He jerked his hand back, changing the quick movement to an overblown gesture only in the last moment.  "For such an intelligent lass, I would think you'd know more about sea captains.  I am who I am, just as I've been since the beginning of time and ever shall be.  I was Captain Jack Sparrow from the moment I sprung fully formed from the sea.  Interesting time, that was, nude as a—"

            Amelia shook her head slapping the book on the table and making him narrow his eyes, his voice trailing off. 

            "If you don't like to hear of it, you're welcome to go elsewhere.  You did ask the question, love."  But he could see the tenacity in her eyes, the part of her that, like a dog with a bone, wouldn't let go until she'd swallowed it whole or shook it to pieces. 

            "You didn't learn John Milton and John Donne on a ship, Captain, just as I did not learn them in a laundry.  It is difficult, to say the least, to find someone who not only recognizes those names but seems to know them as well as I, and so I would be sorely amiss not to press the matter."  She spoke rapidly, her eyes wide and excited.  There had been no one as she grew up to talk with her about the worlds made by others, the realities spun by words.  She'd tried talking to Philip about it once, only to garner herself a cuff across the head.       

            Jack laid his hands palm-down on the table and felt keenly the two halves of him warring.  It had been so easy, once upon a time, to forget the things she spoke of. The older he got, however, the more things he saw, the more he did, and the closer he got to that ever-elusive edge of the world, the more he thought about days long past. 

            It was something he'd spoken of to no one, save for hints here and there, occasional references to a life long past.  What good did it do, after all, for a pirate to be educated?  Even Barbossa had known enough to hide his finer side, seeing that the crew would better follow a man who more closely resembled them.

            But farces grew tiresome. 

            And so Jack started to speak, the voice that came from his mouth a quieter version of his usual crow, the accent softer, more cultured. 

            "A time ago," he said, kicking back in his chair and looking at her closely, watching her for any reaction, "Decades, or perhaps it's actually been centuries, there was a man with small means and great dreams.  He had a pretty young wife, it's told, and the longing to teach.  And so teach he did, giving knowledge to the moneyed class for little thanks and littler wage."

