Disclaimer: I do not own PotC.

The Love Egg

Part I: A Night At The Opera

Sierra was wary of the volume of her footsteps as she skulked about the bedroom, making certain to keep her movements as quiet as was physically possible.

"What are you doing?" a voice asked, and Sierra jumped, whirling around with a stifled shriek, hurriedly shoving her hands behind her back.

"Darling!" she exclaimed, almost joyously. "I didn't realise you were awake!"

Her husband looked suspiciously at her from beneath the bedcovers, which were pulled protectively up to his chin. "Do I detect a hint of fear in your sweet voice?" he casually queried.

"No," Sierra said, the initial jolt she had felt at hearing him speak fading into tenderness. Smiling softly, she approached him, her hand lovingly pushing his hair back from his forehead the better to kiss him. "How are you feeling?" she asked him compassionately. "Any better?"

Jack merely pouted and shook his head, burrowing further back into the covers, and Sierra sighed. Within the last three days, Jack had suddenly and inexplicably come down with a cold or a flu or some other winter sickness of a kind that had him settled comfortably in bed, surrounded by several warm sheets, a roaring hearth before him as he bemoaned his unhappy state. Personally, Sierra suspected the ex-pirate's bedridden condition was a pretence, but she was far too polite to say so.

"No progress, then?" she asked unhappily, and Jack sneezed in response.

"I'm still not used to this inclement London weather," he whined as Sierra settled herself more comfortably upon the mattress. His head poked out from beneath the covers, and at Sierra's attentive expression, he edged closer, resting his head on her expensive skirts like a child would upon his mother's knee.

His wife merely toyed with his dark hair, her fingers gently rubbing his smooth chin. "What pretty teeth you have," she sang as his jaw opened of its own accord. "But I do miss the gold."

"I still have them," he told her, but she laughed, leaning down to kiss him.

"I know you're not willing to relive the pain the dentist has caused you," she murmured to him. "Now, my dear, I'm afraid I'll have to leave you for a moment."

"Why?" Jack whined plaintively.

"Because I need to get ready, of course."

"Ready? For what?"

"The opera."

Jack stared at her in wounded shock. "What?" he asked as he watched his wife slipping a chain of sapphires about her throat.

"Yes, the opera. The season's beginning, and I told you four days ago that I wanted to be there for Handel's premiere, don't you remember?"

Jack was silent, staring up at her in hurt, and Sierra sighed.

"He's written a new one," she said to him, pulling her bodice down to a dangerously low level. "He's one of my absolute favourites; I do hope he persuades Farinelli to sing for him soon. It'd be such a waste if those two talents never worked together."

"I don't believe this!" Jack exclaimed, remembering to cough at the odd look Sierra had given him. "Here I am, your dear husband, lying flat on my back, confined to bed, and you're flitting off to the bloody theatre! What great, undying love you have for me!"

"Oh, Jack…" Sierra groaned, unpinning a few of her dark curls so that they fell over her shoulder. "We both know you're only faking this illness of yours so that you don't have to come with us."

"My illness is not a charade!" Jack snapped, offended, and coughed loudly to demonstrate his point. "I'm genuinely unwell, and I am offended to think that you would even consider the possibility that I would use such underhand means to achieve my aims. Exactly what do you take me for?" And he coughed dramatically once more.

She merely rolled her eyes.

"I do wish you would come with us," she said, straightening her cerulean gown. "It's not the same without you. You didn't used to mind accompanying me."

"Aye, but that was before Pearl insisted on accompanying us," Jack told her irritably. "With Pearl there, we really have no choice but to listen to the music, and nobody ever goes to the opera for the music."

"So why did you go to the opera, then?" Sierra challenged.

"I wanted to see how often the two of us could copulate in public without fear of retribution," he admitted offhandedly, and Sierra giggled in spite of herself, recalling that they were only caught the eighteenth time. "But with Pearl about, sighing over the pastel pansies—"

"They're not pastel pansies, Jack," Sierra corrected, adjusting her earrings and dabbing away at her rouged lips. "They're gentlemen, aristocrats, peers, nobility—like we're supposed to be."

Jack shrugged this correction away. "You call it marriage, I call it hell on earth," he commented, and she scowled.

