A/N: All right, so it's been more than six months since I last updated this. I'm SORRY! But there was Christmas and New Year's in Haerbin and almost the entirety of January in Laos and then returning to China and realising just how much I really did hate it there (especially because it seemed to suck the energy right out of me). And then I had to try and find a new job because I sure as hell wasn't staying in China, and then I had to figure out how I was getting home, and then I got home, and then I got jet lag, and then there was a wedding (not mine), and I still have no job for the coming year... it's this whole big thing. Not that this entirely excuses me for not writing, but I hope now to make it up to you with a rather lengthy sort of chapter.

So here it is! Chapter 34! Enjoy!

Chapter 34: Stella Mutationis

"Orders, Lord Beckett?"

"...Hold position, Admiral," Lord Beckett decided, after a brief moment of contemplation. He kept his eyes fixed on the map-table in the centre of the Endeavour's stateroom.

"Still?" Admiral Norrington inquired, raising a brow, which Lord Beckett did not observe.

"Yes, Admiral," Beckett replied, a rind of irritation in his voice. "We can do nothing without information—something which, I remind you, we currently lack. We have no idea where our quarry lies, and therefore we will hold."

"Very well. Have you any idea when we will have the information we need?" Norrington asked, mostly concealing the impatience in his voice.

"No," Beckett replied shortly. "The interrogations are not proceeding apace," he added, grumbling quietly.

"Perhaps this is because you have extremely limited choices for interrogation," Norrington remarked dryly.

"Mmm, yes," Beckett agreed, frowning slightly. "Jones is hardly providing us with viable sources of intelligence... of any kind."

Beckett's new orders had been delivered nigh on a month ago. Davy Jones was to cease killing the crews of the ships—the ships were unimportant, now. He was, instead, to capture the pirate crews and deliver them to Beckett for interrogation. The rest were to be sent to the Admiral as crew for the armada.

Things, however, were not quite going to plan. Naturally.

Davy Jones had been sending them the very dregs of the pirate crews—simple men who probably knew nothing of their own captains, let alone Pirate Lords and Pieces of Eight—and not very many of them, at that. Some of them barely spoke a comprehensible language (although Beckett's fluent French and smattering of Dutch paired with James' workable Spanish, French, and snippets of Portuguese and Mercer's fluency in six languages were generally enough to eventually discern that these sailors knew nothing). Afterwards, they were... well, James disliked the term "broken to harness", but it was unfortunately appropriate. However, with Jones' pithy offerings, they had only managed to crew two ships. Beckett was most unhappy.

Jones claimed that these were all that was left over after the ships were taken, that the rest of the crews fought to the death and the Dutchman had no choice but to use all the force available to them. Stella, however, informed them of a different story. Jones was scarcely trying—he was only doing what was required to avoid punishment and acting like a truculent child. Nor did she hold any sway over his actions, and were they really so surprised?

Beckett went on, "I wonder that Stella allows such behaviour."

James gave Beckett a glare that should have started his wig on fire. "With all due respect, Lord Beckett, have you taken leave of your senses?" he asked acidly. "Mrs. Norrington," putting emphasis on her married name; he had never liked how informal Beckett was with Stella, "has been saying for months now that Jones does not listen to her. No matter what mystical powers she might have at her disposal, Jones has more. He's also taller, stronger, more evil-tempered, and in possession of a great number of unpleasant subordinates with swords. Mrs. Norrington is a pregnant gentlewoman with nothing but her wits and her considerably more distant allies. I trust you begin to see the disparities in their positions? Why on earth would Jones listen to her?" He paused a bare moment, before adding, "Why on earth is she still on that ship?"

He considered adding, This vendetta against her is harmful to the efficiency of this fleet. Isn't it time to put it aside and focus on the stated goals—eliminating piracy, remember? Stella is no pirate, no matter how much you might hate her. Send her back to Jamaica, and find a better way to keep control of Jones. But he didn't. James and Beckett's working relationship was based on the sheer amount of things they didn't talk about, and mentioning one of those tacitly agreed topics—which mostly concerned Beckett's treatment of Stella and James' time of disgrace—was to destroy their fragile peace.

Beckett gave him a genteel glare, and said curtly, "Thank you, Admiral."

It was a clear dismissal. James clenched his teeth, gave a terse bow, and left. If he stayed any longer, he'd be forced to do a violence upon Lord Beckett. That man... if the gaping holes in the logic of his orders was ever pointed out, Beckett just ignored it and dismissed the person. James hadn't been ordered about like that since he'd first joined the navy, and he had almost reached the end of his rope.

Beckett, however, was not unmoved by his Admiral's argument. He sat back at his desk and considered the matter.

It was true that his grudge against Stella Norrington was beginning to harm his plans. He knew full well she had no control over Jones—he knew, when he placed her on the ship, that the captain wouldn't listen to a thing she said. But, since his purpose had been to humble the arrogant witch and keep her from conspiring against him with her influential husband, he hadn't much cared.

Now, however, he needed some way—someone—to control Jones. The integrity of his plan was being impugned by Jones' behaviour. If he wanted to continue on, they had to find some way to control that monstrous being... and Stella couldn't do it. The Admiral was right: Stella had to come off the Dutchman.

But she couldn't be left to go back to Port Royal. Stella was dangerous. Left to her own devices, she could turn Jamaica and the members of his fleet against him. Nor should she be allowed to scheme with her husband; between the two of them and Governor Swann, they could lead the armada and the majority of Jamaica against him. She had to be watched. But she couldn't stay on the Dutchman, either, because Jones needed to be controlled, and if Beckett put another man on that ship Norrington would demand his wife's release.

Beckett tapped his fingers on the desk, thinking. He needed a solution to both control Jones and Stella, to keep the Admiral both calm and away from his wife, and something to ensure that his plans would keep moving forward in the direction he pleased.

Hmm... well, he could place Admiral Norrington on the Dutchman... perhaps with a squadron of marines, to ensure that Jones understood Beckett meant business. Stella could come onto the Endeavour instead—she'd be under both his and Mercer's eyes. Indeed, the Endeavour was where Governor Swann spent most of his time, and he was most certainly cowed. Yes, that would work quite well: Stella would come onto the Endeavour.

But would Norrington have enough clout to control Jones? Beckett was well aware that gunshots and stabbings were but temporary inconveniences to the crew of the Dutchman. If Jones finally snapped and decided to mutiny, it could be possible to overpower the soldiers and retake the vessel. And while, in this hypothetical situation, Beckett would certainly chastise Jones thoroughly for that little infraction, the armada would have lost a squad of good men and the Admiral. With the loss of the Admiral, things would fracture immediately; it was loyalty to Norrington that kept the naval section of the armada tightly bound and functioning like a smoothly-oiled mechanism. It was Norrington's ability for command and knack with people that was helping shape the merchant sector of the armada into something a little less like cannon-fodder and more like a workable section of the fleet. And it was Norrington's life that kept Stella leashed. Lose Norrington, and everything would fly to pieces; the navy would withdraw and balk at Beckett's commands, the merchant sector would sink back into disordered uselessness—that is, if they didn't try to pull free from the armada and return to commerce—and Stella would immediately turn on him. It was plain that Beckett needed to give Norrington some kind of safeguard that would ensure he could keep Jones in check even if the monstrous captain did snap; they were both too valuable to lose, but he'd rather lose Jones than Norrington.

