Willemina sat on the steps of the abbey, the stones cool under her as the rising sun warmed her face. She crossed her arms over her chest, slightly chilled in the thin shift she wore under her skirt and vest. They were still the clothes of a child, though she was nigh on fifteen. Her mother was reluctant to have her baby grow up.
Normally she would have sought out the presence of the dashing street thief, Jack Sparrow, but not this morning. He was about ten years older than she was, though he had taken a liking to her since they had met nearly nine years before. Jack seemed to take devilish pleasure in taking her away from the nuns who nursed her mother, always ill with a bad cough, and teaching her the ways of the street. Lately he had been spending more time with Miss Meredith Powell. Besides being beautiful, Miss Powell was the only child of a wealthy widower who was likely to pass on any day and thus the center of attention of all he young men west of London. Miss Powell had even been favoring Jack.
In the beginning Willemina did not recognize the feeling in the pit of her stomach as jealousy. She smiled for Jack's luck, and laughed with him, and encouraged him to leave and seek out Miss Powell's company.
She always called the other woman "Miss Powell;" it made her seem less human, less like competition.
For Jack's sake, Willemina never mentioned her feelings for him. For one thing, Miss Powell was definitely a woman where she herself was only on the brink. Where Miss Powell had money and influence, Willemina was a fatherless, poor girl who spent half her time with the nuns and the other half avoiding them.
Willemina stuck a hand in her apron pocket where it was sagging with a weight. For centuries her family had been the guardians of a great treasure. It was said that, back on her mother's side, there was a grandmother with too many "greats" to count who had been alive with the arrival of Cortez and, as if that were not enough, was an elder in an Aztec village. The dark skin and ebony hair had long since been weeded out in the family, but the guarding of the small box passed down nonetheless, from mother to daughter, and from Willemina's mother to Willemina. Now, though, she felt it was time for the prophecy to be fulfilled.
One day there will come a man who seeks the treasure for the joy of the hunt, for what it makes him leave. On that day, this will pass out of the family and cease to work for any but him. She knew the prophecy well, and she knew a young man who needed a hunt, needed some joy that would take him far away.
Her stomach knotted as her hand clenched more tightly around the object, the corners cutting into her flesh. Taking him far away from this also meant taking him far away from her.
The night before, Miss Powell had chosen another man to be her husband. He was an aristocrat, also wealthy, and – according to those who knew him – a total bore. Upon hearing this Jack had turned on his heel and left, no questions asked.
That had been earlier this morning, before dawn when he had awoken her with stones thrown at her window.
A figure turned the corner onto the street, staggering, rum bottle in one hand. It took her a moment to recognize this drunken staggering form as the straight-backed, bright-eyed young man she knew. Leaping to her feet, Willemina went to Jack, catching him as he staggered. "What are you thinking?" she whispered harshly, not wanting to disturb anyone behind the closed shutters up and down the length of the street.
A lazy smile worked its way across his face. "Will, fancy meetin' you here."
Clapping a hand over his mouth, she managed to steer him down a deserted – and semi-clean – alley before he collapsed, rum bottle clutched to his chest. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she repeated, no louder but no less insistent, crouching down and trying to look in his glassy eyes.
"Drownin' me problems, love," he slurred, raising the bottle again.
She grabbed it and tossed it away, ignoring his protests as it shattered on the cobblestones and dribbled amber liquid down the street. "You never drink!"
He shrugged, head at an obscure angle as he was no longer able to prop it up. "I do now. 's a good time to start, don't you think? Wha's the word?"
"Opportune moment," she said through gritted teeth, showing her hair out of her eyes. "And this is not it."
"'Course it is. Lose a girl, drown in a bottle." His grin, still pure white, had an awful slant.
And what of me? Will bit back the question. This was all wrong. He was supposed to be able and ready to receive the gift, to get to London and secure a passage to America so he might seek out her father and start on the quest the gods had written out long before any of them were born. What was she supposed to do now? Wait for him to recover enough to stagger back and buy more rum? She could not very well explain the curses and blessings of Isle de Muerta here and now, not with him in this situation, though she could also not bring him back to the abbey to recover.