"Charming," she remarked, turning back towards him. "Might I be able to tempt you with the promise of castrati?"

Jack stoically shook his head, coughing once. "Darling, I'm unwell—"

"Oh, come now, Jack!" she cried, stepping towards him earnestly. "I know you absolutely love the singing eunuchs!"

Jack grimaced, but his hatred of the operatic art conquered any fascination he held for emasculated men, and he sneezed once more.

"You shouldn't be going at all, you know," he told her as she made for the door. "It's dangerous for a woman of such obvious wealth and status to venture out to London unaccompanied by a man."

"Oh, don't worry," Sierra reassured him. "Pearl and I shan't be alone."

Jack straightened at this, alert. "Beg pardon?"

"Well…" Sierra said shyly, a silly smile on her face, "Francis has kindly offered to accompany Pearl and myself in view of my husband's ailments."

"…Francis?" he asked suspiciously.

"Oh, I'm sorry—Sir Francis. Sir Francis Dashwood, the fifteenth Baron le Despencer."

Jack sat up completely in the bed now, sickness having decided to temporarily retreat in light of the libertine's name. "Not the Sir Francis Dashwood?" he almost pleaded.

Sierra shrugged, feigning ignorance. "Well, this particular Dashwood has a great love for all things Italian—including myself," she said with a flattered giggle that brought a frown to Jack's face, "or so he claims, and a great hatred of all things Catholic—and yet he owns the Catholic Medmenham Abbey—Why, darling!" she exclaimed on seeing the dark expression on her spouse's face. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Well, I naturally assume that this is the same Sir Francis Dashwood that has established the Hellfire Club and holds routinely satanic orgies at Medmenham with a select number of 'monks' and 'nuns.'"

Sierra looked at him. "Oh, really Jack, those are just rumours," she dismissed. "Although now you've mentioned it, Francis has invited me to stay at his newly-refurbished abbey next week," she mentioned tactfully. "He hasn't told me what for, though—"

"Next week!"

"Yes; we'll be finalising the arrangements this evening. I'll be gone for a month or so, but I daresay you'll manage well enough alone." She blew him a kiss, her gloved hand resting gently on the door handle. "Get well, my love," she called, and was gone.

For a moment, Jack merely sat there, reiterating their brief conversation. Then, without another thought, he flung the covers off of himself, leapt out of the bed, yelled for his valet, and announced loudly that, by some strange and benevolent providence, he had miraculously recovered and was fit enough to be escorting his family to the theatre after all.

"For the last time, Jack!" Sierra snapped in a whisper barely audible over the histrionic crooning of Senesino, "You cannot arrange a wedding match between your daughter and a castrato!"

"Why not?" Jack, asked, taking his fingers out of his ears long enough to hear her speak and looking as though he greatly regretted doing so.

"Because—Because it's simply not done, that's why! All—well, most—castrati are Italian, which means that they are Catholic. In the Roman Catholic Church, marriage is simply an arrangement that renders reproduction socially acceptable—that's why French aristocrats have so many lovers, you know; therefore, castrati are unable to marry without relinquishing their faith; they're incapable of fathering children."

Jack smirked at this, and looked from his daughter, perched on the edge of her seat and inadvertently attracting more attention from the male members of the audience than the players upon the stage received, to his wife, curled up beside him, a closed fan in her hand.

"Why else do you think I'm so intent on securing such a match for her?" he asked, and Sierra scowled.

"But that doesn't mean to say," she snapped testily, "that they are incapable of performing the activities required to reproduce," and Jack's smug grin faded slightly at this.

"Now you're just making that up," he accused, and she shook her head, a knowing smile on her lips.

"Don't be so sure," she told him imperiously.

"Eunuchs are incapable of sexual intercourse," Jack stubbornly maintained. "They don't have the equipment."

"The singing ones do," she told him knowingly, and Jack's smile, or what was left of it, diminished.

"Well, I s'pose that to a certain extent, it depends on how they've been cut," Jack allowed.

"Of course it does," she agreed, that smirk never once leaving her lips, and Jack squirmed uncomfortably.

"Um, darling… Have you ever—"

"Just shut up and enjoy the opera, Jack," she told him, sensing what would come next.

