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the mountains and the moors

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There is something of the sybarite to Edward Teach that all your learning could not fail to regard with initial distrust. You distrust him still, for better placed reasons. He is a large snake, striped and diamonded like an exotic, and though in truth, you’ve become little better than heathen yourself, there is a soulless hunger in Teach that can eat and eat and never get its fill.

Thanks to your eccentricities, the ceaseless tinkering that ever exasperated Father, you now have - a novel notion - a vocation.

Thanks to Kate, you have something like a home again.

 

 

You were the first son: land-bound. The navy or the church were for lesser men. Every valley and every field from Edinburgh to London was known to you. Though you spoke four languages, read half a dozen more, you had never stepped foot off the island on which you were born. 

Now you sail beneath unfamiliar stars, far from your false king, your false god.

 

 

You were lucid, barely, when they came. Enough to react to the sound of a name - “Katherine” - hissed violently in your ear, but not enough to grasp the significance.

You clawed and bit, used what weak defences were left to you. Then unconsciousness, as your rescuers knocked you out.

You might have wept when you saw Kate again. You were in hell, and now she’s finally joined you there.