Page 112 of Storm over the Caribbean
I decided I knew what Mr Rikkard Ambrose was going to get for dinner this evening. Preparing shoelace stew would be such fun.
Boom!
If we lived that long, that is.
Boom! Boom!
And the worst thing about his insisting on this blockheaded plan? I couldn’t even say he’d been wrong. Because no matter how bad being part of a pirate crew might be, I was willing to bet being their prisoners would be a whole lot worse.
Finally reaching the bottom of the ladder, I turned and dashed down the passageway. I had hardly taken my first step when the whole ship suddenly shook and I was nearly hurled headlong into the wall. Protectively clutching my belly with one hand, I grabbed a nearby doorframe with the other. I needed to find a place to hunker down, and fast!
Luckily, I knew just the place.
Dashing back to the galley, I slammed open the door and rushed straight to the second storage cupboard. I pulled at the cupboard door and—
—and had it snatched right back.
“Occupied!” came a voice from the inside.
I blinked.
Then I glared at the storage cupboard.Mybloody storage cupboard!
“Oy! This isn’t a cubicle in a public bathroom!”
“Don’t care!”
I tugged at the door again. It didn’t budge. Or rather, it budged around a millimetre before it was slammed shut again. Seems whoever was in there was rather determined.
“This is my darn galley, you know!”
“Don’t care about that, either!”
All right, that’s enough. Reaching for a nearby wrought iron cooking ladle, I tugged at the door again and, the moment a gap appeared, jammed the iron handle inside. An instant later, the door flew open. Yay! Levers for the win!
Smiling dangerously, I pulled open the cupboard, raised my ladle threateningly over the intruder—and froze.
It was a boy.
No, scratch that. A “boy” could be anything up to seventeen years old. This was achild. A thin, dirty, terrifyingly young child. One who, despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise, was currently trembling in fear.
The cooking ladle hit the floor with athunk.
“I-I’m not gonna go up there!” The little pipsqueak raised his chin. “I…I have to guard the supplies! I’m not gonna go—”
“Shh! Shh! Don’t worry! Don’t you worry! I won’t send you up there!”
“Y-you won’t?” Confused, the boy blinked up at me. “I won’t have to fight?”
“Of course not!” Reaching out, I tried to gently pat the boy’s shoulder—then settled for a reassuring smile when he flinched back. “Of course you don’t!”
“I can stay here?” Ill-disguised hope washed over the boy’s face. And then…
Agh!
No!
Not the eyes! Not the puppy-dog eyes!
