“Excuse me,” came a mild voice behind them.
They shifted aside automatically to make space on the footpath. “I fear you may be right,” Charlotte agreed. “Look, that street sign says we are on Anchor Road, and yet I see no red door ahead of us anywhere.”
“Excuse me,” came the voice again.
They shifted in the opposite direction. “Bixby will have to getdown another load of information,” Alex said, “and reroute us to a likely new port.”
“Excuse! Me!”
At the irritated shout, they turned, eyebrows raised in surprise that anyone would yell at a pirate who was more weapons than man.
And found a woman standing in the doorway of a townhouse five feet behind them on the pavement—and five feetabovethe pavement. She smiled down at them, revealing large teeth that glinted menacingly in the sunlight.
Her hair was a rigid gray fan.
Her door was blood red.
“I hear you have been looking for me,” she said.
“Lady Armitage!” Charlotte dragged off her sunglasses as if doing so would improve the vision before her. Alas, she was still staring at a bony woman encased in a dress so black, it went beyond mere darkness into an eclipse of all possible light, hope, and happiness. This was a dress that might have been marketed asCouture de la Tragédiewere it worn by a younger woman, but despite her erect stance Lady Armitage exuded age to the worrying degree of close-to-death. (Or possibly closewithdeath, which is considerably more worrying when associated with a pirate.)
“At your service,” replied the lady. “Although whose service, exactly? I recognize this boy.” She pointed a long, loose-skinned finger at Alex. “You once played with my grenade collection while your father tried to sell me a bag of turnip seeds. He thought I was stupid enough to buy them—but where would I plant seeds in a battlehouse, I ask you? I remember your pretty eyes, so blue—and black and purple. My, how you’ve grown.”
Alex took a small step back as her lecherous gaze stroked him from head to foot and halfway back up again. Charlotte shifted protectively closer to him, and Lady Armitage’s attention snapped her way.Charlotte flinched so slightly it might have been a mere blink. No wicked old pirate woman scared her!
Not completely, anyway.
“Who are you?” the lady demanded.
“Charlotte Pettifer,” she replied. “I have come for my amulet.”
“Pettifer, Pettifer. Goodness me, not by any chance niece to Judith Plim, who leads the Wicken League of witches?”
Charlotte stared silently in reply. Lady Armitage had a smile like a hangman’s noose.
“Well, well, a pirate and a witch standing together at my door. I must have lived forever because now I’ve seen everything.”
“We are not together,” Charlotte replied with exasperation. “Why does everyone keep saying this?”
“We are merely in proximity to each other,” Alex agreed. “As enemies. Mortal enemies.”
Lady Armitage leered at their joined hands. “That’s a very interesting degree of proximity. But why are two nice children like you bothering me? Have you not heard I am an evil genius, scourge of the skies, voted World’s Most Notorious Pirate in 1882?”
Alex and Charlotte glanced at each other. Charlotte shrugged. “Actually, no.”
“I heard you use snake oil for your arthritis and have a habit of parking on other people’s roofs,” Alex added.
“Well I never!” The smug grin snapped shut. The door followed its example and before Charlotte could knock on it in a peremptory manner, or Alex hit it with his sword, the house lurched and flew away.
18
charlotte is not too proud—the narrative becomes a bodice-ripper—leap of faith—a traitor is revealed—alex and charlotte disagree—dodo bones and doomed treasures—the point of no return
A lady’s anger is very rapid; it jumps from annoyance to vexation, from pique to incandescent rage, in a moment.
“Damn!” Charlotte swore, her internal Elizabeth Bennet combusting in one irate syllable.
Alex released her hand, and Charlotte supposed he was disgusted by such an unfeminine outburst. Her heart cracked and fell heavily into her stomach. But it became apparent he had merely been freeing himself to pull a long-barreled pistol from a thigh holster and aim it toward Lady Armitage’s house. Charlotte did not even have time to question the sense in shooting a house before he did so.
