I'm so sorry this is appallingly late. I had a touch of writer's block (it's not easy to write when Gordo's not around, lemme tell ya) and my sister's wedding, of course (at long last, I have a brother-in-law!), but I'm hoping to get back on a chapter/fortnight schedule now. In the meantime, thank you so much for your patience and reviews.

Black Knight 03, I hope you like this chapter...and that my details continue to add to the story, despite my utter lack of sailing know-how! ;) Good to see you again, Jenna; sorry this chapter was so long in coming, but I hope it measures up. MysteriouslyUnique, what a good question! My guess is that Lizzie hasn't had much need for currency thus far, besides which the MotS told her to use the pearls for payment; I'm not sure Lizzie would feel confident enough to disregard a goddess's instructions even a little bit. It's definitely something she'd think about, though, once she reaches Aderet so thanks for bringing it up! :D MP, is there such a thing as too much PotC? If my copy weren't packed away (along with all my other movies, blast it!), I'd doubtless be watching it right now. Sigh...alas! pixievix, I'm so glad you're not missing Gordo too badly; heaven knows I'm right there with you! Soon, I promise! Soon! Thank you, Caz, I hope you still love this even though it's been forever since I've updated! :) ashley, it's been an even longer wait...I'm so sorry...but I hope this chapter makes up a little for it. Wow, Purplerks, thank you! I definitely enjoy putting all that stuff into this story...although at times I, too, wonder why I do it. :) As for what's going on with L & G in their world...we're inching closer to finding out! swim6516, does this chapter count as a present in any way, shape, or form? My birthday's this weekend, but that's not nearly as much fun. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this chapter! And lastly, I-Got-Butterflyz, so many good suggestions! Trust me, I shall eventually reunite L & G, G shall eventually explain all (as will L), but no G-point of view, I'm afraid. Maybe if I write another story? Despite all that, I hope you like this next little bit!

Wow. Review-response that ate Cincinnati...on to the chapter!

Chapter 16: Aboard the Amana

At the slam of the door leading out on deck, Lizzie recollected herself and gently pushed her own door closed. Leaning against it, she let her eyes wander once more over the room. For guest quarters that were supposedly never used, everything was in remarkably fine shape. All the woodwork shone, glossy with what had to be fresh wax and a good polish. The sunlight beaming through the windows caught only a few dust motes dancing in the air, and as far as Lizzie could tell, the upholstery and the bed curtains were of the finest quality, almost new.

Drifting over to the bed, she pushed the drapes aside. Crisp white linens glowed in the sudden light, and Lizzie had an odd flash of Captain Zev tucking them carefully over the mattress, hands smoothing a deliberate crease here, a determined fold there, until everything was just so. Blinking the image away, Lizzie shook her head. No. This guest room was definitely meant to be used. And by one person. Someone important. Someone that had drawn that peculiar exchange between Zev and the first mate, not to mention all the sailors' staring, disbelieving eyes.

Maybe later she'd have the chance to ask Zev about it.

Fingers sweeping the soft velvet of the drapes, Lizzie turned to the windows. More of the curving sweep of the bay met her gaze, one rocky, tree-studded arm of land dwindling into the water at its mouth. Sailboats and oared boats still patrolled the water before her, but the traffic was much lighter than it had been closer to the harbor, almost peaceful.

Or it would be almost peaceful, had there not been nearly so much noise. She couldn't see the ships to either side, but she could certainly hear them. Shouts, indistinguishable with the distance, pierced the air, rough chants calling rhythm into the gentle sway of the ship beneath her, whistles, creaking timber—or was that rope?—the crackle of captive canvas in the wind, even bells. And, aside from the bells, none of it happened at the same time, sound lapping over sound, ebbing, eddying, a sea in its own right.

