"Bluuurgh!"

I really was unable to stop putting my foot in my mouth, wasn't I? Completely and utterly incapable. Did I like the taste of my own toes so much?

"Urgh!"

Well, it would probably be preferable to the taste that was currently pervading my mouth.

"Grk! Bleeargh!"

"Enjoying the view, Mrs Ambrose?"

Pushing myself up from the railing that I had been bending over, I wiped my mouth and sent my dear husband a baleful glare.

"I hate you, you know that?"

"No. In fact, I am quite certain of the contrary."

Damn and blast! The son of a bachelor didn't bat an eye as he casually contradicted my very reasonable declaration. And do you know what the worst thing was? I couldn't even argue with him! Not when, at this very moment, he was gently wiping the sweat off my face with his precious, mint-condition, ten year old handkerchief.

"Why the heck is it," I groaned, "that the whole time I was part of a pirate crew I had perfect sea legs, and the instant we start heading home I begin barfing again?"

"I am uncertain. I am, however, quite glad that you restrained yourself from 'barfing' until now, Mrs Ship's Cook."

A choked laugh escaped my throat, and then...

I whirled back towards the railing.

"Bluurgh!"

More stuff escaped my throat. Lots more.

Blast, blast, blast! Goddamn morning sickness!

Why was it even called that? The time wasn't anywhere near morning! It was the middle of the afternoon, for heaven's sake!

"Bleeeargh!"

Apparently, my stomach didn't care. Oh joy!

"How much farther to England?" I enquired weakly.

"About half a nautical mile less than when you last asked, Mrs Ambrose."

"That was not very comforting, Mr Ambrose."

"Indeed?"

"Bluurgh!"

I bent forward, and his hands clasped my shoulders once again, supporting me.

"I-indeed, Mr Ambrose, Sir. But you still haven't answered my question. How. Much. Farther. To. England?"

"Not far."

"Mr Ambrose!"

A pause. Until...

"Two thousand nine hundred and fifty seven nautical miles."

"Mr Ambrose?"

"Yes?"

"I hate you."

"I love you too, Mrs Ambrose."

"Are we sailing at full speed? Can you tell Karim to go faster?"

Just then, a tiny blur whizzed past behind us, followed by a panting, bearded behemoth.

"Nooo! I don't want to eat pickled vegetables! Don't wanna! Don't wanna!"

"Come back here you little Śaitāna! You shall do as the Sahib commands, or suffer my wrath!"

"Noo! I'm gonna go back to the pirates!"

"Foolish child! How could you possibly go back to—hey! Don't you dare touch that lifeboat! I forbid it! Do you hear? I forbid it!"

"I believe," Mr Ambrose stated, "Karim is otherwise occupied."

"Apparently."

"Get off!" a roar came from the other end of the ship. "Get off that lifeboat and let me strangle you, you demon in human shape!"

There was a moment of silence.

"Mr Ambrose?"

"Yes, Mrs Ambrose?"

"Let's have a long talk with Karim before ever allowing to babysit our future children, agreed?"

"Agreed."

The following few weeks passed by in something of a blur. Unfortunately, said blur was mostly vomit-coloured. The only good thing about this was that Mr Ambrose had absolutely forbidden me from even entering the galley, let alone touching any cooking implements. Hm...maybe puking all the time has its benefits?

"Bluuurgh!"

On second thoughts, maybe not.

"H-how much farther?" I wheezed.

"One thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine nautical miles, Mrs Ambrose."

Sometimes, Mr Rikkard Ambrose's penchant for accuracy really made me want to strangle him.

"Ghk! Bleeargh!"

More days passed. More puke was regurgitated. Finally, after an interminably long time, the incessant sound of the waves was interrupted by the distant mewing of gulls. Even in my current condition, I still knew what that meant.

Looking up, I caught sight of a stretch of white over the blue-grey ocean.

Cliffs. To be precisely, the White Cliffs of Dover.

Land! Finally, land!

I felt an urge to dash ashore the moment we reached land and do my best pope imitation. Unfortunately, right now, I doubted I could bend over far enough to tie my shoes, never mind kissing the ground.

Hm...I wonder how fat popes did it? Do popes have a mandatory diet?

Yet before I could solve that deep philosophical question, I heard the shout from the crow's nest. "Lighthouse ahead! I see the lighthouse!"

