Persuasions - Part 6
Persuasions Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
INFO:
Setting: Hyel's Age of Sail 'Verse.
Characters: Polly, Mal, OCs.
Rating: B (Still quite tame, I'm afraid).
Wordcount: 951 words (two short pieces separated by a drabble)
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
In-which Polly drinks whisky and plans are made.
~*~
Polly hears about it, of course, a week later, when the royal guard comes to arrest Master-Commander Pemberleigh, to the shock and shame of his wife and daughters. Dressed in Oliver’s errand-boy clothes, she runs the message to Mal as soon as it comes.
“Here,” Mal says, offering her a glass as Polly gets her breath back. “It won’t help in the long run, but it makes the short term easier to bear.”
Thinking it sherry, Polly downs it in one drought, only to cough at the unexpected burn of whiskey, her head swimming.
“I can’t stop thinking about the girls,” she confides. “They didn’t do anything wrong. They probably didn’t even know… And now this.” She shakes her head. “An unfortunate accident might have been better for the family.”
Mal refills Polly’s glass, unasked, then pours a draught for herself and tucks the bottle away.
“I daresay it would have,” Mal admits, sipping her own drink. “But what would that make us? There must be a reason. There must be a trial. Otherwise how are we to be held accountable?”
Polly sinks into a chair by the fire, cradling her glass in one hand. She hadn’t thought of it that way, but it’s true. Too easy to simply send thugs after every inconvenient… her thought trails off, ending in a memory of gunshots, of Mal’s body tumbling, ungainly, into hers. Of blood at Mal’s temple, and more blood, further down, darkening the red of her uniform.
“How can you be certain that we will be?” she asks, thinking of Alice, the sound that tore from her when the stray bullet tore through her knee.
“I can’t, old chap,” Mal admits. She takes a sip of her whiskey, sitting down opposite Polly. “It’s a dangerous business,” she says.
She’d said the same all those months ago, Polly remembers, not long after the trial. Not long before Paul had gone back to Portsmouth and Polly… had made a decision.
“I know,” she answers.
“I didn’t mean just for the body,” Mal goes on. “You’re a soldier, same as before. You’ve got to remember that you’re just… following orders. You’ll go mad otherwise, my girl.”
Polly sips her whiskey. It burns just as badly on the second try but, at least this time, she doesn’t cough.
“What will happen to them?”
It’s not that Polly can’t imagine - has been imagining - what their situation will be like. Five daughters. There’d have been provisions in his will but…
“They’ll be fine,” Mal offers, as if reading her mind. “There’s nothing to suggest the missus knew anything. The girls would have been kept innocent - the oldest is barely eighteen, isn't she? They’ll not lose their home, Pol.”
Polly lets out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding.
“Is it always like this?” she asks, hating herself for the question.
“Not always,” Mal answers, though her voice is thick with regret. “But I can’t say it’s ever been roses.”
~*~
Polly keeps going back to that night. The trees begin to leaf. The hyacinths bloom, filling the air with their fragrance. It’s been over a month, and still the events of late March won’t leave her alone: Memory catches her without notice. The scent of sealing wax calls up the rustle of forbidden papers. The colonel’s heavy footsteps in the hall drag Polly back to the study, ears straining, heart thundering against her ribs. And every night the memory returns: hiding in the dark, praying not to be caught, Mal’s body pressed to hers, Mal’s breath hot against her cheek.
~*~
The call comes scant days after Easter, and Mal arrives at speed, joining Polly and the two colonels in their impromptu war room.
“We’ve word of a message,” Mrs F states. “Plans from the French, directed towards an informant. We must intercept it.”
Polly blinks.
“Do we know the informant?”
The colonel shakes his head.
“That’s part of the reason for the interception. The other, I hope, I don’t need to explain.”
Polly shuts her mouth.
“What do you require of us?” Mal asks, in the silence.
The colonel explains, to Polly’s growing horror, that she, Polly, is to intercept the message.
“We need someone who can pull off that ‘honest dock urchin’ look. Malcolm’s too well known, and nobody would send such information through a woman- no offence meant.”
Mal ignores the slight, turning to Polly.
“So young Ozzer rides again?”
“I saw the sketch,” the colonel, points out. “After that business with Napoleon. You make a passable boy, Miss Perks.”
Polly is less than certain how to react to this, and so settles for nodding. She’s not certain how well she’ll do now that her hair’s grown out as much as it has. A little too “startled owl” to really pass for a working son, she fears.
“And you, Malcolm…”
“Am I keeping someone distracted sir?”
The colonel nods.
“We don’t know the name of the informant. We do know the lad who’s supposed to deliver the message, and,” this to Polly, “Who it’s coming from… at least which ship to wait for.”
Polly watches Mal nodding, a too familiar smirk at her lips.
The colonel lifts a slim folio from a pile of them on his side table. In it, there are two charcoal portraits, one of a very young man - barely more than a boy, really - and one of a grizzled, hawk-nosed fellow.
Mal plucks up the portrait of the boy.
“My quarry, I take it?”
The colonel nods his confirmation.
“Not exactly my type,” she observes. “I’ll try not to be too much for him.” She turns to Polly. “Think you can pull this off?”
What can she say but yes?
~*~
Hope you enjoyed.