Closing her eyes to the light and her mind to the din, Lizzie drew a long, slow breath, held it tight, and released it. For the first time in what felt like forever, everything was still, simple. No hiking, no strangers right beside her, no magic carpets or monkeys, no prophets or goddesses or gold hair or anger or worry or anxiety over Where To Go Next or What To Do Then. She was here, on this ship, where she needed to be, and for once, she was not in charge of when it was leaving or how to get it ready or why it was going where it was going. In fact, the captain had all but ordered her to stay in her cabin 'til dinner. All the quest-concerns were bound to come back, of course, but for now she was going to do just that.

Opening her eyes, she looked over her shoulder at the bed. It was beyond tempting, and with a murmured apology to Zev and whoever he'd intended this room for, Lizzie stretched out on the white duvet and settled in for a nice long nap.

If only her mind would shut off.

At last free of quest-stuff, at last free to indulge in some blank, blissful rest, her mind instead chose to work itself into another knot. What about Gordo? it kept asking. And as much as Lizzie didn't want to know what it meant, didn't want to think about it, didn't want to care, she did, she had to, she couldn't help it.

"Bother," she muttered, staring up into the bed canopy. "Apparently, once you know you're in love with your best friend, you've got to do something about it." Which sucked, really, since the thought of doing anything about it, let alone something, pretty much scared the hell out of her.

She laughed in spite of herself. "At least I can admit that to myself now." Swallowing, her faint smile fallen away, "I am scared to death."

C'mon, McGuire, she rallied, what's the worst that could happen?

Oh, but she could imagine the worst all too easily. Gordo, I'm in love with you. And him, stunned, mouth open. And her, so nervous, so hopeful...please, please, please... And him, the dawning understanding in his eyes, the pity, he's such a good friend, and one hand rising to her cheek. Oh, Liz—that name, closer and dearer than Lizzie—I'm sorry—and he is, God, he is—but I just don't feel the same. You're my best friend, but I just can't...I'm sorry. And he'd be so kind, because that's the way he is, and her words ashes in her mouth, eyes hot, trying not to cry as she nodded and summoned a smile and T-that's okay, Gordo. We're friends. And the humiliation, her self bared to the bone, open and raw to his kind, passive, disinterested gaze.

She flinched away from the scene, banishing it viciously from her mind. Why should it hurt so much, she wondered, if he didn't care for her? Why after all this time should it bother her so deeply if he didn't love her? Wasn't in love with her? It was all so huge, so tender, so new.

But it wasn't, she realized. It wasn't new, not really. Blinking, surprised, her eyes traced a maroon shadow in the corner of the canopy. How long had she loved him? All her life? And had she only been in love with him a few days? Weeks? Years? Or had she been in love with him almost as long as she'd loved him? The moment of realization was clear, of course, but she couldn't think when the love itself changed. It just...grew...somehow, shifting with all the natural purpose of seasons or stars or...or tadpoles into frogs.

And he'd always been there. She'd always had him...had more of him than his family or his other friends...more of him than he knew he was gifting her with, sometimes. His kindness, his humor, his mind. His support, his touch, his eyes, his principles. His frustration, his anger, his determination. His whimsy, his philosophy, his strength. His sorrow, his pain, his courage. His faith. His trust. His love.

And she'd returned her Self for his, she realized with a gasp. As unknowing, as unconsciously as he, she was sure. But he'd gotten it all. Because there was always a place for everything inside her to go. A match for all of her into all of him, and vice versa. With such a trust, with such an exchange, what else could she do but give everything to him? She'd given it no more thought than breathing.

And now, here she was, faced with the very real possibility that she couldn't give it all to him anymore. That, as much as she wished to, he might simply not have any more room to give her. Love of the sort she felt for him was, after all, far larger, far heavier, far more than the love she'd given into his keeping before.

He might not want it.

And to hold herself back, to keep herself apart from him... She didn't even know how. And, in a way, if he couldn't take this larger love, if he couldn't return it... In a way, it would be like losing him, like the Gordo she'd known all her life, the Gordo she'd had all her life had disappeared, died maybe, gone forever.

And then, who was the Gordo left behind?