"Does that mean we're nearly there?" I demanded, turning my hopeful eyes on Mr Ambrose

"Yes, Sahib," Karim pitched in, his tone filled with utter desperation. That had probably something to do with the little brat currently tugging at his beard and trying to get her hands on his sabre. Leah—as we'd found out she was named—had turned out to be a rather...lively little girl. "Are we nearly there, Sahib?"

Though I was fairly certain what he was really saying was: Please tell me we're nearly there! Please! Please! Please!

I had to admit, the sight of Karim doing puppy-dog eyes did wonders to improve my mood.

"Don't you worry, little one." Reaching over, I patted the struggling girl's head. "You won't have to deal with the big, scary man for much longer. We'll find you a nice, homey place to stay soon."

"I'll rip your guts out and string you up by the mizzenmast! Take me back to the pirates right now unless you want me to scatter your innards across the deck of this miserable little excuse for a ship!"

"You know, I have to agree with what the Sahib said before," Karim told me, his face unmoving. "You'll make a wonderful mother one day. I can already see your amazing talent in action."

I sent him a wide smile. "Why, thank you, Karim. And I can already tell you'll make a fantastic nanny as well. You can start by taking care of Leah here while we disembark and find a nice hotel."

Then, before he had the chance to retort or stab me with his sabre in revenge, I made my way to where the gangplank was soon to be lowered. People were already assembling there with crates and chests that contained Mr Rikkard Ambrose's various plundered treasures, as well as a certain rather important captive. My husband stepped up beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, dark satisfaction shining in his fathomless, sea-coloured eyes. Satisfaction that, as soon as we'd found a nice, cosy bedroom, I was planning to amplify. Greatly. Ah, it was good to be home!

I could already feel the romantic tension building in the air between us. The moment we'd get to our bedroom, I would rip off his shirt and—

"Squawk!" my fantasies were abruptly cut off by a screech from one of the nearby crates. "Polly wants a cookie! Polly wants a cookie!"

Crap!

Beside me, Mr Rikkard Ambrose stiffened. All romantic tension evaporated, and the look in his eyes suddenly seemed a lot less satisfied.

"Mrs Ambrose?"

"Yes?"

"What was that?"

"What?" I asked, innocently blinking up at him. "I didn't hear anything."

"Woof! Woof!"

"Cookie! Polly wants a cookie!"

Double crap.

***

A carriage rattled across the cobblestones, rapidly rolling along a London street in the better parts of town. I was intently watching the metropolitan scenery. It was a beautiful view. Especially since it allowed me to avoid the icy gaze of Mr Rikkard Ambrose, who was currently sitting beside me with a bird cage in his hand.

"I have only one question," he stated. "Why?"

"Well..."

"Squawk! Polly wants a cookie!"

"Well?" He cocked his head. "I'm waiting."

I considered his question for a moment—then turned towards him, my eyes widened in innocence.

"I would have thought you would appreciate a pretty bird in your office. You know, keep you company? To brighten your day?"

"I feel like I am going to regret asking this," my dear husband stated, icicles dangling from his voice, "but why would I appreciate a bird?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I gifted him with a blinding smile. "Because birds always go 'cheap, cheap!'"

Arctic silence descended over the carriage. Arctic silence that somehow still could not compete with the iciness of the stare that was currently trying to turn me into a life-sized ice statue. The mood in the coach wasn't exactly helped by the giggling little girl who was currently busy playing with the parrot in the cage that was still dangling in Mr Ambrose's grip. Apparently, the bird brought back happy memories of pirates.

I cleared my throat. "So...this is just a wild guess, but...you don't appreciate bird jokes?"

He sent me another look to apply an extra coating of frost over the ice statue I should by all rights be by now.

"Ehem. Very well then. How about some stingy Scotsmen jokes? I've still got that old book from when—"

A third look he sent my way promptly shut me up.

"Oh, um...all right. Closing my mouth now."

"Woof!" Fence agreed like the epitome of canine wisdom that he was. "Woof, woof!"

Then he ducked behind my legs and hid from Mr Rikkard Ambrose's frosty glower.

One thing, though...

No matter how much he glared, no matter how much he tried to freeze the air in the coach with his mere presence, Mr Rikkard Ambrose hadn't once protested against me bringing home my new parrot, my dog, or the little runaway girl.

One corner of my mouth lifted into an almost imperceptible smile.

