Chapter Seven: Facing Demons

"Let's say your first course is lobscouse. Which utensils do you use?"

"It's what now?"

"It's like a mutton-vegetable stew."

"Well I imagine a fork, yeah? So this."

"Lucky guess. Onto a pudding. Which fork?"

"Which fork? All the puddings I've ever et were spoon-worthy."

"What sort of puddings have you been eating?"

"Like this."

"So, custard."

"No. It's pudding."

"No. It isn't. I'm British, and if there's one thing we Brits know, it's pudding."

"Hmph. Well, this one looks like the salad forks we have back home, so—"

"No."

"This one?"

"Save that one for later."

"Two-pronged?"

"For the meat."

"Then that only leaves this one."

"Precisely."

"But there are like four of them! And knives and spoons—argh, you people have too bloody much silverware!"

"I know you're used to one spoon, one knife, and usually one fork where you're from, and I must admit that while I was there it was a relief not to have to remember my etiquette, but here you must practice refinery, or else offend the captain who may wish you harm. Now, take this and settle it in your lap." A napkin. "Knees together like a lady now."

"But they don't like to go together! The horsey muscles are too big."

"Too bad. A woman around here doesn't ride like you do. Here, if you'll place one foot behind the other ankle, it will hold your legs together without the effort. That's better. Sit up straight, will you? And remember to take tiny bites, lest he address you whilst your mouth is full."

"Grahh. Stupid manners."

"Do not make light of this. Do one thing as you would in your own realm, and your only chance of convincing him you are a normal, ordinary, insignificant girl will be snuffed out, along with our hopes of escape—unless we were to leave now, and avoid this whole thing."

"No. You're not well enough. I had to help you into that chair just now, and if we're going to get out of here without magic, then you have to be able to hold your own."

"I suppose. What have you seen as far as a means of escape?"

"The cutter. She's forty-three feet long and it takes three to man her. She's hanging over the side because the crew's being drilled in her."

"But you and I are only two—one, since you refuse to allow me to do anything."

"I know. But if Jack and Will could commandeer and sail the Interceptor all by their twosies, then a cutter should be no problem. It's the best chance we've got, and I just need a little while longer to figure it all out and smoothe out the details."

He regarded her for a while, jaw set. "Fine. But keep me in the loop, will you? Don't make any decisions without consulting me."

"I promise."

"Now, as to that knife of yours, you should hold it in your right hand instead of left. And it should not be gripped quite like that. Perhaps I should demonstrate." He reached for the cutlery, then paused, looking at the heavy bandaging around the broken arm. "Perhaps it would be best if we were to take this lesson to the interior of our imaginations."

"I'll bet. You tell me when you start to feel drained, now." And she connected her mind to his. She found herself sitting in a marvelous, roomy captain's cabin, a dinner table set out and ready. James was sitting at the head of the table, and upon seeing her, rose and bowed. He was uninjured, shaven, and back in his wig and uniform, although his hat had been removed for the occasion.

"You will curtsey upon entry." She did as bidden, as smooth and graceful as she could. But her attention was not on him, and he almost felt as though she were curtseying more to this unfamiliar ship which so enamoured her, rather than to him. "This was my old cabin," he told her, "Back on the Dauntless."

"So this is the Dauntless," she breathed. "She's beautiful."

"Pet, all you've seen is her cabin."

"And it's all I need."

He gave her time to admire the memory, but they really needed to get on with the lessons. "Now, he will invite you to sit." He beckoned to her. "You will come to the chair and approach it from the left side. Supposing he will be civil toward you, he will pull your chair out just so, and—gather your skirts, now." She looked down to see she was wearing an elaborate Elizabeth Swann sort of dress—it was quite obvious who was the man's standard of what a lady should be. "Now, as we are at sea, rather than on land, things may be a bit different than what you were expecting. I presume a pudding or stew to start, followed by a soup if it is the former, and probably mutton, beef, or pork for the main course. A sweeter pudding after, and you may have various fruits since they are so recently out of port. Between courses, there will be conversation and wine drinking. Be careful with that. Now, when you hold your wineglass, you must grasp it just so..." The lesson seemed to continue for ages. There were so many things about deportment and etiquette to learn—and most of it was minute details. "Sit up straight, I said. A slouch like that is more than uncouth, it reeks of insolence. If your dress is low cut, they'll think you're trying to give them a view. ... Keep your elbows off the table, now, yes that's it. ... Switch your fork to your other hand after cutting through the meat, and position it top-down as you put it into your mouth. ... Remember: scratch not, sing not to yourself, and speak not unless spoken to," James kept repeating.

