Andre Norton - The Opal-Eyed Fan

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The Opal-Eyed Fan
By Andre Norton
Version 1.0
Though Lost Lady Key does not exist, features of two coastal islands and one key are combined to furnish its
checkered history. On Sanibel a mysterious race built a city of canals and mounds composed of shells and rammed
earth, as well as shell-paved roads. These un-known people are rumored to have been exterminated by an uneasy
combination of Spaniards and imported Seminoles, leaving only evidences of a civilization somehow linked with that of
the Mayans of South America.
Captiva, Sanibel's twin island, is supposed to have served as a prison for women taken during the pirate raids
of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries.
But Indian Key provided the house with its escape route through the sea turtle pens, its master who re-fused
to acknowledge the power of Key West, and its doctor who pioneered in growing tropical fruits in Florida. An Indian
massacre in the middle 1800s brought an abrupt end to this small empire—the fabu-lous house (known for its luxury,
up and down the coast) was burned. A pall fell over the site and no at-tempt was made to rebuild or reuse the land.
1
The room was dusky dark, but it was quiet. Where was the wind—that threatening, screaming wind which had
engulfed the whole world, whipped the sea moun-tain high?
Persis Rooke turned her head slightly, though she did not yet open her eyes. Here was no musty odor
un-derlaid with the stench of bilges. Rather, a faintly spicy fragrance. Her mind seemed as sluggish as her body, and
the latter bore painful bruises that made her wince as she shifted position a little.
She stretched out her hands. Under them was the smoothness of linen. Was this a dream? She did not want
to open her eyes and find herself once more wedged into the narrow ship's bunk. She lay still, grateful for the silence,
the feel of the linen, and tried to remember as she slowly, at last, opened her eyes.
This was—a room! Not the tiny stifling cabin into which she had barely been able to squeeze herself and her
belongings. She lay on a real bed—she must be in a house—on land!
A drapery of netting hung about the bed, making the rest of the room dim and misty looking in the morning
light. Solemnly, as she had sometimes done as a child, she gave the skin on her right wrist a sharp pinch. The resulting
pain was reassuring. She was awake. Now Persis braced herself up on the wide ex-panse of the bed to look around. Her
head whirled a little and she fought that giddiness stoutly.
She must remember— She had been on a ship, there had been a grating crash as the Arrow had brought bow
up on a reef. Then—
The wrecker!
Persis shook her head in spite of the giddiness that it caused. She felt the warmth of the returning outrage.
That—that pirate! The one who had loomed out of the storm to where she clung to a rail, had shouted some
incomprehensible words at her, and then carried her, in spite of her screams and her attempts to fight free, to toss her
down into the small boat below, her hair streaming about her, the protests battered out of her by the wind along with
the air from her lungs. She had been so angry at his high-handedness that she had al-most lost her fear. But after she
was in the boat—
Persis shut her eyes again. No, it was very queer. She thought she would never, never forget that pi-rate's
face, his treatment of her as if she were a bale of goods. But later—there was just nothing.
Uncle Augustin!
What had happened to Uncle Augustin?
Persis, now thoroughly aroused, slid to the edge of the bed, hooked fingers in the netting, and jerked it along
until she could find an opening in it. That sense of duty long drilled into her was completely awake. She hardly
glanced about the shadowy room where only an edging of light showed around the massively shuttered windows. She
must find her uncle. He had been only a feeble shadow of himself before the storm. Perhaps—
She looked around a little wildly; she simply could not go charging out of this room wearing only her night
rail. And that, she noted now, was not one of her own fine lawn ones, but a garment too big and of coar-ser stuff.
Where was her clothing?
At least that wind was gone. But under her feet the floor still seemed to sway as if it were the deck of the lost
Arrow. She made her way to the nearest window by holding on to the edge of the bed as a support.
To throw open the shutters was a task she fumbled over, though she was usually quick with her fingers.
Then she looked out into a still morning. At first noth-ing was visible but the crowns of palms. Then, by lean-ing
forward on the broad windowsill, she discovered that she was on the second story of a house which had been, in turn,
erected on a mound of—shells? Could they be shells? How could so substantial a dwelling have been placed on a
foundation of shells?
There was water below, and a wharf on which were piled boxes and barrels and—yes—her very own trunk!
Also, there were people; Persis watched three dark-skinned men trundle a large box by wheelbarrow back
toward a building of which she could see only a bit of roof. The three wore breeches cut off at the knees, leaving their
brown legs bare, and their shirts were much patched, faded, and salt stained.
Wreckers—like that brute aboard the Arrow.
Persis felt distaste and a touch of fear. Though Uncle Augustin had said that the wreckers of the
Keys saved lives and goods, she remembered talk in New York of their greediness, tales of conspiracy
between some captains and the Key men to lose ships on marked reefs. They were certainly not very far
re-moved from the pirates who had earlier made these same waters their own and had had hiding places
here-abouts.
But what had happened to Uncle Augustin?
Now that there was more light, Persis saw a wrap-per lying across a chair by the bureau. As she
snatched that up, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall. It was a very ornate mirror,
perhaps bet-ter suited for a formal parlor, deeply framed in gilt which was a little dimmed. But the dimming
had not extended to the glass.
What a miserable sight she was!
No neat braided knot to top off her coiffure, no care-fully disciplined bunches of side curls, just a
mass of tangled brown hair sticky and matted, as she discov-ered when she poked and pulled at it. She
looked like one of those noisome hags illustrating one of Mrs. Radcliffe's weird stories. Persis was no
beauty, but she had never allowed herself to be untidy. Now her reflec-tion appalled her. She was startled
by a tap at the door and whirled about to call:
"Come!" Then she added, "Molly!" with deep relief, running to throw her arms about the woman
who en-tered, a liberty Molly would never have allowed nor-mally. For she was as set in her idea of the
perfect lady's maid as Persis was schooled to be the lady in charge of Uncle Augustin's household.