Part 7
TTFN,
Amazon.
INFO:
Setting: Hyel's Age of Sail 'Verse.
Characters: Polly, Mal, OCs.
Rating: B (Still quite tame, I'm afraid).
Wordcount: 951 words (two short pieces separated by a drabble)
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
In-which Polly drinks whisky and plans are made.
~*~
Polly hears about it, of course, a week later, when the royal guard comes to arrest Master-Commander Pemberleigh, to the shock and shame of his wife and daughters. Dressed in Oliver’s errand-boy clothes, she runs the message to Mal as soon as it comes.
“Here,” Mal says, offering her a glass as Polly gets her breath back. “It won’t help in the long run, but it makes the short term easier to bear.”
Thinking it sherry, Polly downs it in one drought, only to cough at the unexpected burn of whiskey, her head swimming.
“I can’t stop thinking about the girls,” she confides. “They didn’t do anything wrong. They probably didn’t even know… And now this.” She shakes her head. “An unfortunate accident might have been better for the family.”
Mal refills Polly’s glass, unasked, then pours a draught for herself and tucks the bottle away.
“I daresay it would have,” Mal admits, sipping her own drink. “But what would that make us? There must be a reason. There must be a trial. Otherwise how are we to be held accountable?”
Polly sinks into a chair by the fire, cradling her glass in one hand. She hadn’t thought of it that way, but it’s true. Too easy to simply send thugs after every inconvenient… her thought trails off, ending in a memory of gunshots, of Mal’s body tumbling, ungainly, into hers. Of blood at Mal’s temple, and more blood, further down, darkening the red of her uniform.
“How can you be certain that we will be?” she asks, thinking of Alice, the sound that tore from her when the stray bullet tore through her knee.
“I can’t, old chap,” Mal admits. She takes a sip of her whiskey, sitting down opposite Polly. “It’s a dangerous business,” she says.
She’d said the same all those months ago, Polly remembers, not long after the trial. Not long before Paul had gone back to Portsmouth and Polly… had made a decision.
“I know,” she answers.
“I didn’t mean just for the body,” Mal goes on. “You’re a soldier, same as before. You’ve got to remember that you’re just… following orders. You’ll go mad otherwise, my girl.”
Polly sips her whiskey. It burns just as badly on the second try but, at least this time, she doesn’t cough.
“What will happen to them?”
It’s not that Polly can’t imagine - has been imagining - what their situation will be like. Five daughters. There’d have been provisions in his will but…
“They’ll be fine,” Mal offers, as if reading her mind. “There’s nothing to suggest the missus knew anything. The girls would have been kept innocent - the oldest is barely eighteen, isn't she? They’ll not lose their home, Pol.”
Polly lets out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding.
“Is it always like this?” she asks, hating herself for the question.
“Not always,” Mal answers, though her voice is thick with regret. “But I can’t say it’s ever been roses.”
~*~
Polly keeps going back to that night. The trees begin to leaf. The hyacinths bloom, filling the air with their fragrance. It’s been over a month, and still the events of late March won’t leave her alone: Memory catches her without notice. The scent of sealing wax calls up the rustle of forbidden papers. The colonel’s heavy footsteps in the hall drag Polly back to the study, ears straining, heart thundering against her ribs. And every night the memory returns: hiding in the dark, praying not to be caught, Mal’s body pressed to hers, Mal’s breath hot against her cheek.
~*~
The call comes scant days after Easter, and Mal arrives at speed, joining Polly and the two colonels in their impromptu war room.
“We’ve word of a message,” Mrs F states. “Plans from the French, directed towards an informant. We must intercept it.”
Polly blinks.
“Do we know the informant?”
The colonel shakes his head.
“That’s part of the reason for the interception. The other, I hope, I don’t need to explain.”
Polly shuts her mouth.
“What do you require of us?” Mal asks, in the silence.
The colonel explains, to Polly’s growing horror, that she, Polly, is to intercept the message.
“We need someone who can pull off that ‘honest dock urchin’ look. Malcolm’s too well known, and nobody would send such information through a woman- no offence meant.”
Mal ignores the slight, turning to Polly.
“So young Ozzer rides again?”
“I saw the sketch,” the colonel, points out. “After that business with Napoleon. You make a passable boy, Miss Perks.”
Polly is less than certain how to react to this, and so settles for nodding. She’s not certain how well she’ll do now that her hair’s grown out as much as it has. A little too “startled owl” to really pass for a working son, she fears.
“And you, Malcolm…”
“Am I keeping someone distracted sir?”
The colonel nods.
“We don’t know the name of the informant. We do know the lad who’s supposed to deliver the message, and,” this to Polly, “Who it’s coming from… at least which ship to wait for.”
Polly watches Mal nodding, a too familiar smirk at her lips.
The colonel lifts a slim folio from a pile of them on his side table. In it, there are two charcoal portraits, one of a very young man - barely more than a boy, really - and one of a grizzled, hawk-nosed fellow.
Mal plucks up the portrait of the boy.
“My quarry, I take it?”
The colonel nods his confirmation.
“Not exactly my type,” she observes. “I’ll try not to be too much for him.” She turns to Polly. “Think you can pull this off?”
What can she say but yes?
~*~
Hope you enjoyed.
Part 7
TTFN,
Amazon.