Blow, Ye Winds, Blow
There was a storm rolling in; the wind was still, but the air crackled with anticipation. The brackish mud smell that always hung over New Orleans intensified, and the sky glowered, green and ominous and pregnant with rain.
Norrington placed another card on the elaborate tower he was building, as if he had no other concern in the world. Anamaria paced and watched the empty street below.
"He's not comin'. If he's not here now, he won't beat the storm."
Norrington was, as usual, infuriatingly indifferent. "He'll come."
Without warning, the sky opened up. Rain pounded on the roof and puddled on the windowsill. Lightning flashed and the dingy curtains billowed with a sudden gust of wind that toppled Norrington's tower, scattering the cards around the room.
Anamaria caught the jack of hearts in her outstretched hand, and repeated flatly, "He's not coming."
"Indeed?"
Perhaps Norrington had heard the footsteps on the stair, because a moment later, the door swung open (stirring the air and causing the cards to eddy and swirl like birds in flight), and there was Jack, dripping wet, and grinning like the devil.
In the end, they were both as wet as he, and they struggled impatiently to strip damp clothes from one another's bodies. Jack's skin was as hot as a flame and rainwater sweet. Norrington was pale and cool and clean; a week out from Port Royal, he still tasted of soap and powder. Together they were gold and silver, the sun and the moon, wicked excess and sensible reserve -- everything a woman could want. Too good to be true, of that Anamaria was certain. Experience had taught her that nothing good could last, but for the moment, she allowed herself to pretend that she could keep this treasure and hold it fast.