"Miss Persis, you'll catch your death!" Molly freed herself and shook out a light cloak from the bundle
she carried, putting it around the girl's shoulders. "It's a mercy we ain't all at the bottom of that there sea, so
it is!" "Where's Uncle Augustin?"
"Now you have no call to fret, Miss Persis. He's as snug set as a baby in a hearth cradle. Shubal
has took him some soup and he swallowed near all of it. That the good Lord brought us safe to land is a
mighty mercy—"
"But where are we?"
"This is Lost Lady Key, leastways that is what they call it. And you've been sleeping right in
Captain Lev-erett's own bed. This is his house."
"Who is Captain Leverett?" Persis' head ached. If Uncle Augustin had his faithful Shubal in
attendance, she need not worry about him for the moment. Molly's calm had its effect, for she was acting
as if it were the most natural thing in the world for Persis Rooke, a most respectable lady, to wake up in the
bed of an un-known captain in a house she did not even remember entering.
"Why he's the one who rescued us. It was he as got you into the boat so his men could bring us
ashore. Don't you remember that, Miss Persis?"
The pirate—oh, she remembered all right! Persis set her teeth. It was not likely she'd ever forget
being thrown about. Molly could talk of being saved, but surely one did not have to be treated like that!
"It was a bad reef the Arrow got hooked on," Molly continued. "Though Captain Leverett thinks
they might be able to pull the ship off once she's lightened of cargo. They've been bringing in stuff out of
the hold since last night."
"Wreckers!" Persis sniffed.
"We was right glad to see them, Miss Persis. It's these wreckers as save ships, lives, too. And Captain
Leverett, he's a proper gentleman. Gave orders to get the doctor for Mr. Augustin. There's a real doctor liv-ing here,
though he don't do much doctoring anymore. Seems he's more interested in planting things to watch 'em grow, or so
Mrs. Pryor says. But he ain't forgot his doctoring when there's a need for it. He said as how Mr. Augustin has had a
bad shock, and the wetting didn't do him no good neither. He looked at you, too, Miss Persis. Seems like when you fell
into the boat you got a knock on the head. But he said that was no great matter—just to let you sleep it off."
"I—" Persis pushed impatiently at her tangled hair. The past few days had been a bad dream. First the awful
seasickness which had kept her captive in her cabin in spite of all her will to conquer it—then the ter-ror of being
tossed about in the storm—the final shud-dering crash—
"You'll be all right, Miss Persis. And Miss Lydia, the Captain's own sister, is lending you some clothes. I'll go
and get 'em. That there dress you had on is ruined. But first—" Molly went out to get a tray on which was a mug, with
a saucer set on top of it, and alongside a respectable silver spoon.
"They've a real good cook here," the maid an-nounced. There was satisfaction in her praise, for Molly and
Uncle Augustin's cook were old enemies, enjoying a feud Persis sometimes suspected was high-ly satisfactory to
both. "This broth has real body to it. You get that inside you, Miss Persis, and you'll feel a lot better. You look washed
out." Persis averted her eyes from the mirror. Washed out was a very mild term for what she saw there now.
"I look worse than that," she agreed with dismal frankness as she picked up the spoon. The liquid in the mug
did smell good and, for the first time in days, she felt hungry instead of squeamish.
"My trunk is down there—" she gestured to the win-dow. "Can you get them to bring it up? I'd rather wear
my own things."
She had fretted so over those dresses since Uncle Augustin had suddenly decided to make this trip to the
Bahamas where it was supposed to be so very much warmer, that the heavy silks and woolens one needed in New
York would not be proper. She had had such a difficulty shopping for muslins, a light silk or two at the beginning of
the fall season. The whole con-tents of that trunk were the result of much time and effort. And she had had to be very
careful in the cost of her selections because Uncle Augustin's affairs were in such a muddle after the disastrous fire
last year when half of the city had gone up in flames.
"Them things'll all need washing and tendin' to," Molly announced. "So you'll have to wait on wearin' 'em."
She eyed her mistress measuringly. "Miss Lydia, now, she's a might fuller at the waist—for all her lac-ing—but not too
much." Persis sighed; now she was going to hear Molly's standard comments on her own deficiencies.
"I know I'm as thin as a rail. But I'm just made that way, Molly, no matter how much I eat. All right—it's plain
I'll have to wear something and if Miss Leverett is kind enough to offer, I must be gracious enough to accept."
But she was not. Persis hated the thought of wear-ing someone else's clothing. Such a small thing to trouble
her when she ought just to be glad they were safe. One thing she was sure of—to go to sea again (if the Arrow was
ever patched up or they were offered other transportation) was going to require all the for-titude she could
summon.
Two hours later she was more at ease with herself and her world. A slim black girl brought in cans
of hot water and Molly had washed all the salt stickiness out of her hair, brushing and toweling it dry. She
was laced into a muslin far more elaborate in trimming than any from her own trunk. In fact, suited for at
least a for-mal tea drinking.
The gown was lemon colored (to compliment her own brown hair and rather sallow skin) with the
fash-ionable full sleeves, tight from shoulder to elbow and then billowing out in twin puffs of undersleeves of
lace. A cobweb-fine lace edged the cape-wide bertha. And the neckline had a turndown collar finished off
with a bow. There was even an apron of sheer muslin with a deeply ruched border.
Molly had skillfully braided her hair into the up-standing loops on the top of her head, though her
side curls in this humid damp were more flyaway wisps than proper ringlets. Yet this time Persis faced the
mirror with hardly any more assurance. She did not think all these frills became her. Her face was too thin,
her high-bridged nose too sharp. Yes, she had the look —the slight look—of a schoolmarm.
"Uncle Augustin—" Duty nipped her again.
"Still sleepin', Miss Persis. Shubal is sittin' there right beside him should anything be needed. But no
harm your lookin' in on him."
Molly opened the door of the chamber and pointed to another directly across the hall.