Not that he wanted to lose either, mind. Norrington was an excellent officer, and men of his type were thin on the ground. He was also the sole restraint on his vicious, powerful, extremely useful wife. Jones, however, commanded the Flying Dutchman, which would intimidate pirates even better than the size of the armada. Besides, Beckett admitted that he took a certain pleasure in controlling this powerful supernatural entity. Cutler Beckett, with no powers at all, had brought Davy Jones to heel. His mother could put that in her pipe and smoke it.

(Beckett ignored the fact that he only had that control because of James Norrington. But he did have a tendency to ignore that which conflicted with his preferred view of the world.)

Beckett rose from his desk and moved to the globe, idly spinning it and letting his fingers trail across the polished surface. What to do, what to do? He mulled over the problem for several hours as he took tea and continued working, turning possible solutions over in the back of his mind. It wasn't until he was checking the Heart at the close of the day (he made a habit of making sure it was there; he had locked it back in the Chest he'd taken from the Dutchman a few weeks ago) that he had an idea: perhaps he might put the Heart on the Dutchman, with Admiral Norrington.

The more he pondered the idea, the better he liked it. Jones would hate the idea of having his Heart back on the ship, so there was one plus; it was something lasting and unpleasant to accurately convey the depth of Beckett's displeasure. Norrington could also immediately chastise any misbehaviour, and destroy the threat immediately should any mutiny arise. Admittedly, Beckett would have to send the heart away from him, which was a little less palatable, but sacrifices did have to be made. Besides, if Norrington was keeping Beckett's prized possession, he'd just to make clear that Norrington's was going to be kept on the Endeavour as surety for his good behaviour (and hopefully she would be much humbled after her time with Davy Jones).

So, that was the plan, Beckett decided as he signed a document with a flourish. Norrington and the Heart of Davy Jones onto the Dutchman, and Stella Norrington onto the Endeavour. Hopefully this change of postings would result in some actual live pirates for interrogation, and thus the continuance of his grand scheme.

He was so close to realising his dream—to usher in an era where the East India Trading Company ruled supreme, with Cutler Beckett at its head. To destroy the scourge on the seas, therefore going down in history as the man who destroyed piracy. To subjugate the supernatural, finally achieve ascendancy over that that which he had always felt inferior, and prove himself to his mother as a force to be reckoned with. He would be rich and famous and feared... and powerful. So very powerful, with complete control over the seas and the skies in his hands. Perhaps one day he would be the most powerful man in the world, with kings and princes seeking his favour. And nothing—not recalcitrant monsters or stubborn Admirals or disobedient witches or even a pack of filthy pirates—would stop him from achieving his goals.

The morning after Beckett's decision to shuffle the postings of his personnel, Stella awoke in her bunk in the brig of the Dutchman knowing that she was going to leave this ship within one week. She had dreamed that a crow flew from the Dutchman through a sky full of bats across an ocean full of scorpions to the Endeavour, where a dead gull and a vulture waited. It didn't get much more clear than that.

The only question, now, was whether or not to tell Bill.

Poor Bill. At this point, he was clinging to two things to keep Jones' spells at bay and retain the tattered remnant of his humanity. The first was his son; the second was her. And since William Jr. was God knows where, Bill clung to him through Stella's stories, and therefore clung to Stella herself with a desperate fervour.

He hadn't taken her sojourn on land very well; it seemed to have reminded him that this was only temporary, that Stella had a home somewhere else and would one day leave him permanently alone in the brig of the Dutchman without any news of his son. Since her return he had been acting particularly clingy, even for two people who were sharing the same cell—he was always watching her, and Stella had awakened more than once to feel his fingers tangled in her hair. She had no idea how he would take the news that her departure was imminent.

All right, she admitted to herself, she knew damn well how he'd take it: badly. Bill was leaning on her to keep him sane, just as she had leaned on him before her short respite on land gave her something new to buoy her flagging spirits. Bill only had her. Take her away, and she suspected he'd implode. Stella didn't want that; Bootstrap Bill had been her friend. He had helped her and comforted her and stood by her in her darkest hour; it would be a terrible repayment if she left him without doing anything to ease the pain of parting.

And thankfully, Stella could do a little more easing than the average lady. Especially since Isabella had devoted several studies to memory—she had been a remembrancer, and left plenty of spells for her descendants to play with. Said descendant had been working on this idea, off-and-on, for weeks, and while it wasn't exactly graceful and wouldn't work forever, Stella figured she could probably finish it in time.

Not that this answered the question of whether or not to tell him. She pondered the dilemma as the morning wore on—not that she or Bill was aware of its passing, imprisoned as they were in the twilight murk of the brig. Bill watched her think with badly-concealed worry and even more badly-concealed ardour. That was eventually the convincing argument. If he was this clingy now, Stella didn't want to think about how worse he could get if she said anything. So she held her tongue and worked harder on her project.

Besides, she eventually realised, if Jones got wind that she was going to leave his domain, he would definitely make her final days memorable ones... and not in a pleasant way. For the most part, nowadays, Jones seemed to ignore her. Perhaps the lustre of tormenting her had worn off—especially since she was long since accustomed to seeing men die and had stopped reacting to many of his taunts.

Unconsciously, her hand went to her neck, where a new ornament had joined her omnipresent bells. It was a simple pale green ribbon with a dark blue five-pointed star embroidered in the middle. It was the symbol of the Greek Fire, and, unbeknownst to anyone else, Stella's private hope that one day Beckett would be overthrown and her husband might return her love—in essence, that one day this would all be over and she could have the life she wanted.

"You never did tell me what that was for." Bill's hoarse voice broke into her musings, and Stella glanced over to see him staring at her fingers as they rested on the ribbon around her neck. Once he had her attention, he cast his eyes down to her lap, and the objects thereon: an embroidery hoop, a skein of dark blue thread, and a square of white linen already covered in tiny stars. "Why all the stars?"

Stella beckoned him closer, and Bill came swiftly to her side. "There's a conspiracy against Beckett," she told him, her whispered voice barely audible over the sound of the ship. "To wear a star is to declare membership in it."

"Then which one is mine?" His blue eyes were intense on her, and she knew he would wear it to declare for her, and no one else.

"I haven't sewn yours yet," Stella said, turning back to her work. No, she hadn't yet stitched for Bill yet. His star would be a spell as well as a star, soaked in memory and bound with eyebright and garlic and stitched with her own hair on the night of a full moon, two days hence. It would keep her (and her repeated stories of his son) fresh in his memory. Jones' curse might dull the memories of his crew, but every time Bill saw or touched the star, he would remember her anew.