While they were doing this, the cabin door opened and Theodore walked in. He found the two sitting across a makeshift table, James wearing his shirt once more. They were staring at one another with a frightening intensity, unmoving, hardly breathing. Suddenly noticing something even more important, after staring dumbly at them for a moment, he hastily shut the door behind him. Neither stirred. Bewildered, he chose not to approach and waited by the door for either of them to come out of their trance.

At last, James blinked and brought his good hand to rub at his eyes. "Forgive me," he breathed to the girl, who was also stirring. "I am growing tired."

"That's okay. I'm good for a rest anyway. I don't think I'll be able to remember all of this though," she confessed, the both of them still certain they were alone.

"You don't need to remember it all. From what you've told me, the captain already thinks you are low down in society, so he will be expecting blunders. I'm only teaching you all of this so that you make the right kind of blunders," he added with meaning.

There was a soft 'Ehem,' and both their heads snapped up to see Groves, looking at them anxiously. "What are you doing out of your restraints?" James's face instantly went stony. "What if someone else had found you thus? They'd have you down in the brig at once. Miss Norrington, did I not entreat you to abstain any foolish mistakes?" James' shoulders relaxed; Theodore was only trying to help, it seemed.

"Doctor has found it in his power to allow me two hours a day to move around and rehabilitate within the confines of this cabin, or else under the strictest supervision. You doubtless noticed the marine stationed at the only point of escape?"

Theodore unexpectedly broke out in a grin. "That is wonderful news. Have you been above yet? I imagine being tied to that bed must have driven you absolutely mad." His face suddenly fell, and he added, "-er."

Unable to hold any anger toward this man who was so truly his greatest friend, James managed a smile. "I'm not mad, as it were, and once the Doctor figures that out, I'll be released to the brig, for sure. I quite prefer it in here, truth be told." Theodore didn't respond. Perhaps he thought his friend was in denial. "In answer to your quaere; no, I have not as yet ventured out. Upon attempting to stand, I found every muscle in my legs weak and unreliable. I've only made it as far as this chair because I had help." Groves' eyes flitted to Amy's. "Was there a reason you came?"

"To be honest, I just wanted to see how you are," he confessed quietly. "But don't let that marine overhear us. I told my superiors, et cetera, that the Miss had requested I come and answer further questions—speaking of which, have you any?"

"I have," James interjected. "How big a ship is this? She feels larger than any I have seen before."

"She is two hundred and twenty-two foot, from stem to stern."

"That's huge!" cried the lass. Sure, in her world, two hundred twenty feet would still be called a boat, as compared to some mere ferries, not to mention cruise ships and barges, and larger ships that would come around the turn of the nineteenth century. But for a wooden ship before the industrial revolution, she hadn't been expecting anything over two hundred feet.

"That is. I imagine she's reinforced against the troughs and swells?" Theodore nodded. "How many gun decks?"

"Technically four, although the highest is mainly used as a great dining hall. The guns up there are rather light carronades."

"What's her armament?"

"A hundred fifty guns. The broadside combined weight in metal is one thousand four hundred twenty-eight pounds, plus chasers and pop guns."

Amy's eyes widened. "So she's a first rate?" A deep concern was taking root. Ships like this one were half again as powerful as the great first-rates, which were only fledgelings in their evolution into powerful war machines. This ship was beyond its time, and that couldn't be good.

Theodore grinned. "Even greater. But, as it is, the Oblivion and her sister ship are mere experiments. Do you believe there is talk of a whole squadron? Eight altogether."

James grew grim. "There go Jack's chances at sea."

Groves' eyebrows drew together in confusion. "I thought you had heard, James. As the rumour goes, Jack Sparrow is dead."

Norrington and the Miss smirked sidewardly at one another. "Many such rumours have floated around before. I did not believe them then, and after all this," he gestured at his back with his broken arm, "I certainly won't believe them now."

"I don't know, Norrington; this one seems different." It seemed strange for Groves to be calling James by just his last name, however it was necessary so that no man could accuse him of being familiar toward the prisoner. He had already let it slip once. "Almost like when we heard about it back when—."

"Yes, well he came back then," James reminded him abruptly, but smoothly, "and he'll come back this time. I have every faith."

Theodore chuckled. "Not long ago, your every faith would have been quite the opposite. How you've changed," he added affectionately.

"We all have. What's our speed?"

"A brisk seven knots."

"I have a question," Amy piped up. "It's about the captain."

"Go for it."

"Is he any sort of superstitious man?"

"Miss, he is a sailor." She looked at James for confirmation and received none. "However, he has been known to go a little overboard when he's hoping for better or worse than the current situation."

"Do you know if her believes in w—OW!" Her question cut off in a cry of pain as James stamped his heel on her toes with a furious I-can't-believe-you-nearly-did-that look. Even for all this friendliness, her nephew still could not trust Groves. "Excuse you," she went with feigned indignance, kicking his foot away and massaging her bruised toes on the seat of her chair. "I was going to say 'weather signs'."

