Wretched Trade sample

1663, Spring
Amelia sat at her desk staring at the blank paper before her, a mug of ale left forgotten by her side. The room was darkening with the retreating sun, but the lone Skuling lamp kept the darkness at bay. A large tome rested before her, covered in dust after years of being left on a shelf. She once thought that she’d never open it again, that her last recording would be the end. But there she sat, quill in hand, in the same spot as before, looking down at the worn cover. This book has seen the world, seen the follies of men, and had more scars then even she did. How many times has she rewritten these creased pages? How many pages have been torn and burned? Some stories are lost now, maybe for the better. It amazed her how much knowledge rested on these pages. Knowledge that would never be seen by others, solely because she wrote it.
Maybe, she thought, not all of history needs to be known.
Even as she doubted her actions, she opened the cover of the book. The smell of the sea increased, almost like it was encouraging her. Write, it said, leave no detail out.
And with a flicker of the lamp, she did just that.

1601, Spring
Amelia Rosewater awoke that morning panting and sweating. She could smell the salt of the rough seas from her dream, could see the gleam of the drawn blade. She raised her pale hand to her throat, shakily tracing the spot where the blade slid across her skin. A shiver rolled down her spine as she tossed the covers to the floor. Trying to rub the goose flesh away, she noticed her clothing hasn't been laid out yet. Slightly annoyed, she opened her door and called across the hall to the servant’s room. She called trice more, one right after the other.
“Lazy girl,” Amelia grumbled while she threw on a light cloak. Stomping across the hall to Anna’s room, she slammed her hand down on the polished wood. She kicked at the carpet, her impatience raising. With the limited light, Amelia could only make out the general shapes of the side table next to the door. She did notice that the flowers were wilting slightly. Annoyed, she slammed her hand down once more on the door before barging in.
The woman inside was half in her own gown when Amelia entered. Her dark hair was a mess surrounding her round face, curls pointing in all directions. At the roots, if Amelia payed any attention, she would see strains of gray sneaking into the curls, getting lost within the waves. Wide-eyed, the woman pulled her dress down.
“Ma’am!” she squeaked.
“I am ready to be dressed, Anna. Come to my room,” Amelia twirled and stomped back to her room.
Faintly, ignored by Amelia, Anna mumbled, “My name is Anita.”
When Anita finally dress her, she starts to work on Amelia hair. Amelia would allow only Anita to style and care for her hair. No other servant was allowed to touch her hair. No other could style it correctly. If she took a moment to consider, she might find that Anita’s styling and careful fingers remind her of her mother’s. Even Anita’s humming was similar to the deceased woman. But that was far-fetched. The housekeeper was nothing like her own mother.
Bad mood raising as the morning wore on, Amelia snapped at the servants. She commanded them to move faster. She nagged that they were too lazy. They were useless and she threaten to fire three within the hour. Amelia had no patience for any of the help. Her mood dropped fast and only worsen when her sister arrived to visit that afternoon.
Cassandra Vince was a small child that turned into a small adult. She stood to Amelia’s shoulders, quite short considering Amelia is also not a very tall woman. At the age of eighteen, she had her first child, a boy named after her husband. She still held some of the baby weight now, some five months after her child was born. Amelia's foul mood increased. Where Cassandra’s weight is from having a child, Amelia’s is from many late night sweets in the kitchen.
“Where’s Norman? I haven't gotten to see him in a bit of time,” Cassandra sipped her tea.
Amelia, admittedly not noticing the youngest Rosewater’s abstinence, stuffed another cake in her mouth while mumbling about him being with father.
“Oh, Amy!” Cassandra chuckled, “Mind your manners.”
“How’s Albert?” Amelia took a long drink, trying to wash down the dry pastry.
“Junior or Senior?” Cassandra cocked an eyebrow, “Both are fine. Ally still hasn't quite settled into a routine, but I'm sure he’ll be fine. Al is at the docks, something about missing cargo. Dreadfully boring, I’m afraid,” she thanked a maids she set down more tea and small cakes. Amelia immediately grabbed a cake.
“Ally has a bit of a rash that we can’t seem to heal. Makes him terribly fussy. I asked Anita and she suggests that I use coconut oil. I’ve never heard of that, but I’ll give it a try. She did take care of Norm when he was a small bundle, so I trust her. I seem to be running out of options at the moment, so I plan on stopping by the market after this.”
She continued to speak and drink tea for well over an hour. Amelia largely ignored her. Uninterested babble in her opinion. Amelia did try to stir the conversation back to the missing cargo but her sister knew nothing about it. Cassandra kept talking about the mundane, acting as though it was some great adventure. Amelia could truly not stand it.
“Your meeting was just the other day, wasn't it? How did that go?” Cassandra leaned back so the maid could clear the table, thanking her as she left. Amelia, who was openly ignoring her sister, was confused to what she was referring to.
“Your meeting,” she elaborated, “with the suitor father found. Mr. Remworth? Remming?”
“Foxly Remton,” Amelia groaned. “He was a bore. He talked of agriculture on the far side of Logan island. He told me of his many different farm in Skuling and Kornly, but when I mention travel, he said I’m to be a house wife and mind the home. ‘Mind the home’ he said! He said I would live on his estate here on Victon, just in a different town.”
“No,” she scoffed, “he won’t do at all.”
Cassandra stared at her sister. Watched her pout and complain about the sixth suitor that their father has introduced. She lightly touch Amelia’s hand, allowing her sister to jerk away.