Stella wasn't sure if this plan would be considered a kindness or a cruelty—leaving him with nothing but memories of a woman he could never have and would never see again—knowing that perhaps one day they would be the only memories he would have at all. She supposed it was better than the alternative—of letting this ship dull his mind until he was nothing more than an empty construct that had once been a man, bereft of any recollection that he had ever been otherwise. Both options were cruel. That, she supposed, was the nature of Davy Jones and anything associated with him.

Speaking of Davy Jones, Stella could hear the stomp of feet down the stairs. She sighed, and moved to put her work into the bag. The crew was coming to escort her to the airtight room—they were going to stalk and take another ship with the stated purpose of garnering more subjects for interrogation. Of course, what Jones was actually going to do was bombard the ship for a good half-hour. Whatever was left would be sent to Beckett.

Bill was beside her in an instant, helping her to her feet. She certainly needed the help—she was almost seven months pregnant, now, and since James made sure she was fed (distantly, not personally) she was getting quite large. The baby was active, as well, constantly shifting around and kicking her—which she did the moment her mother stood.

"Ouch," Stella murmured, pressing a hand to her belly.

"What is it?" Bill asked frantically, hovering around her.

Stella bit her tongue to keep from snapping at him—his hovering was beginning to get on her nerves, since she was utterly incapable of escaping from it. "She's kicking me again," was all she said, as the crewmen (thankfully, not the bo'sun) reached the brig and moved to the door.

As usual, she was escorted up to the airtight room and locked in. As usual, she was stuck in there for hours, listening to cannons and shouting as she stitched star after star. As usual, she wasn't let out until nightfall, when she was escorted back to the brig and locked back in. As usual, Bill had waited up for her and had dinner (as usual, a fish soup) ready for her.

As usual, as usual, as usual. Stella supposed a body could get used to anything, if her life on the Dutchman had become routine.

Admiral Norrington stood at the fo'c'sle of the Endeavour and looked out across the sea, painted white-silver in the moonlight. He looked up at the moon—waning gibbous; it had been full two nights past—then over at the stars. He wondered how long it had been since Stella had seen them.

Well, she'd see them soon enough, Norrington thought, folding his hands and staring back across the ocean. Stella's time on the Dutchman was over, thank God. Beckett had finally seen reason, and had informed him that Stella was to be removed from her post. He, however, had been commissioned to take her place. He was to command the Flying Dutchman in Davy Jones' stead, since Beckett deemed Jones a loose cannon and an inadequate captain for his purposes.

James wasn't sure what he thought about his new vessel—or his new post. Yes, Beckett assured him that he would have the Heart on board, along with a couple of small cannons in the event of a mutiny and two squadrons of marines. But he was still going to be in close proximity to Davy Jones, who loathed him, and on the same ship as William Turner, Senior—father of the man who stole the woman he loved, and who loved, in turn, the woman he'd married. James wasn't sure which man-type-thing would make him more uncomfortable.

At least Stella would be free. Her term of imprisonment was over, and she would be free to return home and spend the rest of her pregnancy in peace and comfort (and far away from both Davy Jones and William Turner). That was, in turn, a comfort to the Admiral. He wouldn't have to worry about her any longer.

It had been almost two months since James Norrington had last laid eyes on his wife. He had made sure that the men who rendezvoused with the Dutchman carried Stella provisions and whatever supplies she needed and ensured she was safe and healthy. He had heard from them that Stella was both less pale and less thin than she had been, that her belly continued to increase, and that she was reasonably content. It was comforting news, but he wanted to see her, and check her health for himself—she was, after all, carrying his child. The time apart had hopefully worn down the awkwardness between them. He hoped. James could still hear the words she spoke to him, and remembered the harsh words he'd flung at her. He had dwelled on them perhaps more than was good for him.

A footstep behind him distracted him from once again reliving that last conversation, and imagining ways it could've gone better. Then Captain Groves stepped up beside him. "Evening, Admiral," Theodore greeted, his skin bleached white-blue by the moonlight.

"Captain," James replied.

They stood in silence for a moment, before Theodore broke it. "James, are you sure you wish to do this?" he asked quietly.

"I have no choice. Orders are orders, after all," he said, with no small measure of bitterness. It still galled that Beckett had the temerity and the arrogance to give him orders.

"We could start the fire," Theodore offered, voice now so quiet it was barely audible.

"What purpose would that serve, now?" James asked, turning to Theodore with a raised brow. "We have just one ship right now—one ship that we're all on. Beckett still has the Heart. If we act now, the whole thing will blow up in our faces. Jones might break free of our control, we could all die, the ship might be sunk... I can't bear to have another flagship destroyed out from under me," he muttered sardonically.

Groves huffed a quick laugh, before returning to his original worry. "That ship is death," he warned grimly. "And Jones hates you. If you place yourself there—"

"Beckett promised me command of the Dutchman, two squadrons, and the ability to destroy the Heart if needed," James returned. "I will be as safe as I can be. Besides, Beckett doesn't want me dead," he added, with a grin of dark mirth. "If I die, who controls my wife?" Theodore looked confused—then again, he only knew Stella as the charming lady, the society wife, the clever conspirator. He had never seen her angry—or worse, in a cold, dispassionate rage. Beckett was right to fear her—hell, James was afraid of her when she was like that. James just smiled. "Don't you trust me, Theo?"

Theodore sighed. "Yes. I just hate... this," he said, with a wave to the ship.

James pursed his lips. "So do I."

And he did. He did hate this. Sometimes he wished he had never thrown his lot in with Beckett. But what else could he do? He had, and now he was trapped there, beholden to him and under his control with his pregnant wife in the same dire straits. What else could he do but keep his head and obey?

The next morning, the Endeavour glided through water gilded by blood and scattered with wreckage and corpses and fire. The Dutchman had taken another ship early that morning—so early, in fact, that Mrs. Norrington had still been abed when Jones sent a sailor to fetch her. She was now resting, barefoot, in the airtight room, wearing nothing more than her nightgown and a cotton robe. She was also unaware that today was the day of her deliverance from the grips of Davy Jones. (Had she known, she would've at least grabbed a dress and some shoes before being hustled above decks.)

Admiral Norrington, on the other hand, was attired properly. So too was Lord Beckett, who was partaking of a light breakfast in his stateroom and had not yet bothered to look outside. The Admiral, however, was actually outside, looking full-on at the carnage and feeling a headache start behind his eyes. He would have a considerable amount of work to do.

"Good morning, James."

Norrington turned around to see Governor Swann approaching him. Swann had been practically chained to Beckett of late—perhaps because of whispers of rebellion. Despite living under Beckett's thumb, Swann was still nominally governor, and if the conspirators (of which James himself was chief) were able to spirit him away or turn him against Beckett (something that would not be difficult) it would certainly make things more difficult for the Trading Company Lord.

Isaac had suggested, once, that they attempt to enlist Swann. James had allowed that it was a good idea, but that he didn't think they had much hope in that quarter. Swann was being held due to his love for his daughter. As long as Beckett held Elizabeth's safety over her father's head, Swann would do nothing—or worse, expose them if he was convinced it would save Elizabeth. They couldn't risk it. But James did feel terribly sorry for his old confederate cum friend. However terrible his circumstances were, Swann's were worse. Weatherby seemed to have aged a decade in these past few months.

