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"Jemima turned and spotted the sprinting boys but they were now too faraway to be identified. Anyway, there was no hope of us corseted sissiesever catching them. Our corsets made sure of that. Instead, Jemima gaveme a hug and started to help me clean myself up. She studied my mouththoughtfully."Your lips, they're all bruised darling. Come on, we'll have to tellMistress Portia."All thoughts of the game of 'hide and seek' were dropped as I mincedpainfully into the glade were the other sissies were gathered. I hadsomehow sprained my ankle during my struggles and Jemima had to supportme as we minced unsteadily back to our group."What on earth's happened?" asked Mistress Portia as she studied mydishevelled muddied appearance."Some boys attacked me," I replied tearfully. "They put their hands upmy dress and tried to do me." Oh my gosh! Let me see," announced Mistress Portia matter-of-factly asshe bent down to investigate my under things.Without a thought for my modesty, I raised the hoops. What kind of word was that? Probably a Japanese one, I guess, but it still sounded stupid. I pushed the thoughts to the back of my head as I continued punching, one after another.Sensei Sparrow nodded. “Good job. You’re really coming along.” she remarked. “Work on your footwork next, it’s kind of messy down there, okay?” Without waiting for a response, she walked away, looking after other students. Like many lessons, we were expected to look after ourselves tonight. After all, a disciplined martial artist doesn’t need an authority watching over them to be diligently working… or something like that.However, I was still a white belt, so I had the lack of discipline to be able to say, ‘fuck it.’ I lazily glanced around the room, distracted by anything other than what I was supposed to be doing. Some students were practicing katas, Sensei Sparrow was chastising another Sensei for something involving ‘body dynamics,’ and two brown belts were sparring in the corner of the dojo.Nicole and.
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‘Yes.’ ‘What happened to them? Were they returned to their families?’ ‘Most of them.’ ‘Untouched?’ His haunted gaze met hers briefly and slid away. ‘Some.’ Jean-Pierre, Constance quickly found, was not muchly given to conversation. He passed his mornings in reading or in prayer, and drank himself to sleep each afternoon, where he’d remain dead to the world for hours on end. He rarely looked at her, not even when they were speaking. Yet in his quiet, odd way, he was good company. On her third morning aboard the Falcon, a general cry went up. A ship had been sighted, and the pirates were preparing to attack. No sooner had he heard this than Jean-Pierre went right to his bottles. He drank as if his very life depended on it, and when Constance presumed to ask him, all he would tell her was that if he couldn’t stop the attack, at least he did not have to witness it. Not that there was much to witness from their portholes. Constance could hear the sounds of battle – the other ship had.

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