my return. When the time is right, I will help her and the Society escape, if she follows my instructions.”
“It seems like a trap, Emily.”
The silence following this sounded tight, as if it was frowning with impatience. “Why would I trap people already locked up, Pleasant?”
“Because—”
