Beatrice Beecham's Ship of Shadows

PROLOGUEThe girl stood on the prow of the galleon, thick ropes binding her wrists, her hands limp and white against the black material of her heavy skirts. Her mouth moved but the sound that came forth was as restrained as her limbs; hushed whispers that cracked and wavered as they passed over parched lips. Wide eyes stared out across the bay, where the rolling blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean rose and fell like the folds of a great bed sheet aired in the sweet, spring breeze.Her position was precarious but her resolve was steadfast. The sea breeze tousled her hair—turning it into ebony tendrils—and the face beneath was as pale as candle-wax, marred only by a splash of strawberry beneath her right eye where a birthmark lay like a livid isle in the blanched skin of her cheeks. There was a smile on her lips, as though she knew things that others did not, yet there was no fear.Behind the girl, the ship’s crew were a jeering mob, faces twisted in hate, and their cries of malice rose

CHAPTER TWOBeatrice Beecham checked her Smartphone and the vibrant screen told her two things. First, the timer was three minutes and ten seconds away from setting off the alarm to let her know the lamb roast would need to come out and rest before carving. Secondly, it told her there was a text message from Lucas Walker, the boy she had been dating for the past year, asking her if dinner was ready.Beatrice turned around. “Will you stop doing that?”“Doing what?” Lucas said. His grin made it clear that he knew exactly “what” she meant.“Sending me texts when you’re three feet away,” she said.“What can I say?” He flashed her a disarming smile. “The art of conversation died with the birth of the emoji.”She fought back a chuckle, helped by the alarm on her Smartphone bleeping urgently.Beatrice went for a pair of Masterchef oven gloves on the grey, marbled work surface. “Lucas Walker, you’ll never understand just how stressful it is having someone standing over you when you’re t

CHAPTER FOURElmo stood outside the gates of Dorsal Finn High School, his large frame clad in his usual black tee-shirt, blue jeans and training shoes. Deep in thought, he considered what he’d witnessed during the game.At first, things were going as predicted, with his school team scoring early in the first half, and fellow Newshound, Emily, making two crucial saves as the opposition sought to reassert itself with an equaliser. By half time, however, the home team were two goals to nil up.Then came the second half and things went kind of weird. Well, even Elmo knew this was a colossal understatement. By the first fifteen minutes, AOS FC had smashed four goals past Emily before she was substituted. Then Millie Weatheroak put away three more. End result: seven goals to two, and quite possibly the most humiliating defeat in a long, long time.It was not this that had Elmo mulling things over in his quiet, considered brain, though. It was a concern for Emily. Because even before she

CHAPTER SIXEmily realised something was wrong before she climbed out of bed. She’d instinctively reached for the bedside lamp—a cumbersome thing shaped like a football boot—and found that there was already something illuminating her bedroom.But it wasn’t her bedroom, was it?No soccer posters or laptops and books on shelves. Instead, there was only a cramped space, thrown into uncertain shapes of brown and deep shadow by the sputtering candle on a small stand next to her cot. The walls were made up of horizontal planks of wood, the grooves where each plank joined was a dark scar that wept sea water. The whole room reeked of forest and ocean.Her heart thudded in her chest, matching her fierce curiosity. She threw off the coarse blanket and slipped out of the cot. Beneath her feet, the floor was warm and unpleasant, as though she was not on a ship but in the belly of a great creature that had somehow swallowed her whole while she’d slept.She stood, moving tentatively across

CHAPTER EIGHTKhaldun pulled his car up at the wrought iron gates. Through the thick, black railings, the yellow gravel of Bramwell Hall’s driveway could be seen like a jaundiced river snaking through well-kept hedges and lawns.He dropped his window and hit the intercom, a small grilled box with a large white button. There was a burst of static, and then a soft-yet-firm male voice came through the grill.“Pontefract residence. May I ask who is calling?”Khaldun introduced himself.“Very good, sir,” said the voice. “Can you please park at the front of the house.”There was a clunk, then a click, and Khaldun watched as the huge gates opened inwards, accompanied by a series of rattles and squeaks. It took a minute to drive up to the hall. The building loomed from behind a line of oak trees, its squared corner turrets making the most of its heritage with added pennants. There was a large circle in front of the main entrance, and in the centre of it, a stone fountain shaped in t