"Miss Lydia and Mrs. Pryor—they are down on the veranda. You go down them stairs and straight
ahead -"Persis nodded, tapped lightly on her uncle's door.
Shubal peered out at her, his gray whiskers a disorder-ly fringe about his meager face. He waved her in, but
set his finger to his lips in warning.
Here was another huge bed with netting falling from the tester above. Against the pillows which sup-ported
his head and shoulders (her uncle had to sleep nearly upright since his illness) the old man's face was clay-white. His
thin hair stood up like the crest of one of those strange birds sailors sometimes brought home, and his mouth hung
open a little as he breathed in shallow puffs. His eyes were closed.
And it was the eyes which had and did make Uncle Augustin so alive as a person. Their bright, inquiring blue
had been the first thing Persis had noticed when he had brought her to live with him after he retired from traveling in
foreign parts.
Somehow she had never thought of him as being old, though he had been the eldest of a long family and her
father was the youngest of the lot. Now when she looked at that pinched and weary face, the eyes shut, a stab of fear
chilled her. She could not believe in a fu-ture which did not include Uncle Augustin—his wry humor, his keen wit, and
his always interested mind. Though he had also had a reserve, so that her affection was born of duty and appreciation,
not love.Not many men of his age would have taken an or-phaned niece of eight into their house. He had given her
every comfort but had always kept her at a dis-tance, forging a barrier Persis never tried to pierce.
However, her situation was hardly different from that of Sally Madison or Caroline Briggs, who had shared
her studies at Miss Pickett's Academy for Young Ladies and had been her closest friends. For both Sally and Caroline
seemed to fear their fathers and hold all older gentlemen in awe.
But Uncle Augustin, as remote as he was, was al-ways there. He shared no confidences, of course. She had
been astounded when he had first told her of his decision to sail to the Bahamas. Though she had guessed that the
situation of Rooke and Company, as a result of the fire, had been a worry which had brought on his first attack.
He had appeared to recover so well from that. Then he said a voyage to a warmer climate was all he needed to
put him on his feet again. Persis suspected that more than his health had occupied his mind during the past few
months. Mr. Hogue, the lawyer, had come so many times to the house.
And there had been that hunt through the attic storeroom for a certain box. Which, when found, con-tained
little more than a packet of old letters. Yet Uncle Augustin had been delighted with those.
Shubal touched her arm and motioned to the door. She nodded and went out, the manservant following her.
He had always been as silent as Uncle Augustin, but his lips were trembling now and he kept glancing back, which
added to Persis' uneasiness.
"He—he looks worse!" she blurted out.
"It's the Lord's good mercy he ain't dead!" Shubal's voice quavered. "His heart—the doctor fears for him—I
know it. Though he said naught to me. You must speak with him, Miss Persis. Perhaps he'll tell you the truth."
"I will." The truth they must certainly have. This doctor might be the best they had on the island. But surely
Key West might house a better one. How far were they now from that port? Could Uncle Augustin be taken there—or
could a doctor be summoned here? Persis shivered, remembering the fury of the storm. To go to sea again—
"Thank you, Miss." Shubal's hand shook as he reached for the door latch. He must care a lot for Uncle
Augustin, they had been together for years and years. Now the signs of his caring made her feel guilty. Uncle
Augustin really meant more to Shubal than he did to her. Yet he had given her so much. Everything, another part of
her mind whispered—but himself.
"Miss Rooke-"
Startled, Persis looked to the head of the stairs. There stood a woman of the same sturdy build as Molly, but
clad with far more elegance in a gray mus-lin, a ribboned cap on her gray-brown hair which was dressed high in the
manner of a much earlier time. Yet this style became her round, rather highly colored face better than the modern curls.
She had the air of one used to giving orders and now offered her hand with assurance.
"I am Mrs. Pryor."
A housekeeper perhaps, but no servant, not even what might be deemed an "upper" one, Persis deduced.
The girl curtsied as she would to the mother of one of her friends.
"Please, can you tell me how my uncle is?" If the doctor had shared the truth with anyone of this household,
it must have been with the very competent appearing Mrs. Pryor.
For a moment she was eyed measuringly, and then the answer came:
"He is an old man, and one in a perilous state of health. The storm and the wreck—well, they have not been
good for him. But I have seen many recoveries which were unexpected. One does not go until one's time comes, and he
is fighting—" Her words were far from reassuring.
"The doctor—he—?" Persis did not know how to put into plain language a question concerning his
competence.
But Mrs. Pryor seemed to divine what she could not bring herself to ask.
"Dr. Veering is a very good physician. Having a ten-dency toward lung disorder, as a young man he went to
stay several years in Panama. Some time ago he came here and began to experiment with plants, to see how many of
the useful tropical ones could be grown this far north. Captain Leverett has fostered his proj-ect and given him Verde
Key for his garden. But he lives on Lost Lady, and we are lucky. You can accept that he knows his calling well."
"Thank you—" Persis was a little subdued. Mrs. Pryor's unassailable dignity was having the same quelling
effect on her as Miss Pickett's had had—re-ducing one to the status of a schoolgirl. This state of affairs she began to
resent. "Now, my dear Miss Rooke—" The housekeeper be-came as brisk as Miss Pickett when she was about to
order someone to do something for "her own good." "Why not go down to the veranda—there is luncheon waiting.
And since the storm has blown itself out, it is quite pleasant there."
Persis' inner reaction was the same as it had been to Miss Pickett's suggestions—to do just the opposite. But
that was only silly childishness. So she went.
Her journey, short as it was, through the lower floor of the house proved (to her surprise) that Captain
Leverett's residence could match any in the better part of New York. A wealth of furnishings, and the thick carpets
were outstanding. Wrecker's loot, Persis thought disdainfully, though she looked about with a curiosity she could not
control. Since her knowledge of what went on in the Keys (rank piracy, some of the shipowners her uncle had known
wrathfully termed it) was founded mainly on their conversation, she had little liking for what she saw. It was true that a
wrecker must be licensed by the government, that he must agree on rescue fees with the captain of the unfortunate
vessel he boarded, and he was further bound by the law to hold legal auction of the cargo. But the fact remained that
he prospered from the ill luck of others—richly, if this house was any indication.