Theodore looked from one to the other, bemused. "Er—he has a tendency to believe that foul weather is set on him to hamper his duty."

Dread stiffened the girl's back. If there was a storm while they were still aboard, would he blame her for it? James sensed her fears and agreed with them. "Thank you, Leftenant. That is all for now, as the Doctor will presently be returning to truss me up." Theodore bowed and left.

As soon as the door had closed, the two looked at one another in surprise. "We came upon that bit by complete accident," the lass breathed. "I'm sorry about letting that slip. I feel like we can trust him. But to think—such bad luck about unfavourable weather, and I only asked as a cover-up."

"Good luck to show us the bad. I meant to ask, how are you feeling?"

"Well, my foot's hurting pretty bad..."

James rolled his eyes. "Not that. You mentioned you nearly fainted at the sailmaker's this morning—perhaps you should stop skipping breakfast. Go and get something to eat, why don't you?"

"Yeah, maybe I should. You gonna be all right for a while?"

"With you checking in every ten minutes? How could anything go wrong without your knowing?"

"If you think that'll stop me worrying about you, you're wrong. With my luck, as soon as I stop fretting, trouble will come." She helped him back to the bed, where he nursed his arm. Both wrists had been bandaged; one broken and the other mildly sprained. The doctor would thus tie him to the bed by the ankles to avoid upsetting the injuries. "Okay, that's great." Some of his stiffness seemed to have gone. "Everything good? Nothing hurting more than it should?"

"I'm fine, Mother," he snapped in good humour, feigning indignation. "Now go eat."

"Okay, see you later." She slipped out, leaving him rolling his eyes after her. ("She's half my age and more a mum than half the mothers I've met," he was muttering.)

To the galley, then. She came upon the great cafeteria completely empty, aside from the tortoiseshell ship's cat, who upon noting her entrance, sprang up from her nap in the corner and came trotting over. Its little pink mouth opened in a questioning meow. "Well hello there. You here to keep me company?" The cat winked one yellow eye. At that moment, Amy's stomach grumbled and she remembered her mission. "Food." The cook was nowhere in sight; but there were fruits and biscuits and such in the pantry that she would be free to partake of. The narrow door opened with a creak, and she slipped inside, careful not to let any of the goats, chickens, and other livestock escape. "Oh! Sweet potato muffins!" she cried to the cat, which had followed her in. She hadn't used to talk to cats this way—not until she had been one, anyway. "Fresh, warm, and my absolute favourite. I should bring one back for James. He'd love one of these." And so, with a handful, she found a place to sit and nibble. All the while, the little cat, which for its small stature was by no means a kitten, was yamming away, sitting next to her seat. After a few minutes of being ignored, she finally leapt into the girl's lap and yowled her demands. "What do you want?" she cried.

"Food!" It was then that Amy figured out that this scrawny cat was not female.

She nearly fell off her seat. "Excuse me?"

"I've been meowing incessantly. I would have thought you'd get the message. I'm hungry."

She couldn't believe it. This cat—it was talking! She shook her head, wondering if she had accidentally slipped into its mind or language without realizing it. "Are you one of Jack's?" she asked amidst her confusion. Could this be the final manifestation?

The cat tipped his head to one side. "I haven't the faintest idea."

"No, no, you don't sound like him—but you do sound familiar."

"As do you—that is why I allowed myself to speak." Ah, so he really was talking. "Yes, I remember you now—you're the girl who was with Jack Sparrow. It's Amy, right? Yes, the one who bested me in that swordfight."

"When have I ever dueled a talking cat?" Was anyone else around? If she was caught with a talking cat, she was dead.

"Oh I wasn't a cat back then—I was the demon who turned him to a horse."

She nearly flung the cat off her lap in alarm. "You're the demon?" she asked in a tight voice, and suddenly that old scar on her shoulder began to ache.

"Was, miss. I was. Been trying to make things right again, see, and as punishment for serving the devil I've been banished to the life of a cat."

"Well," was all she could say.

"I know I done you some wrong, miss, back then, and I'm sorry for it. But I'm a changed man—cat," he flicked his ears, "and I'd like to be a friend, if you'll have it."

She stared at it, dumbstruck with indecision. Friends? With someone who'd nearly killed her? With the creature that had cursed Jack? Had he really been banished to a cat's life, or could he simply have taken on a cat's shape? Half-formed ideas and vague thoughts meandered through her mind, but she couldn't make herself focus on what her brain was telling her.

His ears sagged. "It's all right. I understand." He jumped down from her lap and stalked away.

"Wait." The word escaped unbidden. He looked back hopefully. She bit her lip. "No one on this ship knows you can talk, right?"

