Chere Traductrice,
By necessity I write to you from an undisclosed location. Could you possibly keep me up-to-date with Knight situation? I have a vested interest in his welfare.

Love,
Anne-Marie

Dear Bimbo,
Oh, we're not doing this again, are we? I told you how I feel about meta-gaming. Also, it's not a very undisclosed location when you send me a postcard with "Greetings from Sunny St. Kitts" on it.

In answer to your question, Knight's under house arrest. I'm having to use the kid for info. Don't go back to Erasmus; apparently, Hell's using it as a vacation spot again, and you're better off out of it.

With strained tolerance,
Lynette

Chere Lynette,
Ah, poor James! How he managed to weasel his way out of prison, I can only guess. Suicide attempt? But no, they would have doubled his guard in that case, and St. Erasmus has . . . how many guards again? Are they up to an even dozen yet? My guess is he that slept too near an open window and gave himself a little cough. It would be just like him, although at his age I am naturally most concerned about his health. I should be most upset if he died of lung failure before his day in court.

If it concerns you, I am using a remailing service. Enclosed please find fifty pieces-of-eight. Use for bribes. Tell me when his trial starts.

Anne-Marie

Dear Captainess,
Paying some street-urchin named Dominic a dollar to run down to the souvenir shop and steal you a postcard does not qualify as a remailing service. I don't know how you expect me to bribe anyone, as you yourself should know how difficult it is to remain in contact with the seventeenth century from a goodly distance in the future. Besides, you don't have to bribe the kid to talk smack about his daddy these days. You have yet to tell me what vested interest you have in Knight, other than seeing him swing.

Rollin',
Lynette

PS: Despite their dubious legality, the coins you send have been sold to a professional numismatist in order to fund my upcoming roadtrip.

PPS: I have no way of knowing how many guards. They're mostly NPCs anyway.

Chere Lynette,
Aren't we all interested in seeing justice done?

Yours,
Anne-Marie

Dear Cupcake,
I get enough of that seeing-justice-done crap from the kid. What are you plotting over there?

More than a little worried,
Lynette

Bonjour! Allô! Mon dieu, it is so good to be back from . . . where ever the hell we just were!

If I get back to La Belle, I am nailing my feet to the deck!

La Plume Rouge is back, mes jolis. And I need a new crew to help with all the backlogged killing I must get around to.

Merci beaucoup, Gilbert, for the lovely new pair of trousers!

V. bored. Amusing self by hurling things at guards. It never hurts to keep in practice. How much longer will I be kept here? I have implicated Knight fifty times by now! It's not as if I can hand over my log.

Wish Mayhew would stop whistling over his paperwork. It is very unnerving.

Rumours abound that pirates attacked the pathetic English governor's midnight ball. Le sigh! I wish I still had a social life.

Back in prison, although with some small hope: tight-ass captain of town guard appears to be corrupted and wants Knight hanged almost as badly as I do. Negotiations are ongoing.

Prospect of eyepatch much easier to accept if I regard it as one more accessory.

mood: scared

Praise God they let me keep the armour-plated brigandine Corsican corset in prison. Otherwise I would have been a gone goose.

V. hungry. Tore off both sleeves for bandages. Serge trousers = icky. Hair = oily. Possible infection in wounds. May require medical attention.

No longer the prettiest.

Knight is no more. One thing to cross off my "to-do" list.

This eyepatch is very unattractive, though.

mood: jubilant

Cher David,

By the time this letter is found, I will be gone, either to that great Tortuga in the heavens, or else, once more, on the run from St. Erasmus's laughably incompetent guard. I hope you are keeping well and that the weather on your godforsaken spit of an island continues fine. I write to plead only this: Foolish beloved, I beg you, give up that mawkish milkmaid Eliza Moore! she is now the hussy of the traitor Mornaix, about whom the less said, the better, except that you and I both know it will only ever be a cover marriage since Mornaix is as gay as Mardi Gras, and I know for a fact that Eliza Moore dyes her hair, as if that will ever distract from her puffy baseball-glove of a face, but ciel! It is not to be, and so forget her.

I yearn to be with you even now, but time and legalities seem destined to forever separate us. My heart, my soul, and other portions of my anatomy burn for you with a fire more potent than the flames of Hell or Islam. I can only hope we shall meet again when our crossed stars are more fortuitously aligned and/or when my statute of limitations expires. For now I shall cover with kisses this cold unfeeling page until I may rain them upon your naked throbbing



(Translator's note: Letter ends here.)

mood: cranky

I cannot go out like this. I will not allow it. Not without a fight or at least a tumultuous midnight rendezvous. And be damned if I'm snogging Knight.

mood: rejuvenated

On downside, have been kissed by village idiot. Need a good exfoliant to remove taint of English slobber.

Still not hanged. Still the prettiest.

I am so fucked.

Perhaps if I could draw them all together in one place, in a large group, on some innocent-seeming premise . . .

mood: angry

No matter. David will soon figure her out for the whore she is.

On the plus side, raw egg thrown by Mudd boy yesterday has done wonders for hair. Also, have lost two pounds on prison food diet and am (if possible) trimmer than ever. Unlike E, who looks like a prize sow.

Final decision: cut out K's tongue, then sink the Hunt, sparing cute quartermaster if at all possible. If not possible then no sweat, as can pick up another in Tortuga.

Suspect connection between smell of chamberpot and foul-tasting drinking water. Wish the Geneva convention would hurry up and invent itself.