James realized with a detached sort of recognition that he was in the mood to be rebellious – an attitude that had not seized him so fiercely in over a score. He was not a dog to rush to his master's side at the slightest beck, nor was Norrington foolish as a youth to be late so that Beckett could kick him like a mongrel.
He arrived exactly on time and the guards allowed him to pass. Norrington climbed the stairs and entered the red room. He was alone, but there was a note. Lord Beckett bade him to eat supper without him and make himself comfortable. Cutler would join him later. James could not eat, his stomach was twisted. He drank the wine.
The night was sultry and with each drink grew hotter still. Articles of his clothing were removed, one by one, as the wine relaxed his body. The tapers burned low. Norrington made his way to the bed before the last light snuffed itself. He rested atop the bedding in his shirt. James was quite drunk and, in equal measure, maudlin.
James had come full of dread and adrenalin, ready to use his pride as a weapon and a shield, only to find his arrogance a vainglory and utterly useless. Without a word, a glance, a touch – without his presence – Cutler Beckett had defeated him. Norrington's stomach had turned sour. The taste in the back of his throat was the bitterness of conceit.