"That's right," he replied cautiously. "I doubt I'd still be alive if they did."

"So you could see and hear everything that goes on anywhere and not be suspect?"

"I suppose."

"Then maybe you might come in handy."

The small feline regarded her cautiously. "What for?"

"I think there may be someone aboard who wishes me harm. If you want to prove your worth, will you help us?"

"I'll do whatever I can, miss."

She allowed him a smile, and with furtive glances over her shoulder, produced a small fish about the length of her hand. She picked him up and set him on the table to eat it. "Well don't just stare at it—eat up!"

His tiny nostrils were working furiously. "How did you do that?"

"Do what? I had it in my pocket."

"Miss, I worked for the Devil. I think I know when something unnatural's about. Besides, who keeps a fish in their pocket?"

"Sorry, but until I know I can trust you I'm not telling you any of my secrets."

"Don't worry, love, I wouldn't tell a soul," the cat promised with all sincerity.

She sighed. "But I don't know that." The cat looked like he accepted this. "I'd better be getting back. C'mon, demon, grab your fish and come meet James over these heavenly sweet-potato muffins."

She nearly dropped these treasures upon entering the cabin, she had such a fright. The Doctor was sitting in a chair pulled up to the bed, where James was sitting, tied to the mattress by his ankles. He was holding his arm over a wide bowl. Blood was streaming into it from an incision in the crook of his elbow. "What are you doing?" she cried in a panic.

James looked up, startled. "Just being bled is all."

"I suppose we shall have to stop shy of your ten," the surgeon told him, dabbing at the wound and placing a bandage over it.

"Is that for the best?"

"It is best for the miss."

"I understand. Thank you." The doctor only gave him a pitying look as he closed the door.

"What was that all about?" Amy demanded. "How much did he take?"

"Less than ten ounces. Calm down, it isn't that much."

"Isn't that much? Isn't that much? What's gotten into you, giving blood away like there's a drive going on?"

"It is supposed to clear the mind—good for a madman, I presume—and speed the recovery of my arm."

"I'll tell you right now, bleeding has no health benefits whatsoever."

"I've been bled before and personally felt said nonexistent benefits myself."

"Well, nobody gets bled back home and they're all fine."

James snorted, then caught sight of the cat. He rolled his eyes, changing the subject, "Trust you to bring a cat back with you. I thought you were getting food." He scratched the feline behind the ears as it jumped up beside him.

"Mrrh... She brought muffins, too," the demon told him, and the hand was snatched away with a start. "Yes, ah, I can talk. By the way."

"Er.."

"Would you go back to that scratching? It felt terribly good."

"Amy, what is the meaning of this?" She looked away from the window to meet his fury. "You've enchanted it—how could you—if they find it out—."

"Don't worry. 'It' has a way of staying hidden," the demon cut in with mild irritation. "And besides, she did no magic for me except to make this fish, which I would very much like to eat."

"Well, if you didn't do this, then—could it be—"

"He."

"Excuse me?"

"You keep calling me 'it.' I don't appreciate that."

James glared. "My apologies," he replied stiffly. "Can he be the final one?"

"No," said Amy. "He is someone else entirely."

"What can you mean?"

"Do you remember a certain demon that turned Jack into a horse? The one I may or may not have had a big swordfight with?" She nodded her head toward the tortoiseshell.

"You!" Rage burned an icy green in his eyes as he struggled against his restraints. "You nearly killed her. If I weren't so weak right now, I'd give you the same."

The demon shrank away, crouching down with ears flat and tail between his legs. "I know what I did was wrong. But hurting her was an accident. My intent was to win, not to kill."

"How can you trust him?" the man demanded of her. "After all he's done. He's a demon for Christ's sake."

"Not anymore—keep your voice down, will ya?"

"How can you say 'not anymore'?" he went on in a hoarse whisper. "Once you turn to the Devil, there's no coming back."

"Yes there is. Forgiveness. The man whose name you've just abused." That shut him up.

The demon broke the silence. "I was banished to the life of a cat to atone for my wrongs. I am no longer worthy to be a man. But I cannot complain. Anything is better than what I was. All I seek now is forgiveness from the people I hurt."

"And so you've decided to trust it." James' voice was deadly calm. Amy would have been less intimidated if he had shouted. "Even though it tried to kill you."

"I'm considering it," she replied in a shakily resolute voice. "And I think he'll come in handy; as our eyes around the ship. A cat can go anywhere."

"Perhaps... But can we trust him?"

"Sir, she gave me fish. She has my undying loyalty, not to mention friendly affection."

"If you can be swayed by mere fish—."

"No, no, Mr. Norrington. I pledge fealty to her, not the fish—although it's a nice bonus."

"Well then," James sighed after a long silence of deep thought. "It seems out little group may have just found a new member."


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