At least the wreckers now operated under American law, and those from the Bahamas (about whom there
were some dark stories) were forbidden these waters. Though there were always rumors of lure lights and the like to
bring ships into danger.
Persis went out on the veranda and stopped short. She had forgotten the mound foundation of the house she
had sighted from her chamber window. Now she seemed to be on a hill from which one could look down on a sea of
green growth and white, shell-strewn sand.
Several chairs made of cane stood by a table on which the dishes were covered by a netting not unlike that
used to curtain the beds. And seated on one of those chairs was a young girl who stared at Persis with something near
to open rudeness.
Her hair, of a very pale shade of gold, was very elaborately dressed, the upper knot based by a band of
flowers. And her complexion had manifestly been well guarded from the glare of the southern sun. But her brows and
lashes were dark, giving an arresting vivid-ness to her features which Persis thought a little bold. There was very little
color in her cheeks, but her small mouth, with its pouting lower lip, was moistly red as if she had been recently sucking
a cinnamon sweetmeat.
Now she smiled, her beflowered head a little atilt, her dark-fringed eyes narrowed.
"I never did like that gown. The color is certainly more yours than mine." Her frank appraisal was deliv-ered in
a way which suggested there might be some-thing just a little common in being able to wear lemon muslin to any
advantage.
"I have to thank you very much for the loan of it," Persis returned with the same briskness. She must watch
her tongue. However, she did not greatly warm to Miss Lydia Leverett, even on this very short ac-quaintance. And it
was not like her to take such an in-stant aversion to anyone.
"Welcome to Lost Lady Key—" Lydia waved a hand to the chair opposite her own. "At least the storm is
over. If you sit here, you will have your back to the sea. Doubtless you have seen enough of that for the present!"
There was something about Miss Leverett's disre-gard of all social formalities and niceties which seemed to
put Persis on the defensive.
"Such an odd name—Lost Lady." She seized upon the first subject she could think of, not wishing to
dis-cuss the wreck.
"Not when you know the story. There was a lady and she was lost—or disappeared," Lydia returned. "She is
our ghost now. Be warned. Some say she brings ill luck to those natives unfortunate enough to meet her.
"This was a pirate hold a hundred years ago. In fact, the foundation of this house was part of a fort built by
Satin-shirt Jack. And before him there was the mound— that was made by the Old Ones." Lydia was watching her
guest, a queer little quirk about her lips as she paused. "Some of the islanders tell tales about them—all blood
and sacrifice. They were supposed to be giants able to shoot one of their arrows straight through a
Spaniard's breastplate.
"But the Spanish finally killed them all—unless that dirty old witch, Askra, is really one of them. She
looks as if she is old enough to be so, goodness knows. Then the pirates under Jack raided the Spanish and
killed all of them—except the lady. She was the Com-mandant's wife or daughter or something like that, so
Jack claimed her as part of his share. Until he was found dead and she was gone—
"The Spanish came back again—or so it went. Do I frighten you, Miss Rooke, with all these bloody
tales? This is a place which should be haunted—enough has happened here. And the islanders swear that
the ghosts do walk."
Persis smiled. If Lydia thought such childish stories were in the least alarming, she must have a
very low impression of Persis' intelligence. "Many old places have odd stories about them," she answered
com-posedly. "Even in New York."
"New York!" Lydia sat up straighter. "How I would like to go back to New York! Indeed, visit
almost any place apart from this one!" She arose abruptly and went to stand by the rail of the veranda,
looking frowningly out over Lost Lady Key.
2
"Have you been to New York then?" Persis eyed her hostess with some impatience. She was hungry, but it
was not polite to help herself without invitation.
Lydia's full skirts swirled out as she turned abrupt-ly. "Me—in New York?" She laughed angrily. "I
have been to school in Charlestown, and to Key West, and that is all—since Crewe chose to come here.
But I was born in New York—only now I can't remember it at all."
She came back to the table and twitched away the net with a vigor which matched her sharp tone.
"To be imprisoned here—it is enough to make one see ghosts—and have all sorts of strange
fancies when one is bored."
She ate only a few mouthfuls of bread spread with a thick conserve. But Persis made a healthy meal of
bis-cuits, some fruit that was strange to her, and several slices of ham cut paper thin but nonetheless tasty. There was
a custard, too, which had an unfamiliar fla-vor but which she relished.
Lydia put her elbows on the table, supported her chin on her clasped hands, and fastened her gaze on Persis.
"Tell me about New York," she commanded.
Persis had just started to speak when she was inter-rupted by a loud braying noise. In a second Lydia was on
her feet, heading for the door of the house.
"Ship sighted—" She gave only that small bit of in-formation as she darted within.
Catching some of her hostess' excitement, Persis fol-lowed. Lydia was already near the top of the stairs, her
skirts gathered up in both hands so she could climb faster.
Three flights they climbed, the third much narrow-er and more steep—to emerge on a flat space open to the
roof, railed about. Lydia jerked a spyglass out of a box fastened against that rail. With it to one eye she peered
seaward."He dared it!" her voice was high with excitement. "That's the Stormy Luck coming in, it is!" She was smiling
now. "Oh, won't Crewe be furious! I can hard-ly wait to see his face when he finds her here."
"Is that your brother's ship—?" Persis was puzzled.
"No. His is the Nonpareil. They're trying to get the Arrow off that reef. This is Ralph's ship—Ralph Gril-lon.
He's from the Bahamas."
