The Price of Pleasure

Prologue

A journal by Victoria Anne Dearbourne, 1850

January 17
Today is the third day of our time here. Mother, Miss Scott, and I survived the wreck of the Serendipity and drifted in a leaky lifeboat to a deserted isle somewhere in south Oceania. Becalmed for weeks, we'd been unable to escape the approaching typhoon season. Mother said it was as though we'd been held in place for the storm.
When the timbers began to break, the sailors scurried -- like rats, all of them -- to abandon the ship and every one of us. One crashed into Mother -- he didn't even hesitate when she fell into the lifeboat from the height of the deck. Her back was separated and her arm was shattered as well. But she is strong, and I am convinced if we find help, she will recover.
We have not yet found Father. I looked up through the rain and foam and spied him atop the deck, a child in his arms. With the next crack of lightning, the deck was gone. Is it wrong for me to wish he'd left the children screaming down below and escaped? The vile crew did. It doesn't matter what I wish -- he never would have left them.
It was this morning that we received a windfall of supplies from the sea. Mother whispered to me that it is the hand of Fate that brought us these gifts, though Miss Scott says it's only a repeating current -- the same that brought us here (Mother has said that though Camellia Scott is only in her twenties, she is very wise, and so I don't know which version I wish to accept).
Miss Scott and I hauled ashore several trunks, a cask of much needed water, a paddle, and other various goods. Among the trunks, we found the captain's footlocker, and inside was an empty log and a bottle of ink. Miss Scott bade me record our time here.
She probably believes if I am occupied so, I won't be able to see the misery that has befallen us. But I have, and even as I cared for Mother and wrote, I still saw the two bodies that floated in with our bounty. The sea had done awful, awful things to them.
I know Miss Scott dragged them to the edge of the jungle and buried them, because I see the tracks in the sand and her palms blistered from the paddle handle. Miss Scott has only been with us for a short time, and I know she wants to spare us any harshness. But I hope she would tell me if one of the deceased was Father.

January 18
Last night was the first night Mother cried. She tried to be strong, but the pain was too great. Rain began to drizzle and the wind gusted. Miss Scott found flints in the lifeboat and tried time after time to light a fire. It was hopeless, but I think it took her mind from the situation. By the time she'd given up and fallen asleep where she knelt, her hands were sliced and ragged.
Mother told me I must help Miss Scott because "she is so very young for such an important charge."

January 19
I see how much I've written and worry that one log will not be enough, but Miss Scott predicted we will be rescued well before I run out of paper.
Later in the day, she found a map in one of the trunks and tried to determine our location, sending me to look for firewood on the beach despite the fact that we have no fire. When I returned, both she and Mother seemed resigned to staying here for some time. We must be far away from civilization. Though Miss Scott and I beg her, Mother has stopped taking her share of what little water we have left.