"Good morning, Governor," James replied.

But Swann's attention had already been diverted by the tableau they were approaching. He stared, horrified, at the carnage. "My God," Weatherby breathed. "What has happened here?"

"The Flying Dutchman," James sighed.

Swann frowned, deepening the lines in his face and making him seem stern and cold. "And this is what Beckett has wrought," he remarked grimly, staring out at the smoke wafting over the water. "This is his grand enterprise."

"This is Jones' work," James demurred, feeling the irrational need to defend, if not Beckett, then his enterprise. After all, his stated goal was to rid the seas of piracy—something James had been attempting for more than a decade. "He's defying orders."

"How can Beckett hope to order such a thing?" Weatherby asked. He sounded almost hopeless, but there was something else in his voice...

"It is a matter of leverage," James replied carefully. Beckett had ordered, after the hurricane, that no one was to know of the Heart. The sailors and all the officers had been sworn to secrecy on pain of Beckett's extreme displeasure. Several men had inexplicably died in the weeks after the hurricane, and it had been assumed that Mercer was culling those who couldn't keep their tongues.

"What kind of leverage can one monster have over another?" Swann asked bitterly. James said nothing, and Weatherby's faded blue eyes focussed on him and grew sharper. There was something in his expression that reminded him simultaneously of both Stella's and Beckett's eyes. "Has it anything to do with that chest?"

Ah. Weatherby was digging for information. James tried to hedge. "What chest?"

"You know which one," Swann insisted, stepping closer and lowering his voice. "The large steel chest tooled with tentacles and crabs. The one that never leaves Beckett's side. Has it anything to do with the leverage of which you speak?" His voice got even quieter. "With the severed heart that lies within?" James startled violently, and whipped to stare incredulously at Swann, who was staring at him with a unemotional expression that would've been more at home on Beckett's face. This was a side of Weatherby he'd never seen before. "Whose heart is it, James?" Weatherby pressed.

A flicker of darkness caught his eye, and James glanced over to see Mr. Mercer staring at them intently. How much had he heard? He turned back to Swann. "You know I can't tell you that," he murmured.

"No one can," Swann said resignedly. "Or rather, no one will. Beckett has you all on very short leashes."

That stung a bit—probably because it was true. "Be careful," James warned quietly. "Yours is shortest of all, and Beckett does not take kindly to that kind of inquiry." Warning bestowed (though James had a feeling that Swann wouldn't heed it), he left to see to the dropping of the anchor. Swann remained on deck, staring off at the smoke rising from the sinking ships.

Not a half-hour later, Beckett was on deck with a spyglass, having been informed by Mercer than Jones was defying his orders in a grand style. This went far beyond just sending the dregs of pirate crews—no wonder nothing of quality was being sent to the interrogators! Jones had bombarded the ships to scrap and splinters, which was even now burning. Beckett was willing to bet that Jones gave no warning—just erupted from the sea and started firing. Those who were left were given to Beckett's men, and those appeared to be few indeed—and no wonder!

Beckett collapsed the spyglass with an irritated sigh. "Bloody hell, there's nothing left," he grumbled.

"Jones is a loose cannon, sir," Mercer agreed.

"Fetch the chest," Beckett ordered. Even loose cannons could be tied down eventually—one simply had to find the right rope, and a strong enough arm to haul it. Hopefully, with the Heart as a rope and Admiral Norrington's strength to haul it, Jones could be controlled and pointed in the right direction.

"And the Governor?" Mercer asked, surprising Beckett with the apparent non-sequitur. "He's been asking questions about the Heart."

What a bother. There was only one reason for Swann to be asking about that. Apparently the good governor was thinking to slip his leash. "Does he know?" Beckett inquired.

Mercer just looked at him, which was an answer in and of itself.

Pity. "Then perhaps his usefulness has run its course," Beckett said coldly, only vaguely annoyed. After all, Swann had appointed him representative, and with the communications lockdown he could keep the King and crown oblivious until the point was moot.

Yes... perhaps he didn't need Swann, after all. Not anymore.

"Tell the governor he'll be accompanying us to the Dutchman," Beckett ordered, making his decision. "If he is so curious about the Heart, perhaps he would like the chance to see it for himself."

James sneezed as a plume of smoke blew straight into his face. Some of the marines were sneezing and coughing as well as they rowed over to the Dutchman—where many of them would be posted for the next... God knew how long. As they neared the ship, anchored not far from the destruction it had wrought earlier, James could hear the faint sound of organ music. Davy Jones the musician. Somehow, that seemed incongruent.

His longboat was the last to embark onto the Dutchman; when he finally stepped onto the deck, Jones' crew had already assembled and the marines were in position. Terrified, but in position—including the two who were bearing the chest.

"Steady, men," James ordered mildly, directing his command to several marines who were quite obviously frightened. It wouldn't do to show your enemy that you feared them.

He heard the telling step-thump long before Jones appeared, elbowing his subordinates aside as he shoved himself forward to face the Admiral. However, he was brought up short upon seeing the chest in the hands of the marines. The look of horror on Jones' face would've been comical if he'd been anyone else.

"Go," Jones breathed, sounding winded as though he'd been hit in the chest. And perhaps he had; James didn't know what kind of effect the proximity of Jones' severed heart was going to have. "All of you. And take that infernal thing with you!" Jones was beginning to build up a head of steam, with rage overtaking shock. As he finished, he was roaring and spitting, "I will not have it on my ship!"

And then, like a knife sliding through one's ribs, Beckett's voice rang out over the deck. He, too, must have been angry, since he was as close to shouting as James had ever heard him. "I'm sorry to hear that... because I will!" The Trading Company Lord strolled his way past the ranks of the marines with his silver-tipped walking-stick in hand, trailed by Mercer and Governor Swann. "Because it seems to be the only way to ensure that this ship will do as directed by the company," he snapped curtly. Despite his diminutive stature, Beckett had cloaked himself with imperious arrogance, and it made him seem taller. Whatever else might be said of him (and his enemies could certainly think of several choice descriptions), Beckett did know how to present himself. "We need prisoners to interrogate, and that tends to work best when they're alive," he drawled to a finish.

"The Dutchman sails as its captain commands," Davy Jones retorted proudly—perhaps a bad idea, James reflected, given how Beckett tended to react to shows of pride in anyone but himself.

"And its captain is to sail it as commanded!" Beckett retorted, nearly shouting. Then he took a breath and composed himself, freezing ice over the fire of his rage, which would now burn cold instead of hot. (James had always been fascinated with watching people do that; it was a skill he had never possessed and did not fully understand, the way they could be so angry one moment, and then the next so cold.)

Beckett stepped closer to Jones; their disparity in height was nearly irrelevant when one considered the equal disparity in power. That little man could make the hulking monster dance to whatever tune he commanded. "I thought I thought you would have learned that when I ordered you to kill your pet," Beckett added quietly, poisonously. "This is no longer your world, Jones. The immaterial has become... immaterial." Beckett glanced over at James, who was watching their confrontation with a measure of fascination, and gestured with his walking stick.