"But I thought," Persis shaded her eyes, but with-out the aid of a glass all she could make out was a dis-tant
shadow, "that the Bahama wreckers did not come into these waters—"
Lydia made an impatient sound. "The sea isn't fenced in like a field. And the Bahama men were
here long before us. They have their rights, even though people like Crewe are too high-handed to credit
them with such. Ralph takes the Stormy Luck where he wants—and it can show its stern well away from
any cutter out of Key West that tries to make trouble. Anyway, Ralph—" now her smile was both amused
and sly, "has a special reason for coming here." With-out offering the glass to Persis she fitted it back in its
case. "But even he can't make the wind stronger," she continued. "It may be several hours before—"
Then she paused, looking no longer to the sea but down to what lay immediately below the house. And her
smile vanished in a distinct scowl.
Persis followed the other's gaze. The mound on which the house had been erected might be ground
linked with the rest of the key on the opposite side, but here water lapped at its foot and there was a
channel, leading straight out to sea. The channel opening was flanked by the wharf still piled high with bales
and boxes.
A small boat had been launched from the wharf, two men at its oars, and it was at that Lydia
stared. She made a fist which she brought down with some force on the railing.
"Johnny Mason!" she spat the name. "He heard the conch horn and he's off to tell Crewe, the
meddler!" She shrugged. "Let him. It won't profit him—or Crewe any."
Lydia whisked to the top of the ladder like stairs which Persis had not noticed were so very steep
when she had climbed them. Now she descended with cau-tion, guessing Lydia to be lost in her own
thoughts and forgetful of her. However, in the upper hall, the other girl paused to look over her shoulder.
That look of discontent, faint as it had been, was gone. Her smile no longer was either angry or sly.
"You asked about the Lost Lady," she dismissed the subject of the Stormy Luck and its captain, rather to
Persis' bewilderment. "I'll have time to show you the fan—the ghost fan itself."
Now she linked arms with Persis—as if they were the best and closest of friends, leaving Persis a little
dis-turbed at this swift change—and drew her into a bed-room which flanked the stair at the head of the hall.
"Sukie," Lydia spoke impatiently to the black maid who was folding body linen away in the drawers of a
magnificently carved chest, "you can* leave that. Go tell Mam Rose that we'll have company for dinner, special
company. We want the Napoleon china and the best of silver. Mind now!"
"Yes'm." Sukie disappeared, leaving some disorder in the room which, Persis suspicioned, was of Lydia's
initial making. Her hostess was rummaging in what looked to be an old sea chest, talking as she hunted:
"You won't get any of the islanders to touch the thing; they all say it's the worst kind of luck. Crewe found it
in this—" she prodded the side of the chest with her toe, "all buried under some rocks—what was left of the old pirate
fort. I begged him for it. Sukie and the rest know I have it. They think I can ill-wish them or some such foolishness, so
they step carefully when I give the orders. It's a handy thing. Ah, here it is!"
She came into the full light of an open window carrying a carved box which she opened to take out a fan,
spreading its sticks to their fullest extent in the sunlight.
Persis had seen the brise fans of intricately carved ivory which the China merchants sometimes offered for
sale. And those made in the same fashion of pierced sandal wood, to be used in summer—the perfume of the wood
was supposed to be restorative on a very warm day. But this was like and yet unlike either. It was made of carved
sticks strung together with ribbon, yes. But the wood of the sticks was dead black. And the heavier end pieces each
bore the head of a cat in high relief, the eyes of which were fashioned of shimmering dark blue stones. While the inner
carving was again that of cats stalking among grasses, sleeping, sitting.
"Those are what they call black opals," Lydia indi-cated the eye stones. "There was a jeweler in Key West
who told Crewe that. And he thinks this may be near two or three hundred years old—but he was not sure whether it
was made in China or Italy. But it's magic—the Lost Lady is supposed to have used it to kill Satin-shirt Jack, and then
fanned herself out of existence afterward." Lydia laughed. "Go ahead, take it; these cats neither scratch nor bite—at
least they never have me!"
Persis put out her hand with some reluctance. The fan was strange, even though it was beautiful. But it gave
her an uncanny feeling—even though she did not believe in its supposed ill luck. She held it close to study the cats.
They had—she searched for the right term—a rather unnatural look. In fact, as she held the fan open she had an odd
fancy that they were all star-ing at her measuringly. Quickly she closed the fan and handed it back to Lydia.
"It is indeed unusual," she commented and knew that Lydia was watching her closely as if expecting some
reaction to mark Persis as superstitious as the islanders.
"Yes," Lydia dropped it back in its box and, return-ing that to the chest, made no move to pick up the
gar-ments she had spilled out during her search. "Oddly enough, even though this is always here, when she
walks the ghost holds it in her hand. I find the idea of a ghost fan amusing. Now, I must find Mrs. Pryor. If
I don't coax her a bit, she won't bring out the best wine — Come along if you like."
Persis shook her head. "I must see about my uncle. Thank you."
When she tapped on the door of that chamber Shu-bal opened it instantly, as if he had been
anxiously awaiting her.
"Miss Persis—please—the master is awake. And he's asking for you."
She should have been here earlier. Why had she let Lydia interfere with her sense of duty? Persis
hurried to the side of the bed. It was strange to be looking down instead of up into those wide eyes. For
even in his old age, Uncle Augustin was a tall man who, until his illness, had held himself confidently
straight."I am here, sir. I am sorry I was not earlier—"
He raised a hand as if by great effort. "No matter—" His voice, though hoarse, still had its remote,
courte-ous tone.
"There is something I must explain to you, Persis." He stopped between words to draw puffing
breaths she felt uneasy hearing. "We are always vain of our strength, unconsidering of our weakness.
I—perhaps I have made a mistake in undertaking this, even a griev-ous error. Yet looking back I cannot
see how I might have chosen differently.
"You know that the failure of Rooke and Company seriously compromised those funds which are
our sup-port. I might have been able to redeem those losses had not time been my enemy. I am too old,
which is a hard thing to admit."
His straight gaze dared her to make any comment of sympathy.