            Jack shut his eyes, and let the words become images, and the images become memories.

~~~
            "Johnny!  It's past the hour already, we need to go!"  John Sparrow stood by the door of the house, listening for his ten-year-old son. 

            "Sorry, Father."  A boy, painfully skinny as most young boys are, ran through the house, coat in hand, a book tucked under his arm.  Grinning sheepishly, he slid his arms into his coat and stood impatiently as his father tried to tame his unruly mop of dark hair.

            John grasped his son's face in his hands, kneeling down to look at the boy who looked so much like Mariel.  It was painful, John thought, but in a bittersweet way.  She'd died giving birth to her son, the very image of her.  "Well," he said loftily, tugging at each of his son's ears, "I suppose you'll have to do.  Too late to trade you in now, you know."

            Laughing, Johnny followed his father to work, his fingers worrying eagerly at the book beneath his coat.  He was nearly finished with the illustrated book of myths his father had given him, and he'd painstakingly read both the Latin and English words.

            As they trudged up the walk to the commodore's house, Johnny groaned loudly. 

            "Hush, my boy," John said, laying a comforting hand on his son's shoulder.  The commodore was pompous enough, but he paid well for his son's education.  Pity, John thought, that it would take more than an education to keep the child from being a fat, bullying git.

            "Hello, Master Sparrow!"  Commodore Wallace held the door open, gesturing widely for the teacher to enter and sparing only a small sneer for the gangly boy following close behind.  "James is waiting for you in the schoolroom upstairs."

            John walked up the stairs, glancing back to see that his son followed.  Johnny never wandered far, especially in the Wallace household.  Today, however, he seemed particularly reluctant to follow.

            "Come along, wild man," John said affectionately, opening the door of the schoolroom. 

            "I've cornered ye, ye scallywag!  Ye worthless, poor scum!"  James Wallace was lying on the floor, his considerable bulk spread out as he poked at something under the desk with his quill. 

            "What have you there, young Wallace?"  John stepped forward, wincing anticipatorily at what he would find.  A small grey kitten, already inkstained and mewling, was crouched in the corner, trying to get away from the great beast who was poking at it.  Sighing wearily, John stood.  "That's quite enough, James, your father wishes you to start your lessons now.  Leave your… pet… until after lessons."

            "As though I've to take orders from a poor teacher," the child spat, running an ink-splotched hand over his fair hair.  From the doorway, young Johnny snickered at the mess James had made of himself.

            As the lesson commenced, Johnny sat in the corner, seemingly reading to himself.  It was routine, and a comforting one.  His father would teach, and he would occupy himself in the corner.  But he heard every word his father said, absorbed every bit of knowledge his father paid out to the would-be lords of the wealthy class.  He listened, and he learned, never knowing his talent for such guileless listening would serve him well later in life.

            "Master Sparrow."  Commodore Wallace's voice boomed through the room.  "A word with you, if you may.  I've a few things I'd like to discuss with you."

            John blinked as though trying to place himself.  "Certainly," he said, standing slowly.

            "Surely our sons can occupy one another while we have a man-to-man talk, yes?"  The officer put an arm around the teacher, the counterfeit camaraderie of the gesture arousing suspicion in Johnny.

            "Hey, Sparrow," James said, scrambling down from his seat eagerly.  "Here, birdie, birdie, birdie."  Snickering at what he surely thought was his cleverness, he waddled across the room.  "What are you pecking at, poor birdie?  Another book?"  Not bothering to wait for an answer, he snatched the small book from the younger boy's hands.

            "Looky what we've here," he crowed, sitting on the floor and putting his filthy hands all over the book.  With a small whimper, Johnny edged toward him, eager to get it back.  "It's a whore!" he said suddenly, poking his sausage-like finger at the page.

            "'Tisn't a whore," Johnny said, grabbing at the book.  "She's Venus!" 

            Snickering, James ignored Johnny, perusing the pages roughly, wrinkling some and tearing others.

            "Give it back!"  Without planning, or really having an understanding of what he was trying to do, Johnny stood and rushed at the boy, knocking him to the floor.

            "Here, here, what's all this?"  The elder Wallace stood in the doorway, hands on his hips.  "Separate, boys, that's enough."

            "He stole my book!"  Johnny stood, his breath coming in huge, chest-raising gulps.  "Father, my mythology book!"

            Thin-lipped, John stepped forward and drew his son to him, drawing strength from him and giving strength to him.  "Young Master Wallace, what say you?" he asked, dreading the answer.

            "He's a liar," the boy said casually, holding the book.  "It's my book.  Father gave it to me, isn't that right?"  The commodore said nothing.

            With pleading eyes, John turned to the officer.  "Sir, that book belongs to my son.   It was a gift from me for his last birthday.  You may punish your son as you wish, but the lie is his."

            Henry Wallace turned and looked at John, his blue eyes cold and suddenly distant.  "I do recall giving my son that volume, John Sparrow.  And so I ask you this: Do you call me a liar, as well?"

~~~

            Jack rubbed his eyes, the memories of his father overwhelming.  His audience was rapt, he noticed.  Amelia had hardly seemed to blink during his story, all traces of her earlier exhaustion gone. 

            "When John tried to retrieve the book, the Commodore accused him of stealing.  When John refused to concede, Wallace shot him and said he was defending his home from a thief."  He stood and tried a grin, but his face felt too small, too tight, his skin stretched sparsely over his bones.  "And so, losing his only family and his only possession in one terribly short but terrifyingly eternal moment, Johnny ran away and was swallowed by the ocean." 

            Amelia pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes watering.  "Oh, Jack," she said quietly, unable to say anything more.  No matter what she'd suspected, what she'd imagined, it hadn't been that.

            He stood up and shrugged elaborately.  "There you have it, love.  If it's stories you like, then it's stories Captain Jack has.  What do you say?  Should I write it down?  It's a bonny bit of fiction, if I do say so meself.  I've another spectacular one," he said, flashing his hands at the sides of his face and widening his eyes.  "It has cursed ghosts and a mutiny.  It even has a monkey.  People always enjoy stories with animals, don't they?" 

            Amelia stood then.  "Stop it," she said, her voice low.  He was pained; even a fool could see that.

            He lowered his head to look her directly in the eye.  "No, Miss Hamilton, I suggest it be you who stop.  You asked your question, I answered your question.  Let's not make a big fuss of it, savvy?"

            "Perfectly savvy," she said through clenched teeth.  "Though I realize you'll only tell me the road to hell is paved with good intentions, I must say I intended well when I, as you put it, asked my question.  I'll take care not to ask any more, as I've no wish to travel any road I build in such a manner."  Meeting his eyes for another fraction of a second, she gathered up her skirts and ran from the wardroom.

            He sagged visibly where he stood, his body conforming to its usual stance, and he raised his eyes skyward.  "No, love," he said quietly, "The road to hell is actually paved with Aztec gold."  Feeling inexplicably better despite himself, he headed above deck. 

            He hated to miss the sunset.