James nodded once, curtly, moving to fulfill the unspoken order. Hopefully, he could finish this duty quickly, and go release Stella from the brig. Nodding in turn to the marines with the chest, he led them, to the background of Governor Swann's voice, into the captain's cabin, where Beckett had previously decided the Heart would be kept, due to reasons of security. Now that James had seen Jones' reaction, he was inclined to think it was more about adding insult to injury than having anything to do with security. Especially given what he knew of Beckett's personality.

The captain's cabin was dominated by the huge pipe-organ that soared all the way up to the ceiling. With the huge windows and the strange, tube-like protuberances along the walls, Jones' cabin was like some strange, gothic cathedral. A quick glance revealed a convenient pillar, which, upon his command, a marine brought to the centre of the room. James put the chest on the pillar and inserted the key. But before he could turn it and release the lock, someone grabbed his arm and swung him around.

It was Swann. He was wide-eyed and frantic; James recalled hearing him shouting, earlier, but wasn't sure what Weatherby was so distressed about. "Did you know? Did you know?" he demanded frenetically. James shook his head mutely, not understanding what was happening, or why Swann was so upset.

"Governor Swann!" There was Beckett again, being followed by Mercer and Jones... and, from what James could see, most of Jones' crew as well. He could feel his headache growing behind his eyes.

Then Swann shoved him away, his meagre strength augmented by whatever frenzy was driving him at the moment, and grabbed a bayonet from one of the nearest soldiers. It was apparent, from the way he was holding it and waving it around, as if to fend off an attack, that he was angry, afraid, and utterly ignorant of what he was doing; James was willing to bet this was the first blade Swann had wielded in years. Someone was going to get hurt if he kept doing that, so he moved in quickly and grabbed Weatherby's arm, restraining his erratic motions.

Beckett was watching them with dispassionate blue eyes. Once Swann was restrained, he stepped forward. "Out, everyone," he commanded.

The marines, however, looked to Norrington first—something he would be grateful for, later, when he had time to think on it. His time here would be easier if the soldiers trusted him. Now, though, he was wondering what in God's name was going on. With a nod to the men, James confirmed Beckett's order. With a quick salute, they obeyed.

When the room was empty of all other ears, Beckett spoke again, making his voice soothing. "Governor Swann, believe me... I only sought to spare you from the pain—"

Swann, however, wasn't soothed, and interrupted scornfully, "You only sought to use my political connections to further your own cause! The worst pirate that ever sailed has more honour than you. Even Jack Sparrow had honour."

Beckett just scoffed disdainfully. "Jack Sparrow is no more. And was never more than selfish desire cloaked in romantic fictions. A legend we're well rid of," he dismissed with a tiny wave of his hand.

James was really confused, now. Why was Swann upset about Jack Sparrow's death? "You knew Sparrow was dead," he pointed out, addressing Weatherby, who had lost none of his manic energy.

"Not him," Swann snapped desperately. "Elizabeth! Elizabeth is dead!"

His first thought was, 'Since when?' Stella had assured him that Elizabeth had been alive five months past, when his wife had seen her and Mr. Turner on a ship during the whole hurricane/Kraken fiasco. Not that he'd asked Stella since, but he assumed nothing had changed—she hadn't said anything, certainly. Not that they'd been speaking much, in recent months anyway. Perhaps Jones or Beckett had some information Stella didn't? Perhaps Elizabeth really was dead?

While James was reeling from this revelation, shocked and confused, Swann pulled away from his grip and opened the chest, throwing open the lid with a violence that made the column it was on wobble. Resting in the corner was the forlorn, still-beating Heart.

"No..." breathed Jones, looking pained.

Swann hefted his borrowed bayonet, eyes wild and teeth bared in a furious grimace. "This abomination is done!" he shouted.

Jones quickly moved to forestall his movements. " Are you prepared to take up my burden, then?" the Captain inquired, limping forward to face Swann. "If you slay the heart, then yours must take its place—and you must take mine. The Dutchman must always have a captain," he intoned quietly, and James felt something prickle on his skin.

But Jones' words had made Swann hesitate. He looked down at the Heart, looking sadly pathetic in the corner of the chest, then up at Jones, with his writhing beard, then over at Beckett, who spread his hands and raised his eyebrows, clearly passing the decision onto Swann. He looked back down at the chest, and James could see him weighing his options.

But he couldn't let Weatherby doom himself like that. Jones had said that if you stabbed his heart, yours must replace it—he could not let Swann cut out his heart. What would happen if Elizabeth wasn't dead? What would she return to, if her father was forced to captain the Dutchman and serve Beckett in Jones' stead? Weatherby had never liked the ocean, and, as far as James knew, had no idea how to sail a ship, either. He couldn't stand by and let a man he'd thought of as a friend doom himself like that.

So he once again moved in and grabbed Weatherby's arm. Now that Swann was a little less hysterical, it was easy for James to wrestle the bayonet from his grasp.

Weatherby still fought him, grief-stricken and angry. "Let me!" he cried furiously.

"Elizabeth would not have wanted this," James hissed. Though he certainly couldn't claim to having known Elizabeth as well as he thought he had, or had once wanted to, he did know one thing for certain: she would not have wanted her father to doom himself to an eternity as a monster, serving a monster. No daughter would.

'Elizabeth' seemed to be the magic word, and the fight immediately drained from Swann. His anger faded, and his grief overwhelmed him; Weatherby seemed to sag and grow old before his eyes. "Elizabeth," he whispered miserably.

Feeling terribly sorry for him, James took him by the arm and led him away from the Heart, out into the sunshine. "Come, Weatherby," he said quietly. "Let's go find Stella." Stella would know what to do—would know if Elizabeth was alive or not.

"Your wench is in the airtight room," Jones called after them.

"Thank you, Captain," James replied sarcastically.

Beckett watched the Admiral and the Governor depart, and glanced back at the chest. Without looking at Jones, he said, "You're dismissed, Captain."

There was a pause, and Beckett glanced significantly over at Jones, who decided—for once—to be discreet, and left. Alone, save for Mercer, he walked over and closed the chest, locking it once more and putting the key in his pocket.

This was bothersome. Too many knew too much; Swann and Norrington were now unfortunately aware of information Beckett would have rather stayed between Jones, Mercer, and himself. What was he to do about this unfortunate surplus of information?

"They know," said Mercer, stating the obvious.

Beckett gave him a dry look—he was very well aware that they knew, and what could possibly be done with this information. If either wanted, they could take Jones' place and remove the Dutchman from his control. Once Beckett was off the ship, it was in Norrington's hands; if the good Admiral wished, he could have someone stab the Heart and replace Jones as Captain, removing himself and this ship from Beckett's control. Swann could, once he was elsewhere, spread this potential damaging information far and wide.

These are the things that they could do. Beckett had to surmise a way to prevent them from doing these things. It wasn't hard.