***

A quarter of an hour or so later, a certain unremarkable coach approached the magnificent edifice that was Empire House. The doorman didn't pay any particular attention to it. Hundreds of carriages drove past Empire House every day. He did, however, start paying attention when one of said carriages halted before the front steps and Mr Rikkard Ambrose climbed out of it.

"M-Mr Ambrose, Sir!" Bowing hastily, the uniformed man pulled open the door and stepped aside. "And Mrs Ambrose! We're honoured by your presence, Sir and Madam. We—"

Mr Ambrose strode past him without a word. I was about to follow when, halfway through the door, Mr Ambrose froze, then took a step back and speared the fellow in uniform with an icy gaze.

"A doorman?" His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "When exactly did I authorise money for hiring a doorman?"

The doorman swallowed. "W-well...the manager you left in charge during your absence decided it might be a good idea if we present a proper image for—"

"Ah." Mr Ambrose nodded. "So there are two people I have to fire."

"F-fire?"

Before Mr Ambrose could hand the man his notice of dismissal (i.e., a kick in the butt, which does not require precious paper and ink), we heard a thump from behind us. Turning away from the poor ex-doorman, I saw Karim try to pull a large crate down from on top of the carriage. He (unsurprisingly) didn't seem to have any trouble with the weight—but considering how large it was, the thing appeared rather hard to balance. A fact Mr Ambrose seemed to have noticed as well.

"Hm..." Eyeing the crate, my dear husband tapped his chin—then glanced over at the doorman. "Change of plans. Seems like you might keep your job after all. That is, if you would be amenable to helping us with this...cargo?"

"Anything!" the doorman blurted out. "I'll do anything!"

Just then, the crate rocked, and from within issued a slightly muffled, yet distinctly human sound of protest.

With a broad grin, I reached out and patted the doorman on the shoulder. "You're going to regret ever saying that. Welcome to the club."

"Err...thank you, Madam?"

For some reason, he did not sound very sure.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Mr Ambrose demanded. "Get to it! Chop, chop!"

"Y-yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!" Hurriedly, the ex-doorman, now gofer, rushed over to the carriage and took hold of the other end of the crate. Together, he and Karim carried the wooden box towards the front door. I had to give the new fellow credit. He almost didn't flinch when the crate rattled and muffled French curses came from the inside.

"You two." Mr Ambrose snapped his fingers. "Wait here for a moment."

Then he headed back to the carriage and, a moment later, re-emerged, a certain little girl in his arms.

"Let me go, you bastard! I don't care if you've got a nice bird! If you don't let me go back to the pirate fleet, I'll rip your eyes out and use them as marbles! Get me on a ship to the Caribbean this instant, or I'll cut off yourmmphmphmph—!"

Mr Ambrose clamped his hand over her mouth. She responded to this by promptly biting said hand, hard. A muscle in Mr Ambrose's cheek twitched—then, without a word, he proceeded to march back up the stairs and past the ex-doorman, who was staring at him with wide open eyes.

"Um...Mr Ambrose, Sir... The girl, who...?"

The man threw a questioning look at Leah, who was currently chewing on Mr Ambrose's fingers in an attempt to gain freedom. Or turn herself into a flesh-eating zombie, maybe. With this girl, one couldn't really be sure about how realistic her aspirations were.

My dear husband cocked his head and gave his new employee a frosty look. "This is my ward."

Leah chose this moment to reach up under Mr Ambrose's tailcoat to try and grab his revolver.

"Your, um...ward, Sir?"

"Yes," my dear husband repeated, snatching the girl's hand before she could gun him down. "My ward."

"Um...yes, Sir! Definitely, Sir! Your ward, Sir!"

The crate rattled again, and from within issued some more muffled curses in French.

"And our new pet," I added helpfully.

My dear husband nodded. "Indeed."

"R-right." The ex-doorman gulped. "Of course. Pet."

Wasn't it wonderful to have understanding employees?

"Now, enough of this useless chatter." Clapping his hands, Mr Ambrose strode into the entrance hall. "Let's take our new pet to his new home, shall we?"

It probably said something about Mr Rikkard Ambrose as an employer that he could walk through the entrance hall of his main office building with a crate that was cursing in French and a girl shouting about wanting to become the Queen of the Pirates while none of his employees even blinked an eye. If I had to venture a guess, they had been told in the past that blinking wasted precious time, and it would get their pay docked.

"I must say, I'm looking forward to welcoming our guest to his new home." Coming to a halt in front of the door at the other end of the hall, I rubbed my hands with a glint in my eye that was most definitely not evil. My gaze moved over to a certain crate. "Let's head down to the dungeo—ehem, I mean cellar. Yes, let's head down into the cellar, shall we?"

