A/N Thanks for all the reviews. Please tell me what you think of this chapter.

Chapter Seven ~ The Key.

The funeral was a quiet affair, nobody felt like celebrating the death of Marcie. She was too beloved, too well known, and would be missed too much, for people to celebrate. Even Ronaldo Sparrow seemed sobered by the events. But he kept professing that she had gone to a better place.

"If I hear that bloody cliché one more time!" Bill told Rosie, angrily. "That's all they use to say when pa was murdered."

"Bill, we have to put our own feelings aside, we have to be there for Jack."

"And we will be." Bill replied. The two of them stopped whispering as the reverend came forward. Nobody could deny it was a beautiful ceremony, it did Marcie proud. How she would have laughed to see all the gloomy faces around her gravestone. All the gloomy, sorrowful faces. . .and then Ronaldo Sparrow stepped forward.

"I'd like to say a few words for my wife."

Jack stared up at him with anger. Jack had always hated his father, but now he hated him even more. "It should have been you, not Marcie." He mumbled.

"Jack. . ." Rosie reached for his hand, but he pulled it back without so much as a look at his concerned friend.

Ronaldo cleared his throat. "As you all know, my wife departed this world exactly five days ago, lost in a house fire. My wife has found rest, the Lord saw fit to take her from the world. So let this be a lesson for those who indulge in sins of the flesh, and of the mind. God will find you. The mills of the Lord grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small. But also let God see it fit to punish those responsible for her untimely death. She was an extraordinary woman, and will be missed by everyone who knew her."

As the graveside began to clear, Jack remained. He threw a rose on top of her coffin.

"She were a beautiful woman."

Jack looked up shocked.

"Beautiful, brought magic into the lives o' everyone that knew her." The voice came from a man. He was about twenty. His accent kept changing, and his appearance was vague. Jack knew instantly he was an actor.

"I know." Jack said, defiantly.

"Your father seems to think she was murdered."

Jack didn't reply. The guilt already lay so heavy on his young shoulders, that he could not bring himself to add to his sins by lying. He stared down and gave the appearance that grief was the reason for his silence.

The man nodded to himself. "Yeah, beautiful woman, cut down in her prime she was." He continued. "But murdered? Who'd wanna murder such a beautiful creature?" Again he was greeted by silence. So he decided to try a different approach.

"If I ever find out who did it to her. . ."

Jack jumped up. "Maybe it was an a accident."

"Fire ain't a toy, boy." The actor grumbled.

Jack had had enough, he started to walk away. "Wait a sec, I clean forgot the reason I came to talk to you in the first place. Truth is Marcie asked me too."

Jack turned round, quickly. "She asked you too?"

He nodded. "Aye, she did. Now what was it she wanted me to do?"

Jack sighed, and sat down on the dry ground, actors were forgetful people, he could be waiting here a while. But it was important, and he was willing to wait.

"Ah, that was it, she asked me to give you this." And without another word the actor handed Jack a key. By the time Jack looked up, the man was gone.

It was the key to her dressing room at the theatre. The urge was too hard to resist. He knelt beside her tombstones, and kissed it lightly. "Bye Marcie." He said, before walked off.

He went in through the stage door, avoiding the memorial going on in the foyer (for Marcie, of course). He slipped the key into the lock, and pushed open the door. He stepped into the dark room, and looked round with a gasp. Whatever he had been expecting, he certainly hadn't been expecting this.

The room was empty, no make up, or tortoiseshell brushes gracing the table, no dresses hanging from the rack. Absolutely no sign of life. Then as he looked closer he spotted a scruffed piece of paper lying on the floor.

Jack,

I'm sorry. But I had to go. There is nothing left for me in the Caribbean, I will never forget you, ever. It's not your fault I've gone, it's just I feel so trapped here, I need to get away. Escape, to freedom. I'll never stop loving you.

Marcella Sparrow.

He dropped the letter back to the floor in shock, he had too sit down. He grabbed the stool and threw himself in front of the mirror. But even that held a surprise. Scrawled across it were the words 'Let your spirit sour, My Sparrow'. Words he would remember for the rest of his life.

"Is everything okay?" The actor who had given him the key popped his head round the door.

Jack muttered to himself. "She didn't have a headache that day, she was packing her bags to leave."

"You what?" When he got no answer, he shrugged and left again. Poor child, the loss of his mother had hit him hard.

But Jack broke into a grin, and shook his head with a smile. Now that was ironic. Marcie had been running away, she had written a note of goodbye to her son, saying it wasn't his fault, and that she still loved him, she had gone home, traipsed upstairs to pack her bags whilst hiding under the pretence of a headache. Meanwhile the fire, started by her beloved son, began to lick the walls of the house. Maybe if she hadn't been running, she'd still be alive. But if she was still alive, she would be running. Would it have been better to know Marcie was alive, but not with him? Or was she better dead, and by his side?