"Three months ago—" he paused and coughed. Shu-bal nearly elbowed Persis aside, then that hand
raised again to wave the servant away with such vigor that he drew back. "I received a communication of
some import. We have, as do all families, our secrets. Doubt-less you have never heard of Amos Rooke."
He did not wait for any answer from her.
"During the days of our Revolution, my father had a younger brother, Amos. He sought out strange
com-pany, mingling with the young British officers who were on duty in occupied New York. In other
words, he declared himself a 'loyalist.' When the British army at last evacuated the city, he gathered
together quite a sum in funds, some of it stolen from his own country-men. With this he sailed to the West
Indies. "However, a certain portion of those funds did not come from traitorous dealings with the enemy;
rather, they had been entrusted to him by his widowed moth-er, meant to be the marriage portion of his
sister and for her own support in her declining years.
"When he fled New York he left no accounting of these monies. It was my father and later my
brother Julian and I who supported my grandmother. We learned that Amos had established himself well in
the Bahamas where he built and crewed two wreckers. In time he married a widow and had one son. But
that son was lost at sea. Therefore, Amos had no legal heirs. He left his estate when he died to his widow,
a woman of prudence and frugality and, as some of the ladies of the islands, also holding shares in wrecking
ships. But in addition, she was also a very honest female.
"It was while she was dealing with her husband's estate that she came upon letters written by my
grandmother urging Amos to return her funds; letters which, incidentally, he had never answered. His
widow at once wrote to New York and offered to make up the sum in question. At that time I was our
representative in London and so out of touch. Julian, my grandmoth-er, and my Aunt Eleanor, all died within
two weeks of each other of yellow fever which struck hard that summer. I was summoned home but the
letter was de-layed in reaching me and it was some months before I found that from Amos' widow.
"At that time I was engrossed by the company af-fairs and, since the debt was owed to my
grandmother, I thanked Madam Rooke by letter but said that I con-sidered the debt discharged by the
deaths of those con-cerned. I did not think of this again for years.
"However, shortly before the fire which reduced our circumstances so greatly, I received word
from an at-torney in the islands that Madam Rooke, who had lived to a great age, was lately dead. And her
will had left all her extensive property to be equally divided between my grandmother's kin and certain
charities. The sum willed to us amounted to a sizable one.
"Thus I gathered the letters and papers in that case —" He made a slight gesture to the bedside
table where lay a small, locked portfolio. "Those prove the validity of our claim."
His face was near gray though he spoke clearly and with his usual deliberate spacing of words.
Now he paused and Shubal pushed past the girl to hold a small glass to his master's bluish lips. Uncle
Augustin sipped, then raised his head slowly once more. His eyes did not dismiss Persis. Rather there was
a fierce deter-mination in them which spread to his drawn face.
"You"—shallow gusts of hardly drawn breath punc-tuated his sentence—"must remember!"
"I will, Uncle Augustin."
Now his eyes closed and Shubal waved her back without speaking. The servant followed her to the door as if
he must make very sure she would go. But his attention was fixed on the man in the bed.
Persis returned to the chamber across the hall. So there had been a real reason for this voyage to the is-lands,
more than just the quest for the health that Uncle Augustin would never find again. She stood by the window which
looked down on the wharf.
There were no men busy there now, though boxes and bales remained. Perhaps their warehouse had been
filled. A bird with vividly colored wings and a harsh cry swept past, to be lost in the thick green rim-ming the pool and
the canal. Seaward, that smudge Lydia had named a ship was taking on more visible outlines.
But closer there was a craft making its way up the canal. And this was no ship's boat; rather a narrow,
battered looking canoe made of a single huge log hol-lowed out, in which sat a single paddler. It advanced at a
sluggish pace in spite of the efforts of the paddler who headed straight for a small wharf at the foot of the mound on
which the house stood. Catching hold of one of the stakes there, the paddler—now obviously a woman— scrambled
out, to stand erect, winding a twist of rope around the stake to anchor the strange vessel.
A fringed skirt of tanned hide flapped about her legs and a wide-brimmed hat woven of some reed or frond
covered her head, so that Persis, from this higher level, could see nothing of the newcomer's face. The strang-er
stooped to pick up a hide-wrapped bundle and, settling this on one bony hip, started to the house, climb-ing a series
of hardly noticeable notches in the hillside to disappear around the side of the outer wall.
The canoe bobbed lazily at the post. Farther out, the ship which had so excited Lydia was entering the
anchorage by the reef. Men gathered on the larger wharf, watching it. There was something about their attitude which
suggested no good will toward the in-truder—even as if they were about to consider defense against an invasion.
Persis remembered tales that the Bahama wreckers and those from the Keys had been, not too long ago either,
bitter enemies. And there had been hints of se-cret battles fought far away enough so that no neutral watchers had
witnessed such.
Though the law had now settled boundaries and many of the Bahamians and their families moved to the Keys
rather than lose their livelihood, old jealousy and hatred might still smolder under the surface. Cer-tainly what Lydia
had said suggested that Captain Leverett held little or no liking for the master of the vessel now coming to anchor in a
domain he had made his own.
Persis moved away from the window. Lydia seemed very sure of herself, preparing to give this Captain Ralph
Grillon the welcome of an honored guest. But— once more her own single vivid memory of those last moments on
board the Arrow when the master of this Key had dumped her into his boat like a bale of goods, made Persis wonder a
little at the other girl's defiance. The impression which remained in her own mind of Captain Leverett was that he was
certainly a man to be reckoned with.
So perhaps there were storm clouds of another kind ahead. But that was none of her concern. More important
than any arrivals by canoe or ship, arrivals which had nothing to do with her affairs, was Uncle Augus-tin's story.