"Indeed."

A protesting groan came from within the crate. I reached out and gently patted the rough wood. "Don't you worry. We'll get to you soon enough. The moment we get you situated, we can start our little chat. Mwahahaha...!" Oh, if only I had a nice, villainy moustache right now. Well, maybe I could buy one later. "But first..."

Stepping over to Mr Ambrose, I grabbed hold of Leah, and, after unclamping her jaws from Mr Ambrose's wrist, handed her back to the nanny. Said nanny looked about ready to draw his sabre and go on a massacre.

"Now, you behave, all right?" I told the little girl. "Me and Uncle Dick have some stuff to take care of. But we'll soon be back, and then we can talk about what you want to do in the future..."

"I want—"

"...that doesn't involve raiding ships and slaughtering people while singing sea shanties."

"Go boil your head, you bloody balloon-shaped tart!"

And she pouted at me. Cutely.

That impudent little...! This brat had just called me fat to my face! I was not going to cave just because she pulled a cute face! I was not! I was not going to be overwhelmed by those bloody motherly instincts of mine! I was not! I was no—

"Aww...don't be sad!"

Crap.

Before I knew it, my arms were wrapped around the bloodthirsty little midget. "Don't be sad! Everything will work out all right."

"R-really?"

Suddenly, her voice sounded a lot less confident and bratty.

"Yes. I'll make sure of it." Hugging her close, I gently stroked her hair. "Say...why do you want to be the Queen of the Pirates, anyway?"

There was a pause.

"...read a story once." Her voice was nothing but a whisper now. She avoided my gaze by hiding her face in the folds of my dress. "The pirate queen in the story...she's not afraid of anything. She's free. She's tough. She...she's always got enough to eat, and to drink, and...and never gets beaten and...and..."

Suddenly I felt like sailing back to the Caribbean and burning down everything in sight till everyone acknowledged this little girl as the Queen among Queens of the Pirates.

Bad Lilly, bad! You can't just start killing off people just to make a little girl happy!

No matter how much I might want to. Those dratted maternal instincts!

"Don't worry." I squeezed her as hard as I could without squashing anything important. "Nothing like that will ever happen to you again!"

"P-promise?"

"Promise! Isn't that right, Dicky Darling?"

When no answer was forthcoming in the next two seconds, I planted my heel strategically on Mr Ambrose's toes.

"Isn't that right, Dicky Darling?"

"Hng!"

"You see!" I beamed at the little girl. "That's a promise if I ever heard one!"

In answer, Leah gave me her first tiny, shaky, but undeniably present smile.

"Here." One step took me in front of Karim, and I firmly placed the little girl back into his arms again before he could flee. "Mr Ambrose and I have to take care of some things for now. Can you look after her in the meantime?"

Instinctively, the bodyguard's hand went to his sabre. There was a hint of pleading in his eyes, and in his beard, too. There was even a little bit of pleading in his left foot. "Can I go back to hunting pirates instead?"

"Hey!" A small hand grabbed hold of his bard and tugged in protest. "I ain't that bad!"

"Or I could hunt serial killers," Karim suggested hopefully. "Or brigands in the Sahara. Or wild beasts in the jungle!"

I placed a hand on his shoulder and, gesturing at Mr Ambrose, gave the bodyguard a serious look. "Just take it as practice for when you will have to guard our child."

Suddenly, Karim didn't look nearly as unhappy anymore. Squaring his shoulders, the bodyguard straightened abruptly.

"Yes, Sahiba! As you command, Sahiba!"

And without another word of protest, he turned around and marched off, his chest swelling with pride.

"Adequately done," Mr Ambrose commented. "He didn't even require a pay raise."

"I learned from the best. Now..." Linking my arm with his, I turned towards the crate that was once more issuing muffled curses in French. "Let's take care of business, shall we? I'm dying to find out what our guest has to say."

---------------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

If you are reading this one hour earlier / later than before (I can never remember which) it is probably because your country doesn't have daylight saving time. This will be the new time for chapter publication until Germany switches back to normal time.

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

---------------------------------------------

GLOSSARY:

Śaitāna—Punjabi for "devil".

A mizzenmast is the aftmost mast on a ship with three or more masts—aftmost meaning at the rear end of the ship.

Tart—a less-than-polite word for "woman" in British English.