“Amy,” she lowered her tone, like she was speaking to a frightened animal, “do you not want to marry?”
Caught off guard, Amelia hesitated. Women were not asked if they wanted to marry, it was expected of them. They got married and had kids. They minded the home and threw tea parties. They gossiped about friends and spread rumors. They found their husbands sleeping with other women while they were sick and caring for two young girls. They died young either in childbirth or by a disease while their husband were out sailing the vast seas.
Kicking the ground, she huffed, “Not to a bore.”
“Most men are bores,” Cassandra laughed. “But you don’t to be alone in the end. What about children?”
“If I even feel the need for children, I’ll borrow yours.”
Cassandra pushed on, her voice still soft and light, “Amelia, once father has passed, who will care for you?”
Anger seeping back, Amelia pushed from her chair, allowing it to fall nosily to the ground.
“I don’t need some man to care for me. I can manage myself just fine. Anything I do, I can do for myself. I will be fine if left to my own!”
Amelia ranted, pacing the drawing room. She raised her voice and swung her arms around. She pointed and accused. She demanded that she’d be able to live alone and freely move about. She wanted nothing more than to be left alone to pursue what she wanted.
“What do you want Amy?”
Amelia twirled on her sister, ready to unleash all her anger and frustration that the day has given her. She was ready to scream and rage on until the sun set. But as she began, the door to the drawing room opened and a small brown haired boy skipped in.
Norman Rosewater inherited their father’s dark blue eyes, something all the Rosewater siblings shared, but that is where the similarities ended. The girls looked like their mother. They shared her bright red hair and pale skin. Both girls had oval faces, Amelia’s wider than that of her sister's and mother’s. They even shared their height with their mother, none of the women getting very tall. Norman, on the other hand, shared his mother’s dark olive skin-tone and brown curly hair. And judging by how tall he is now, he inherited their father’s height. Only at the age of ten and he stood close to Cassandra’s height. But his grin irked Amelia the most. It looked just like his mother’s.
“Hi, Cassy! Amy, dad wants to see you.”
Amelia huffed as she walked past. Norman’s room was just down the hall from hers, but she couldn’t remember when she last visited or spoke to the child. Her grudge against his mother ran to deep. He was the product of lies and secrets. Deep down, in the parts locked away, Amelia almost blamed him for her mother’s passing. The shock of learning he existed must have been the last straw for the frail woman. Instead, she outwardly blamed that woman. The last she hear from her siblings was Norman asking about his baby nephew. How irksome.
The whole day was tiring. She couldn't wait to walk back upstairs and sleep for the night. She couldn't wait to be left alone in her room. She grumbled as she turned into the foyer. Her father stood at the double doors, waiting for her.
Right away she could tell he was irritated. He had an imposing air about him. He used to sail the seas when the girls were small, but after the death of his wife, he retired to land. Now he is the commander of the island’s naval base. It has been almost ten years since, but he kept the fearsome and imposing looks of a naval captain, one who demanded respect, all this time.
Amelia straighten her back and clasped her hands in front of her. From the corner of her eye, she could see servants scurrying about, only appearing to look busy. They were waiting. They knew he was angry too.
“Father, welcome home.” Amelia quieted her temper, softening her voice like her sister had done earlier. No need, she thought, to worsen what’s to come. Richard Rosewater’s glare deepen, as though she insulted him.
“What happened?” he demanded, stepping closer to her. He towered over most people, meaning his height made her look like a misbehaving child. Especially now with the way he tapped his crossed arms.
“I’m not sure-” she started.
“No, Amelia. What happened with Remton? He said you were extremely rude.”
Amelia bristled, some of the day’s anger seeping back in, “I was not rude! He suggested that I would be a mere house wife! I told him-”
“You will be just that,” he interrupted. His voice was cold and commanding. Amelia couldn't find her voice to respond back to him. Being here, before him, took all resistance out of her. She could do nothing but listen.
“I don't know what you expect out of this life, but your head is in the clouds. Grow up and settle down or go join the church and be their problem. By this point, I don't care. But you have humiliated me enough in your life. I will not allow anymore of your tantrums. I refuse to take care of a spoil child any longer.”
The floor trembled under his feet as he retreated toward his study. Amelia was left in the foyer, merely feeling the vibrations he made. Ringing in her ears drowned out the whispers of the servants. She couldn't hear as they snickered and quietly teased.
“Are you cold Amy?”
Norman watched her, careful not to get very close. He was not a simple child. He knew the weather on this tropical island didn't drop far. He knew she didn't shake from the cold. Amelia didn't notice the tremble, even after he pointed it out. Instead of answering, she pushed pass him, ascending the grand staircase and escaping to her room.
She made sure to make as much noise as possible. She stomped all the way to her room and slammed the door closed. Plopping on the large plush bed, she pasted the next few hours by staring at the ceiling. She did not acknowledge when Cassandra announced that she was leaving or when Anita brought dinner to her room. The room grew dimmer, until finally fading into a deep darkness. She made her decision when Anita returned later on to ask if she wanted to change into her night clothing. Instead of answering, she pushed Anita to the side, demanding that a coach be readied for her.
“What might be the destination, ma’am?” Anita hurried after her, glancing nervously down the hall where the master bedroom was. A small glow could be seen from under the door.
“The port.”
Amelia would answer no other questions, just loudly repeating her demand for a coach to be readied. Before Amelia left, she demanded Anita to grab her cloak from her room. Anita hurried back upstairs and gathered the cloak, while also making a stop by the master bedroom. Richard Rosewater watched as his daughter left their estate.