He must feel—her breath caught a little—he must feel very ill. He, who had always been so self-sufficient and
the master of his destiny, and of hers too, who had waved aside that earlier offer of repayments—must now face dire
necessity to make this trip to claim funds from a stranger. And now to tell her about it. Funds tainted with dishonest
dealing. Uncle Augustin was a truly honorable man. Was he entirely ruined then?
A tap on the door interrupted her unpleasant chain of thought. She lifted the latch to find Molly outside, and
behind her two of the island men carrying Persis' trunk between them. Molly waved them in, her round face one
determined scowl. After they had set down their burden and were gone, the maid sniffed.
"Fees indeed!" She snapped at the door closing be-hind them. "They dare to talk about fees, do they—?"
"What fees?"
Hands on her hips, her face flushed, Molly fronted the girl.
"Seems like those rescued by these seagoin' var-mints are supposed to fee them for not being left to drown!
Never did I hear such un-Christian talk! Wasn't my own father one of them at the Cape who went out in the boats
when there was a ship a-reef at home? And there was no talk then of fees—that I'll give oath on!"
Persis' own indignation arose. All of a piece—this wrecking. You rescued a ship, or at least its cargo, and
settled with the Captain for either a fee or else the goods to be auctioned. So of course it would naturally follow that
the passengers, also saved, had to fee the wreckers in turn. But she fully agreed with Molly's outraged feelings.
"Did they quote you a sum?" She strove to control her anger. Certainly Uncle Augustin was not going to be
bothered by this! Though what she could do, except ask Captain Leverett for a reasonable time to pay, Persis did not
guess. The more she thought of this sys-tem, the hotter her anger grew.
"I did not ask," Molly returned. "Knowin' as how this was yours I just told them straight out to bring it here.
Might be all in it is ruined by water anyway. Then that there big Irishman, him who bosses the wharf crew, said as how
this couldn't be moved 'cause it was cargo. I give him the sharp of my tongue about that, I can tell you! Cargo, eh! And
I had some things to say about this fee business that one won't be forget-tin' in a hurry.
"I told him the master was sick abed and not likely to be able to talk fees. And that he wasn't to bother you
with such foolish wickedness neither. I don't think," Molly ended on a note of satisfaction, "we'll hear any more about
it—not from that one anyway."
So they were not really guests, Persis thought. Cap-tain Leverett's house might as well be an inn, in spite of
all its luxury. Mrs. Pryor ought to be able to straighten out the status of such uninvited intruders. Of all under this
roof, Persis believed Mrs. Pryor the best to question frankly. And it was up to her to do it.
She had no idea of what funds Uncle Augustin car-ried—whether they could so meet their "ransom" when
this pirate wrecker demanded it. But if she could gain some idea of the sum— They must be able to pay the doctor
also. And there would be their passage on to Key West, and from there to the Bahamas. She, who had never handled
more than the household accounts in her life, was more than a little disturbed.
Molly was busy with the trunk. Perhaps Persis could find Mrs. Pryor and get it settled about their
status under this roof as soon as possible. Murmuring that she had an errand, Persis went back into the hall
and down the front stairs. Raised voices drew her to the back part of the house.
"You know, Miss Lydia, what the Captain would say—and do, if he were home."
"Yes, but he isn't. And if he can open his precious house to these people he dragged off the A
rrow—then I can entertain a friend. My friend. And I'm not asking any leave of Crewe, which I couldn't
any way—since he is not at home. Mam Rose and Sukie are to do just as I told them—the best china and
linen and good food. Ralph Grillon is no seagoing trash. He has every bit as much authority in the islands as
Crewe assumes here. And I am not going to be ashamed of this house when he visits. I saw Mason go off
to warn Crewe, but it'll be hours, if ever, before he has that wreck off the reef and ready to bring in. I
heard him say so. In the meantime, I am entertaining a gentleman and giving him such hospitality as we are
noted for—" Her voice rose higher with every vehement word.
Persis, embarrassed, wanting to be away from her involuntary eavesdropping, took several steps
back-ward. So when she bumped into someone who must have entered very quietly indeed, it gave her
such a start she nearly lost her balance. A hand fell on her arm, grasping her firmly, and she turned to look
over her shoulder up into the sun-and-sea-browned face of a stranger.
"Steady as you go, ma'am!" The laughter in his eyes matched the curve of his lips. "Never thought
I'd be a reef to bring up short such a pretty craft—"
His eyes were not only laughing, but bold. Persis stiffened, not caring for the way he deliberately
looked her up and down. As if she were a ship and he was con-sidering purchasing her.
He wore a blue jacket with brass buttons which the sea air had not been allowed to tarnish, and his
hair curled about his forehead, for his head was bare though he held an officer's cap in one hand. She had
to look well up, for in height he matched Uncle Augus-tin's inches. But he was sparkling alive, having none
of her uncle's aloof reserve.
Persis flushed, realizing she had been staring at him almost as boldly as he had eyed her. Now,
dropping his hand from her arm, he bowed.
"Ralph Grillon, at your service, ma'am," he intro-duced himself. There was the faintest of accents in
his voice. She found it interesting. "Very much at your service."
She thought he accented that "your" and blushed a little deeper as with a cry of "Ralph!" Lydia
came run-ning down the hall, both hands outstretched in very open and informal greeting.
3
Persis had no chance to confer with Mrs. Pryor over the vexing questions concerning fees. Everything now
centered about the very dashing Captain Grillon as Lydia made very sure it must. It was apparent that she
was completely captivated by her guest, her de-meanor far from proper when she showed such a marked
preference. Persis, so carefully schooled in the restraint of Uncle Augustin's household, so well taught in
the manners of Miss Pickett's Academy, was embarrassed by Lydia's exuberance. And then trou-bled
somewhat on her own account when she became aware that Captain Grillon was making a determined
effort to include her in their company, in spite of Ly-dia's beginning frowns.
That the Captain was handsome Persis admitted, against her better judgment, for he was too handsome
somehow. And she found his familiar way of address-ing both her and Lydia increasingly disturbing. Final-ly she
made an excuse of the necessity of attending on her uncle and managed to reach the chamber which had been given
her. There she found Molly shaking her head over the creased and dampened contents of the trunk.