He glanced back at the chest. "I can order Admiral Norrington's silence. He'll obey; it's what he does... especially since I still have his wife."

"And the governor?" Mercer asked, raising a brow.

"Yes. Well..." Beckett paused, remembering Swann's despair at his daughter's supposed death. Oh, Beckett himself knew full well Elizabeth Swann was still alive. Not that there was any need to inform her father of this, of course; it might inspire him to fight on, which would be annoying in the extreme. No, it was better that Swann, broken by the knowledge of his daughter's death, be heard announcing his intentions to retire elsewhere. They could then dispose of him with no awkward questions asked.

Beckett glanced meaningfully at his assassin/secretary. "Every man should have a secret he carries to his grave."

Mercer smiled.

"You," James demanded of the shark-headed crewman, once he was out of the captain's cabin, "where is the airtight room?"

The man-thing sneered at him—a strange expression, given the formation of his face and the state of his teeth—and pointed disdainfully at a door to the side of the one he'd just exited.

He changed his course, towing a nearly-senseless Weatherby Swann along with him. When he arrived at the door, he tried the handle and found it locked. When he knocked on it, he heard a familiar voice from inside call, "Yes?"

"Stella? It's me," he replied, noting distantly that his voice sounded rather thick.

When she next spoke, her voice was much closer. "James? What are you doing here?"

He put his hand on the door. "I'll explain later. Unlock the door, would you?"

"I can't," Stella replied, her voice wry. "I'm locked in."

James sighed. "Of course you are. Who has the key?"

"Guess."

Ten minutes and some spitting later, the door was open, and James Norrington laid eyes on his wife for the first time in nearly two months.

She looked much healthier than she had the last time he'd seen her; less thin, less pale, and grown larger with child. She also looked less harried and frail, though there was some less hard about her now. She was also wearing her nightgown, and not much else.

"Why are you dressed like that?" he blurted, and then immediately wished he could take his words back.

Stella arched a brow. "And I'm very happy to see you, too," she said, unable to hide her smile.

"I... of course, I'm overjoyed to see you again," James fumbled, knowing he was blushing. "But... er, why are you wearing your nightclothes up here?"

"They came to fetch me early this morning. I had no time to dress," Stella shrugged. Although, James noticed, her cheeks were rather pink as well.

This was ridiculous. They were two married people—friends, even—and here they were acting like blushing, stammering adolescents.

"Well. All right." James straightened his coat. "I'll escort you back to the brig where you can... er, get dressed. And pack." He watched as realisation dawned in her dark eyes, and joy spread over her face like a sunrise over the ocean.

"I can leave?" she asked.

"Yes. Lord Beckett has ordered your removal," James replied, smiling at her and her happiness at being free.

"Finally," Stella breathed. She tightened her robe around her body—a futile effort, since that robe had been made for her before her pregnancy and didn't quite fit over her bulge anymore—and moved to the door. She was pulled up short upon seeing Swann, who was still standing where James had left him. "Governor Swann, hello," she said, obviously surprised. She dropped a swift curtsey, as though she was not half-dressed on the Flying Dutchman.

Swann looked at her and smiled brokenly. "Hello, dear," he replied quietly, patting her shoulder gently.

Stella glanced over at him, confused and worried, then back to Swann. "Weatherby, what's wrong?" she asked softly.

"Elizabeth..." was all the reply she got.

"I'll explain when we're below," James said, forestalling her questions. "And, since you have no shoes..." That said, he scooped Stella up into his arms. She made a tiny noise of surprise and immediately flung her arms around his neck as he began to walk down the stairs. "Governor, I think you'd better return to the Endeavour," James suggested gently, seeing as Weatherby did not know all of what Stella could do. Now would be a bad time to reveal that, and give him another shock.

With an absent nod, the Governor obeyed. All the spirit seemed to have gone out of him.

Stella was a good deal heavier than he remembered here being, and much bulkier. Of course, she was six months with child. But it did make navigating the stairs slightly more difficult.

The third time he nearly slipped and sent them both careening below, Stella sighed and said, "James, just put me down. I made it up above barefoot; I can surely descend the same way."

Since getting them both killed on a fall down stairs would serve no one's purpose, James carefully set her down, and contented himself with simply helping her descend. Soon enough, they were back in the dim, damp brig that had been Stella's home for the past four months.

And, unfortunately, William Turner Sr. was still there, too, coming immediately to the door of the cell once he heard James' footsteps. Once he caught sight of who was accompanying his roommate, his face fell; he seemed about as happy to see James as James was to see him.

Bloody Turners, he thought bitterly. Always panting after the women I love.

"Stella, are you all right?" Turner rasped.

"Fine—better than fine," Stella replied, unable to hide her glee.

"How are you going to get the door open?" Turner wondered, once James and Stella pulled up short at the locked door.

"Easily," Stella replied smugly, waving her hand over the lock and frowning. There was a clicking sound, and the door swung open, nearly sending Turner falling face-first onto the floor. "I don't usually like doing that, here, since I am technically overriding Jones' power and I doubt he'd enjoy that too terribly much. However, given the circumstances, I feel an exception can be made," she explained, breezing into the cell and moving towards the sheet she'd hung in the corner to provide a small curtained dressing room. As she moved, she held out a hand; the lid of her trunk flew open, and a variety of feminine items—a dress, stockings, a shift, a corset, some shoes—soared out of the trunk and arranged themselves behind the sheet at the flick of her fingers. "I pray you excuse me, gentlemen, as I dress," she finished, and neatly closed the curtain behind her.

Turner looked baffled. "What... what's going on?" he asked, but with a dread that suggested he knew full well.

"Mrs. Norrington is to be removed from this ship post-haste; Lord Beckett has decided that her time here is at an end," James replied, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice, or from feeling bizarrely pleased at the way Turner seemed to slump. Then, turning away from the father of his ex-rival, he moved towards Stella's trunks. "Stella, do you want me to start packing these up?"

"Yes, please," came her reply. "Don't put the cooking things in with my dresses; otherwise, just throw it in a trunk or a crate and I'll deal with it later."

As James laid a hand on a black velvet bag and heard the familiar sound of stones, he remembered Weatherby and the question he'd wanted to ask her. "Actually, Stella, I need to ask you something, first," he said nervously. Mentioning Elizabeth Swann to Stella was always a little bit dodgy.

"What is it?"

"Er... Beckett said something... actually, it was Jones who said it... that Elizabeth Swann is dead," he explained, finally taking the plunge and saying her name.

It got very quiet behind the curtain as Stella apparently paused in her dressing.

James went on nervously, knowing that Stella's silence never boded well. "And I was confused, because you said she was alive, and Weatherby—that is, Governor Swann... er, would like to know. So... yes. If you could tell us if she's still alive, we'd both... appreciate it," he finished lamely.

There was another long moment of silence. James caught a glance of Turner, who was looking curious. James was confused, until he recalled that Elizabeth was (or could've been) his daughter-in-law.