"Sierra—"

"Oh God! Look!" she exclaimed, pointing suddenly at the stage, and there was a round of gasps as one of the performers did something indubitably gasp-worthy.

"Don't even attempt to distract me," Jack said to her even as his daughter turned to face them. "There is absolutely nothing that anyone can say—"

"One of the actresses just came out of her bodice!" Pearl cried out in embarrassment, hands reaching up to cover her blushing face.

"What!" Jack exclaimed, darting forwards, and Sierra sighed, flicking open her fan. "Who? Which one? Where?"

It took him a while, but he soon felt a pair of eyes boring into his back even as he witnessed an actress clutching at her lavender dress and run sobbing from the stage. Hesitantly, he turned back to meet his wife's narrowed eyes, and as if on cue, the rest of the theatre erupted in taunting laughter, no doubt at the humiliated young woman.

"…I love you?" he tried, and Sierra turned away with a "Hmph!"

"Darling…" he scooted closer, reaching out for her hand, which she snatched away. "It wasn't as if I'd have… propositioned her afterwards."

"Of course," she agreed derisively. "And I, likewise, have never slept with a eunuch."

The curtain, much like Jack's face, fell upon the completion of her last words.

"You didn't sleep with a eunuch," he told her.

"That, clearly, is your own personal opinion. Unfortunately for you, opinions are not facts."

"But you can't have!" Jack exclaimed. "They don't have the necessary equipment!"

"They do!" she shot back, and Pearl, having calmed down at the embarrassing blunder the actress had caused, looked at them enquiringly.

"What are you talking about?" she queried curiously.

"Nothing, honey," Sierra reassured the child, and then turned to look at her husband. "There are two types of eunuchs, Jack; the first are those who have only their testicles removed, and the second are those who are halfway to becoming a woman. Castrati fall into the first category, and they are capable of fornication."

"Oh, God…" Pearl groaned, a hand slamming into her forehead; words and actions ignored by the adults beside her, both of whom were apparently unready to relinquish their eunuch beliefs.

"'Castrati' can't bed a woman!" Jack exclaimed.

"Tell that to Nicolini!" she shot back. "He's had more lovers than I!" and Jack blanched at this.

"I thought that such a thing was impossible," he commented, and Sierra swiped at him with her fan.

"But as I was saying," she continued, ignoring his veiled insult, "castrati are capable making love to women—"

"Ah, but to what extent?" Jack challenged, and Sierra sighed before looking over to the teenager beside them.

"Pearl, darling," she said to the girl gently, "I'm about to use a few technical terms to describe certain sexual requisites; could you leave us for a few moments?"

"I'm surprised you felt you needed to ask," she replied, standing and smoothing down her rose-coloured skirt. Only when she had exited the box did Sierra turn to him.

"Castrati are capable of achieving erections, which is really all that's needed as far as coitus is concerned," she told him imperiously. "Trust me," she added as he began to open his mouth.

"And exactly how did you come across such obscure knowledge?"

"You'll force me into a chastity belt if I went into detail," she dismissed, and you can only imagine what expression came across Jack's face at her words.

"Are you saying—But you couldn't—They're eunuchs! They couldn't have gotten—"

"It's not what one would call a difficult bodily procedure, actually," Sierra interrupted haughtily. "Anyone can do it—as long as they're men, of course."

"But—"

"All an erection is is an increased blood flow through the corpora cavernosa," she continued, impervious to his interruption. "The removal of testicles in no way prevents that inflow, as the main function of the testes is to produce sperm; therefore castrati are actually physically capable of copulation. Although to be fair, it has to be said that a man's libido is directly linked with the amount of testosterone his body produces, and a large amount of this takes place in the testicles, so the only thing that keeps a castrato chaste is a conspicuous lack of drive, which doesn't really act as much of a safeguard for Pearl's chastity, does it? Therefore, forcing her to marry a castrato is quite pointless, not to mention humiliating."

There was a silence as Jack gaped at the brunette whilst she settled comfortably back into her seat, evidently pleased at winning this particular battle. "How do you know all of this?" he gawked as she reached up to adjust her hair.

The woman shrugged. "I bought you a new book last week," she told him offhandedly. "Eunuchism Display'd; but when I got home, I realised that it would probably be best to read it before giving it to you."

"For the love of God, why?"