"Just look at this!" The maid held up a flounced dress of pale-green spotted muslin. But there were other
spots on it now and the ruffles hung damply limp. "I'll wash and iron them. But, Miss Persis, some of these ain't never
goin' to look nice and fresh again— I'll give you my word on that!"
Perhaps an hour ago the implied destruction of her wardrobe might have been a catastrophe for Persis. But
now, though she did not in the least want to con-tinue wearing the charity of Lydia Leverett, she had more important
matters on her mind.
"Molly!" She raised her voice, lacing it with author-ity to get her companion's full attention. "Is there a way
you can arrange for me to speak privately with Mrs. Pryor?"
"Now there's one with her head firmly on her shoul-ders," commented the maid. "She runs this house, for all
the show of Miss Lydia being mistress. She had a boarding house down in Key West 'til the Captain got her to take
over here. A widow woman who—"
"Molly!" Persis' voice became even more crisp. "I don't care about her history. I just want to talk with her.
Miss Lydia is entertaining a guest and I do not care to journey about the house, hunting her—"
"You wouldn't find her if you did, Miss Persis. Not right now. She took off with that old witch who came up to
the kitchen door. Cook and the maids let out such a screech when that happened m'heart fair stopped a beat. I wonder
that you didn't hear them, Miss Persis—them screaming so. None of them would go near the old hag, but Mrs. Pryor
just took up a bas-ket and filled it right up with bread and cheese and good thick slices off a cold roast. Then she and
that witch took off together. Strangest thing I ever did see —Mrs. Pryor, she being so proper and neat, and that other
one—" Molly sniffed disparagingly.
Persis was interested in spite of herself. "What do you mean by a witch, Molly?"
"She sure looked like one, Miss Persis. Got a face on her 'bout a hundred years old, nose and chin coming as
near one another as the parts of a nutcracker, and her eyes all sunk in. But she isn't blind—she could see good enough
with them eyes. I wouldn't want to have her overlookin' me with 'em—not if she took some sort of a spite to me.
"After they were gone, cook tells me as how this witch woman has powers all right. Indian she is, but not like
the rest of the Indians hereabouts. They're all afraid of her, too. She speaks as good as a Christian if she wants to and
she has healing powers. She brings Mrs. Pryor leaves and herbs and such things for nurs-ing. Mrs. Pryor is well
known for a nurse. Did all the doctoring on the Key before the real doctor came.
"And the Captain, he lets this old witch come around and gives her what she wants—'cause of those other
Indians—the raiding ones. As long as this here Askra is friendly, then maybe they won't try to move in. They say as
how it was her people who lived here a long time ago, and built their houses on mounds. Askra, she comes to talk to
the ghosts of the Old Ones. Leastways that is what they say in the kitchen. Sounds like a lot of real nonsense, only
when you see them eyes of hers lookin' you over you begin to wonder a little."
Persis was amazed at the new angle of life on Lost Lady Key. The figure she had seen disembark
from the canoe, that must have been Askra. And that the very correct Mrs. Pryor would accompany such
a visitor anywhere was another surprise.
"They're talking about trouble comin', them in the kitchen. More than just this witch." Molly dearly
loved to gossip, but it was seldom she had such unusu-al material to work with. "They don't take kindly to
that ship out there," she gestured to the window. "One of the men has gone to warn the Captain about it.
Seems like the Captain don't want to be neighborly with this Grillon. They had a run-in 'bout six months
back over some wrecking business. Grillon, he has no right in these waters and the Captain warned him off.
But Miss Lydia took a shine to the man and if he comes courtin' she's partial to it. Now this Grillon says as
how he needs fresh water, his casks got stove up and stalted in the storm. So he comes here. But they think
downstairs as how he really came to spark Miss Lydia, knowing somehow that the Captain ain't here."
Persis went back to the window. Yes, there was now a long boat midway between the Stormy
Luck and the wharf, near enough for her to see it carried some bar-rels. Water was scarce in the Keys,
even Key West had to be supplied by shipped-in water when their rain-filled storage tanks began to fail.
But Lost Lady was unique (which probably accounted for its long habita-tion by different peoples) in that it
had a spring of fresh water, jealously cherished by the islanders, as the captain of the Arrow had told them
one night.
"All this is none of our business, Molly."
"Maybe so, Miss Persis. But when Captain Leverett gets back there is goin' to be such a
rumpus—if this Grillon is still here—as will make you think you are back in a storm again. Now, I'll just take
these and see what can be done to freshen them up." She scooped up an armload of dresses, petticoats, and
underlinen and went out.
Persis settled on a chair by the window. When Cap-tain Leverett returned—yes, she could well
imagine that that great giant who had seized her so roughly would not take easily to having his orders
disobeyed. This was his room, too, and she had no right here. If Uncle Augustin were only as well as he
had been when they left New York. But she was sure she dared not suggest transporting him now, unless
there came a sudden change for the better in his condition. She watched the wharf and the incoming boat.
Her fingers nervously pleating the edge of her apron. What should she do?
Life in New York had never been this complicated. It had revolved with slow and undisturbed
dignity (if a little dully at times) about Uncle Augustin's routine, so regularly kept that Persis could chart her
employ-ment for hours ahead. Then she had been bored. Now she wished herself back in that snug safety
where there were no storms, either human or natural, and all the rest which seemed about to beset this
摘要：

TheOpal-EyedFanByAndreNortonVersion1.0ThoughLostLadyKeydoesnotexist,featuresoftwocoastalislandsandonekeyarecombinedtofurnishitscheckeredhistory.OnSanibelamysteriousracebuiltacityofcanalsandmoundscomposedofshellsandrammedearth,aswellasshell-pavedroads.Theseun­knownpeoplearerumoredtohavebeenexterminat...

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