Finally, Stella spoke. "I'll check for you, of course," she said, sounding flat and unhappy. James wondered, for a moment, if he was getting better at reading her or if she was becoming less inscrutable. "But I would also remind you that Jones is not a reliable source for anything. Take whatever he says with a grain of salt."

She said nothing else, and continued dressing. James and Turner stood awkwardly outside, waiting for her to finish. A few minutes later, she emerged, clad in one of the new gowns James had commissioned for her and her expanding figure (it was the cool green one with the yellow flowers, he noted distantly), her black hair coiling itself primly on top of her head.

"I'll have to use the cards first. I didn't bring the maps, so I can't scry the usual way. This is going to be terribly imprecise," Stella explained, going to dig through a trunk. "Bill, can you take down the curtain for a tablecloth? The cards are rather delicate."

Within ten minutes, everything was in readiness, and James stood behind Stella to watch her lay the cards (and trying to ignore the way Turner was hovering at her left). The cards were old; like most of her mystical tools, they had been handed down through the years from mother to daughter. Like the rune-stones, Stella wasn't sure who had first owned them.

When the last card was laid down, James felt his heart sink. It was Death.

"Don't look like that," Stella chided him immediately. "This card seldom means a physical death. It's supported by the Tower and the Moon, which speak of sudden changes and illusions. I don't think this card means what you think it means."

But James could see a tightness around her lips; she was trying to reassure him. She turned to him before he could comment and asked for her rune-stones, which she cast over the formation. She looked for a long time at the way the stones lay—longer than James had ever seen her stare before. So either she was having some problems interpreting the casting... or she didn't want to tell them the truth.

He placed his hands on her shoulders as she hunched over the table. "Stella?" he asked quietly.

"She's not here," Stella murmured.

"Not where?" James pressed.

"Not in our world," Stella replied, finally looking up.

"What does that mean?" James demanded, trying not to show how affected he was at the thought that Elizabeth might no longer be alive. Judging from the suppressed irritation he could see on Stella's face, he wasn't succeeding very well.

"It means... what do you think it means?" she demanded, as if she couldn't believe he was being so obtuse. "It means she is not currently occupying the same plane of existence as we are! Can I put it more plainly?"

"Yes," James snapped back. "Dead or not dead—which is she?"

"I don't know!" Stella hissed. "I said this would be imprecise, and it is. I don't know if she's dead or alive. It certainly looks like she's dead, but I can't say for certain. The Moon is the card of illusion and things being not as they seem," she finished loftily.

James heaved a great sigh, feeling the headache pounding full-on behind his eyes. "But what am I supposed to tell Weatherby?" he asked helplessly.

Stella sighed in return, and then stood, reaching up to place her fingers on his temples, rubbing them gently. James might've imagined it, but it seemed that the throbbing lessened at the touch of her hands. "I'm sorry," she apologised quietly, voice low. "I'm sorry I can't give you certainty."

"I'm sorry I expected it of you," James apologised in turn. "And... and I'm sorry our first conversation in two months involved her."

She smiled and softened, a little, at that, and James got the sense that he'd been forgiven. "It's all right. It's for Weatherby. I wish I could tell him, with certitude, that Jones was wrong. But I can't."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say—and, at any rate, Turner Senior inserted himself into their conversation. "Stella, you're leaving?"

"So it would seem," Stella replied, trying not to beam too obviously as she turned to put the cards away. "Could you get the pots, please?"

Turner got the pots, but he looked... well, he looked eerily like Swann had looked when he'd heard that Elizabeth might be dead. He walked like a man asleep, and his faded blue eyes were stricken and wide. Whenever Stella passed close to him, his fingers seemed to twitch, as if he were on the brink of reaching out to grab her and keep her with him.

James didn't know if Stella was aware of this—at least, until she gave him a significant look and asked, "Perhaps you might go fetch someone to carry all this above?"

With a nod of assent, James went to enlist some soldiers for heavy lifting, leaving his wife alone with a man he knew to be in love with her. Of course, after four months in close quarters, they were likely friends, and friends would like a moment to bid each other farewell.

I hope she bloody appreciates this, James thought irritably. Friend or not, he was still leaving his wife alone with a Turner.

The minute James was out of sight, Bill turned to her and came close as he repeated, "You're leaving?" He was very obviously heartbroken—even if Stella hadn't been able to see through him, his blue eyes carried all his feelings for anyone to see.

"You knew it would happen one day," Stella reminded him gently, suppressing the urge to step away. Bill always came too close to her; he was her friend, of course, but the only person she ever wanted that close was her husband. "I was never going to be here forever. Even if I weren't leaving now, I'd be gone in another three months, at the latest. This was always temporary."

"I know," Bill agreed hoarsely. "I just... I thought I had you for longer."

Stella made her voice as gentle as she could. "Bill, you never had me at all."

At that point, there was a great tromping of footsteps down the stairs. Stella stepped back just as James and a handful of soldiers emerged and came over to the open cell.

"Lord Beckett's assigned you a cabin on the Endeavour," James told her. "We'll put all your things in there."

"Thank you," Stella said, smiling. It was so good to see him again.

She had missed him, very much, during the months they'd stayed apart. And though it had hurt, the separation seemed to have worked. Aside from the unfortunate discussion (which veered almost into an argument) regarding That Woman (which had been thankfully brief and for which James had surprisingly apologised for after), they seemed to be back to normal. Mostly, of course. Stella was now unfortunately aware of her physical and emotional reaction to him, and equally aware that she wasn't as good at hiding things as she once was. She'd been flung too far open and scraped too raw to be able to close herself up again so soon. But hopefully there would be time to mend, if she was done with this place.

Only one thing left to do.

The marines awkwardly manoeuvred her trunks and boxes up the stairs and were soon gone, but James hung back, waiting for her. "A moment more, please," Stella requested. "I will join you on deck presently."

Her husband looked at her for a long moment, but he seemed to be getting better at hearing what she left unsaid (either that, or she was much less able to control her reactions than she'd thought) and nodded. Before going, however, he glared hard at Bill; it seemed the bad blood between him and anyone named 'Turner' would not be so easily laid to rest. Then he was up the stairs and gone.

Once they were alone, Stella turned back to Bill, who was looking no less miserable. But before she could say anything, he spoke first. "Do you think it could've been different if I hadn't... if I wasn't like this?" he asked, gesturing to the coral on his shoulders.

Stella sighed. "Do you want the truth, or the comfortable lie?"

"The truth, of course," Bill said, looking surprised that she'd thought he'd like otherwise.

"The truth, then, is this: if we'd met before, when you were still alive and I was still unmarried, you would've known me only as Black Stella, the Wind-Witch of Tortuga," she replied, laying out the brutal truth as he'd requested. "You would have been just another pirate that wanted something from me. I would've scorned you, and you would've feared me. If you were at all able to look past the persona I presented and attempted to charm me, I would've dismissed you at once. You were not what I was looking for, back then; I wanted nothing to do with pirates of any kind. I would have never permitted you to call me anything other than Miss Bell, and you would've only interacted with me during the times we were doing business. In truth, Bill, I would've been far more distant from you then than I am now," Stella finished, looking evenly at him.