Taking a deep breath, Willemina steadied herself, hands on Jack's shoulders. Carefully – and with great care to detail – she described all the wonders of Isle de Muerta, stressing the curse.
Jack looked amazingly clear-headed when she was done. "Well, Will; I should get drunk more often, then, if you're going to tell me things like this. How do I find this place?"
She pulled the object from her pocket and placed it in his hand. Amused, Jack opened it. He stifled a laugh. "Someone's been foolin' with you, love. Your compass doesn't point north."
But, instead of revolving lazily on its axis, the needle was indeed pointing somewhere. "You're not trying to find north." He's the one, Will thought, both pleased at having seen it and saddened at the fact that fate would take him far away. "It only works for you," she said softly, trying out a smile and feeling how false it was at the corners. "It's your treasure, Jack."
Snapping it shut, he stashed it in his pocket. "You say to find your father and he'll help me."
She nodded. "That he will. All pirates will do anything for treasure."
"Pirates?" She had not spoken of her father before, and he was intrigued. "Your father's a pirate?"
Again, Will nodded.
"I knew you were named for him . . . a pirate." Jack frowned, running a finger over his bottom lip. "Once I get the treasure, I'll come back."
"So you can show Miss Powell what sort of mistake she made when she overlooked you?" Will could not keep the bitterness from her voice. She knew, deep inside, that sending Jack off on this mad hunt would change him, probably into the men her father had befriended: unfaithful drunks who, if it could be managed, never spend more than one night with the same girl. But it's his destiny, she told herself. The compass points for him.
"Why?" Jack raised an eyebrow. "Because you deserve an even share."
"I deserve no such thing."
"You do." He took her chin in his hand. "Because you've always seen what she's overlooked."
He kissed her then, the first and only kiss she had taken in her life. Will was half convinced it was only because he was drunk. His lips tasted strongly of rum and his cheeks were rough with a day's growth of beard, things she remembered long after he had gone. It was a long kiss, one from which she both desperately needed to and yet never wanted to pull away.
The look he gave her was carefully guarded as he climbed to his feet and walked away. From that moment on, Willemina made it her first priority to forget Jack Sparrow and remove every element of him from her life.
She failed.
* * * * *
Mina blinked. "Anything I want?"
Smithy nodded, obvious thoughts flashing behind his eyes.
She cast a lazy glance over her shoulder, at the door that was cracked slightly so the prisoners would not feel compelled to discussing escape plans. "Well, then. After this is over" – Smithy knew what she meant, if no one else did – "I want you to set Jack Sparrow free. So he can spend the rest of his life knowing he owes a great debt to a woman."
This not being exactly what Smithy was thinking – not being too bright, he was imagining having to take Elizabeth out of commission so Mina could have a shot at the blacksmith – he blinked stupidly. "You want him t' go free."
"Can you imagine?" Mina smiled, an evil glint in her eye. "Knowing I can call him on a debt at any time, and wondering exactly what it's going to be."
"An' it could be anything." Smithy's face broke into a wicked gap-toothed grin. "'s yours."
Jack shook his head as the door closed. "I already owe you, Will-"
"I told you not to call me that," she said briskly, cutting him off before seeing whether it was the old nickname or the entire spiel.
"And what's to happen to us, 'after this is all over'?" Will asked. He looked immensely tired though, after a few hours, Smithy had taken him down.
Jack nodded. "Good question, mate. And maybe the girl will answer you?"
The girl. Mina sighed. Back to that again. "I don't know."
Will looked horrified, but Jack only laughed. "Least she's honest, boy."
"Will there be something to happen to us 'after this is all over'?" Elizabeth asked, looking slightly sick, but like she had to ask, anyway.
Mina took a deep breath and let it out. "You and Jack don't have to worry about that. Just what's going to happen to you along the way."
"So then whatever plays out here involves me. It's the reason I'm here." Will shook his head, frowning. "But why? What in the world could your captain want with me?"
"That is not my story to tell." Distinctively stone faced, Mina took up her customary position in front of the door, took a knife out of her sash, and began to whittle away at a carving, singing softly to herself. "And really bad eggs. . . ."