As the scenery of Port Royal grew closer and closer, and the boat beneath Charlie Smith's feet sank lower and lower, she gave up bailing out and tossed the bucket aside into the bay's crystal blue waters. Taking hold of the rope which secured the sail, she began to climb up the mast. Near the top her boot slipped and she almost plummeted, but Jack caught her arm and let out a groan as he held her in place, letting her regain her footing and drag herself up onto the crossed beam where he stood. As she gasped and stood herself, she glanced between the cozy white buildings nestled among the mountain greenery and Captain Jack Sparrow.

His gaze was fixed on the dock, which drew closer as the water began to spill over the tiny boat's railing on one side.

"How is it," she began, "that you stumble and wobble so on land, and yet you can stand atop a ship's mast, perfectly at ease?"

His dark, coal-lined eyes turned to her. "Balance is a matter of perspective."

"A matter of perspective," she parroted in a spot-on impression. "Balance is a matter of perspective. Morality is a matter of perspective. Ownership is a matter of perspective. Is there anything finite in this world, to your eye?"

"Can't say for the world, Mate. Perception is a matter of perspective, you see."

"Aye," she agreed with an eye-roll, though she was smiling too as they each extended a leg to make the dock, and stepped in time, side by side, toward the end.

"Hold on there," a man in a powdered wig called out, and they turned to him. "It's a shilling to tie up your boat at the dock. And I shall need to know your name."

Jack glanced at the top of the mast, barely reaching out of the waves, then at his companion.

She smiled. "Well? Pay the man, Captain."

He pressed his lips into a tight line to keep from smiling. He gestured with his hands as he spoke. "Technically, Mate, that was your ship."

"Ownership is a matter of perspective," she said, and drew him closer by his coat, slipping a hand into his pocket. Her probing fingers made him straighten, his eyes widen, but she only fished out a shilling and offered it to the man.

"And a name?"

Jack smiled and offered, "Smith."

"Very well, Mr. Smith, welcome to Port Royal."

As the two pirates turned and walked toward the town, Charlie was pursing her lips so as not to smile. "Really? Mr. Smith."

"Mr. and Mrs. Smith, if you prefer."

"Are you suggesting that we're married? Because that's an even further cry from honesty than that ship belonging to either of us."

"We are a bit married, Mate, if you choose to ignore the legal aspects."

She couldn't hold back a snort. "Well, still, you're hardly a Smith. You aren't an orphan, even if you may wish that you were."

Charlie reached out and picked up a small coin purse resting on the book keeper's podium, jingled it and put it in her pocket.

He asked, "What makes you think I wish that?"

"I've known you for ten years, Jack, and I've never seen nor heard of your parents."

"Be thankful for that fact."

They made the stone streets and line of shops, and both turned to look south toward the fort on the mountainside, where some sort of to-do was going on. Charlie could see men in red coats standing sentry on the walls, and could hear trumpets.

"That looks like fun," she mused, "I think I'll attend."

"There is the small matter of looking for a ship," he intoned.

"You find us a ship. I want to attend a ceremony."

She had turned the opposite way, heading through town. He called out, "I have only a few shillings, how am I supposed to turn a few coins into a ship?"

She spun, and, still walking away, said, "Last time I turned no-shillings into a boat, I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"And how will you find me later?"

Charlie stopped in place. "Are you planning on keeping modest?"

"Not particularly."

"Well then I expect there shall be plenty of commotion when the time comes to leave, and I'll just follow the gunshots."

He smiled, showing a few gold teeth as he turned away and started toward where the navy vessels were docked, further up the harbor.

Charlie, however, went to find homes and went into the first empty one she found. There she found a dress, a bit tight without the benefit of a strangling corset, and a pair of gloves which would hide the brand on her wrist, and took them without bother. The red dress was in shabby shape, but it at least had the same style as what would be warn by other ladies at the affair. She left her own clothing in an alley among old crates and headed off, catching her reflection in glass as she passed a tavern. She looked enough like a regular lady, except that she had a stronger body and brown hair chopped short in the back but let grow and dangle over her eyes in the front. You wouldn't catch high-society ladies with short hair; only the poor had to sell their locks to wig makers, or couldn't be bothered to let it grow.

She walked up the sloping road to the fortress, where guards stood outside the stone pillared entrance but let her through without incident. She hoped no one would notice that she still wore her dirty boots beneath the dress. All around were dainty women who wore bonnets and held umbrellas. Servants bringing around trays of food and drink, which she helped herself to. She meandered close enough to a group of gathered soldiers to hear them discussing 'the new Commodore' and put the pieces together with the ceremony.

She spotted the newly promoted man, a tall fellow with an unoffensive but not particularly interesting face in dark blue coat and hat. He wore the whitest pants she had ever seen, along with a gleaming, beautiful sword at his hip.

And she suddenly couldn't resist getting closer, just to get a better look at that sword.

He was undeterred by the crowd, making his way up to the outer wall which overlooked the see, by where the town's bell hung. She caught him before he made the steps to the upper level.

"Congratulations, Commodore."

He put on a smile but was clearly not happy about being distracted from the pretty girl standing at the fort's stone railing, fanning herself. "Thank you, Miss..."

She knew he wanted her to volunteer a name, but she did not, and straightened under his gaze as he looked her over. "Your sword," she said, bluntly, "was it sent away for?"

His brow raised. "No, actually. The blacksmith here in Port Royal does wonderful work. A man named Brown."

"Brown. Yes. Must be quite old to have acquired such skill. Surely he has a son or... young apprentice to whom he's passed on his trade, ay?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," the Commodore said. He was still watching her with clever eyes. "You're not supposed to be here, are you?"

Charlie, surprised by the playfulness in his voice, stammered, "W- well... that would be a matter of perspective."

She sensed she would not get much more, certainly not a name, without digging herself too deep. She would have to go and see for herself, and nodded her appreciation to the Commodore, beginning to turn away.

"Why do you ask about my sword?" he inquired, seemingly unable to help himself, and added with a bit of a laugh, "Are you in the market for one?"

She looked back, and only smiled at him before turning and beginning to head for the exit. Norrington watched with intrigue, then dislodged himself from the young woman and made to head for Elizabeth Swann, standing at the fort's edge.

Charlie couldn't help but to take one last look, and she watched the pretty girl the Commodore spoke to, feeling a bit envious. The girl was beautiful. More beautiful than her, more beautiful than she would be even if she were a lord's daughter, with long, pretty hair and a pretty dress.

She set out to return the silly dress and change back to her pants and white shirt and vest. She felt naked without her sword, and decided when she strapped it back on that it could use a sharpening from the blacksmith; partly because it was dull, partly on account of a debt she owed an old pirate she'd sailed with on the Black Pearl years ago.