She shrugged her elegant shoulders once more. "I was worried it'll contain corrupting material," she explained to him affectionately. "And I couldn't have my Jackie's innocent little mind poisoned by badly-translated books now, could I?" And she playfully cuffed his cheek, leaning her head on his arm.

"Come to think of it," she said suddenly as Jack continued to stare down at her, "It would probably be a good thing if you allow Pearl to wed a castrato; they're wealthy, loved, understanding, well-travelled, cultured, and, in my own personal experience, rather generous lovers."

That helped Jack locate his missing tongue.

"Sierra—" he began dangerously before suddenly stopping. "Actually, I don't think I believe you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't believe you," Jack told her, watching her blue eyes intently. "I think you're trying to rouse my jealousies and therefore manipulate me into bedding you, like you did with Dashwood. Not that I blame you particularly; it has been three days."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Oh, it's all about you, isn't it?" she snapped.

"I can't help but observe your lacking refutations," Jack commented with a smug grin.

"Yes—Well—" she breezed over. "But they can, you know—and I nearly was. Why, I was propositioned by Senesino himself only last season; he offered me twenty-five guineas for one night in my arms." She closed her fan and sighed dreamily at this. "It was very romantic."

"But you didn't—" Jack began, only to be interrupted by his daughter poking her dark head back in and demanding petulantly to be allowed back to her seat. And so it came to pass that the family settled down into their private box and watched the opera, and a fine time was had by all. (Except for Jack, who spent the remainder of the evening curled up on the floor with his hands pressed firmly over his ears, peeking over the edge every now and again to ogle the actresses prancing provocatively about the stage.)

"I know you liked the actresses," Sierra accused later as they rode in their carriage.

"I have eyes only for you," Jack automatically assured her, reaching out to clasp her hand.

"Any of them in particular caught your eye?" she continued, unwilling to accept his word. "I noticed how you couldn't stop staring at Argento."

"Who?"

"Sancha Argento—the woman who replaced Anastasia Robinson." At his blank look, she elaborated, "The blonde Italian who took over the role of the actress whose dress came undone?"

"She doesn't possess half your beauty," he charmed, and she sighed.

"Don't insult my intelligence; I know you liked her, and I know you liked her well—no, don't," she said at his protests. "It's been a while since you've taken a mistress."

It was on the tip of Jack's tongue to point out that having a mistress alongside his lascivious wife would very probably kill him, but he bit back on his words as Pearl yawned.

"What are you saying?" the teenager asked, staring from one to the other, pouting as she was once again ignored.

"I've invited her to stay with us, for a while," Sierra told Jack gently. "That's where I went during the interval. I trust you don't mind?"

Jack could only stare at her; it was one thing for a wife to tolerate a mistress, but for the woman to arrange such a liaison? Had they all gone French?

"Do you still love me?" he asked her suddenly as she hid her face behind her fan.

"Of course," she replied, piqued that he would think otherwise.

"Then why—"

"I know Sancha personally, actually," she explained to him, determinedly shielding her face from his gaze. "It'll be nice to spend some time with her again; it's been so many years… And if you like her… Well, I know for a fact that she would welcome such an arrangement."

And it was only then that she snapped her fan shut, lowering it to her lap and smiling enigmatically up at him. Jack frowned at this odd behaviour, but didn't press the issue further, choosing instead to relieve the painful evening as they rode in an awkward silence. She was up to something; he knew her well enough to know that much. His wife would never tolerate his taking a mistress, let alone arranging—

Something flashed suddenly before him, and he straightened, grabbing his wife's hand.

"Sierra," Jack demanded suddenly as their carriage jolted, "What was the name of that opera again? I don't think you've ever actually told me."

Sierra kept her eyes fixed on the floor of the carriage. "Didn't I?" she asked mildly with a slight smirk. "Here." And she handed him a folded sheet of paper.

With mounting suspicion, Jack accepted the flimsy page, and glancing down at it, his heart couldn't help but freeze as one single word, in bold capitals, leered at him from the comparatively smaller text around it:

FLAVIO

TBC

AN: Sorry for the slowness of this chapter; it's more of a prologue than anything else. Things will pick up next chapter, I assure you. And also, there's a major plot development/revelation in this, but you need to read my other stuff to pick up on it.