Her friend looked tired and dejected, and she sighed. "You never would've liked me, anyway, if circumstances weren't what they were," she pointed out gently. "If I weren't the only living person you ever interacted with... if I weren't the only person who could tell you of your son. If I weren't your only option, Bill, you never would've looked twice at me."

Bill looked slightly affronted. "I might've," he protested.

Stella shook her head indulgently. "No," she corrected him. "You wouldn't have."

"Then I'd have been a fool who would've missed so much," Bill replied fiercely, taking a step closer and putting his cold fingers against her cheek. "So much." He sighed, and began to stroke her face. "I wish I could've known you before. Maybe... maybe we would've liked each other."

Stella bit her tongue. The truth was, she would've terrified him, and all he would've gotten from her was perhaps a measure of tolerance. There could never have been anything between them, ever. But Bill didn't need to know that. The poor man was going to be trapped in the brig of the Flying Dutchman for God knows how long. What harm was there in letting him have his dreams?

Besides, it was impossible not to feel flattered at such a show of devotion. Stella smiled at him, and patted the fingers on her face. But she made sure to pull back before she gave anything that could be called undue encouragement. "I have something for you," she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the star she'd embroidered and bound memory in. The little star, being made of her hair, was black, and she'd sewn it on a little piece of yellow lawn that had come off of one of her dresses some weeks ago.

"A star for me," Bill said, smiling a little as softly he ran his index finger over the embroidery.

"It's more than that," Stella told him. "It's a spell for memory, sewn from my own hair on the night of the full moon. Keep that, and every time you touch it, you'll remember me anew. Jones can't take those memories from you... provided you still have the star, of course."

Oh dear. Judging from the way Bill was now looking at her, her gift could be considered undue encouragement. He reached out to touch her hair, stroking it gently as he'd stroked the star embroidered of it. "Thank you," he said hoarsely, gazing at her so intensely she could almost feel it on her skin. It made her uncomfortable.

Stella shrugged. "I couldn't just leave you alone here and let Jones dull your memories. Not when I had the power to correct it," she demurred. "It would be a horrible way to repay your kindness."

"I ask no payment," Bill insisted.

"I know. This was an act of friendship," Stella replied, trying not to be too pointed about it.

Bill drew in a quick breath, and let his hand fall from her hair to rest on her shoulder. "I'll miss you so much," he whispered.

"I shall miss you too." And it was true, in a way. Bill was her friend. She wouldn't have come through this ordeal half so well as she had without him. But that didn't mean she was prepared to allow him liberties with her person, so she pulled away and moved to collect her hat and parasol. "If I see your son, I shall do all in my power to help him along. I'll help him free you, if I can," she promised. "Goodbye, Bill."

"Goodbye, Stella," Bill said gruffly. But as she passed him on the way out, he grabbed her arm. "Just once," he rasped, putting his other hand at her waist and leaning in to kiss her.

Stella, due mostly to surprise, stood still and permitted the embrace. Bill's lips were cold and clammy; his face and body covered in barnacles, mussels, coral, and other items that could scratch her, were Bill not careful. But he was careful, holding her gently and moving his lips against hers. It was wet, awkward, and quite unpleasant.

When the kiss ended, Bill didn't seem to want to let her go. He clasped her against him and rested his forehead—still mostly unmarred—against hers. Stella allowed it for a minute or two, and then stepped back, though Bill maintained his hold on her. "Just once," she repeated firmly. Then, more kindly, "Bill, you have to let me go."

"I know," he agreed disconsolately. Bill took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then removed his hands. "Goodbye," he said again, retreating to the shadows of the brig and collapsing where Stella once used to sleep.

Stella left the brig and moved the stairs, mounting them carefully and not looking back. She looked up, and saw James standing on the landing above the brig. He said nothing, just looked at her; Stella wondered what he'd heard... or seen. But she said nothing either—she just accepted the hand he extended and let him help her up onto the deck.

And so Stella Norrington left the Flying Dutchman, after nearly four months on it. She wasn't perhaps as happy about it as she might've been, after learning that the price of her freedom was that her husband had to take her place in prison. Of course, James had considerably more resources at his disposal, so she wasn't overly-anxious on his behalf.

Especially since, at the moment, most of her anxiety was focussed on Governor Swann, who was not taking the news of his daughter's death well—he was just standing at the rail, staring vacantly off at the ocean.

Once she was settled in the stateroom that was to be hers for the voyage back to Jamaica, Stella went above in search of Weatherby. Despite the unfortunate nature of his daughter, Swann himself had never been anything but kind to her. He could never replace her own, late father, just like Stella could never replace Elizabeth. But, as Weatherby had suggested on the morning of her wedding, they could make do. And they had been making do... at least, during the increasingly rare occasions that they were together. If there was any comfort in her to give, it was his.

"Governor?" Stella said quietly as she came up behind him.

Weatherby turned at her voice, and gave her a weak smile. "Stella," was all he said, before returning his gaze to the ocean.

They were silent for a long time, as Stella tried to think of something to say. "She might not be dead, Weatherby," was all she could think of to break the silence. "Don't believe Jones' word alone. It is not worth very much."

The Governor sighed, and turned to look at her again. But as the light hit his face, Stella suddenly couldn't see his features anymore. His face had been overlaid by the image of a skull, bleached white by time.

Stella couldn't restrain the gasp, or the urge to shrink away. She knew well enough what that omen meant: Weatherby Swann was not long for the world.

He was looking at her, slightly confused. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," Stella demurred, trying to bring herself under control. "The baby... she's just kicking me again."

Swann didn't look like he believed her, but he was also too apathetic at the moment to protest. He came forward and patted her arm gently. "You'll be all right, Stella. James will look after you," he said kindly.

"What do you mean?" Stella asked nervously. Did Weatherby know of his impending death. Or... or was he intending to bring it about himself?

"I... I can't stay here. I cannot," Weatherby explained brokenly. "Even if... I just can't take not knowing either way. I... mean to go back to England. I wash my hands of this entire business. If... if Elizabeth is alive, she can find me there." He smiled again at her, perhaps seeing the sheen of tears she couldn't hide. "Though I promise to write."

Stella nodded, and bit her lip, trying to will the tears away. She could still see the Death's Head overlaying Weatherby's face—he didn't have much time left, not if the vision was lingering like that. Certainly not time enough to make it across the ocean. "Then I wish you well," she said simply, even as one of the tears in her eyes escape and rolled down her cheek.

She was already beginning to mourn. She knew Weatherby Swann would never see England—or his daughter—again.

A/N part deux: So yes, there is chapter 34. I think it's the 2nd longest chapter I've ever written. I hope that in part makes up for so long with no updates. And I promise to try and do better. Especially since we're getting down to the end, here—there's probably only about 10 or so chapters left! Wowz.

Anyway, please review! Please, please, please! I need motivation, and reviews give me motivation. And let me know if you see a mistake. I edit all this on my own, and sometimes I miss things.