With a teary shrug, she whispered, "So the worst case scenario is really, really awful. At least that's clear."

So, then, what was she to do? Not tell him? And would that be better? She'd still be holding herself apart from him, wouldn't she? She'd still give him all that larger love, but if he didn't know it was there, was she really giving it to him?

Hell. She was giving herself a headache.

And what if she told him, and he said he was in love with her too, and then, somewhere down the road, he stopped? (She tried to imagine her doing the stopping, but it was impossible, inconceivable.) After all, he was probably going to college on the other side of the country from her. That was four years—at least!—that he had to find someone much better to love than her. And then what?

The questions kept swimming in her head, washing this way and that, disappearing for a few minutes only to resurface, harder and crueler than before. Scenarios, imagined conversations, expressions, certainties turning to doubts, doubts to certainties, all of them swirling round faster and faster until, exhausted, tears still sliding down her cheeks to wet the duvet, Lizzie stumbled into a kind of restless doze.

A firm tattoo on the door woke her, some unknowable time later.

"Cap'n summons m'lady for supper," piped a young voice through the wood. "Y're to present y'rself in his cabin at next bell." And before she could do more than scrub her tear-stiffened cheeks, a quick patter of footsteps retreated up the stairs.

"Aye, aye," Lizzie muttered as she sat up. Squinting through bleary eyes, she realized the room was nearly dark. It was still light outside, but only just, and what little sun remained glowed mellow in the edges of the window panes, trapped before it could penetrate the dimness of the cabin.

Well, at least she'd gotten some sleep. 'Course, she probably looked like crap, face all stiff and blotchy from crying, eyes bloodshot, hair a mess. And—Lizzie scanned the room—not a mirror in the whole place, even if there'd been a candle to see with. "My kingdom for a candle," she grumbled, tottering to her feet. But, then, were candles even allowed on ships? Seemed a little...foolhardy...having open flames on ships made almost entirely of such lovely flammable things as wood and rope and canvas.

There had been that oil lamp in Zev's cabin, though. So maybe it was just novice sailors...er, guests...that weren't allowed to have open flames aboard ship?

Right. Whatever. Shaking her head, Lizzie decided on a quick finger-comb of her hair, a brisk scrub of her face, and a few stretches that might possibly make her look a little more awake. But she'd no sooner lifted a hand to her hair than from somewhere above decks rang the sedate, demanding chimes of a bell.

"Crap," mumbled Lizzie, raking her hands ineffectually through her hair as she staggered out the door and stumbled up the pitch dark stairway. Drawing a steadying breath, she smoothed her hands over her stomach and stepped out on deck. With a quick look around—for show: Lizzie had absolutely no idea what her eyes scanned over—she made her way to the captain's door and knocked.

Muffled, but unmistakably Zev's voice, "Come," and Lizzie was only too happy to slip inside and shut the door firmly behind her. Zev was the only one in the room, standing, as before, behind his desk, but this time the oil lamp was lit, throwing his face into sharp relief. He looked nothing like Jon Dukov now.

But at least he was smiling. "Ah, m'lady," he said, "prompt as any sailor, I see. Commendable." Lizzie, uncertain how to respond, gave a faint smile and the merest suggestion of a curtsy. "And your amiable self, as well," he continued. "I am indeed honored." The Yup that leapt to her tongue didn't seem quite appropriate, so Lizzie settled for a nod this time. "You slept, I hope?"

Finally something she could answer. Clearing her throat, "Yes, I did."

"Splendid. And once you have eaten, you shall be your own self again." Which really only meant she did look like crap. Bother. "But please forgive me. I keep you here when our supper awaits." And with that same startling quickness as before, he rounded the desk, laid hold of her arm, and ushered her through the door at the rear of the room.

Wood walls, wood floors, three windows at the back, two windows to the left—all diamond-paned, of course—a door to the right, and in the middle of the room, a large, square table, draped in a snowy cloth, covered in dishes, ablaze with tall, white candles.

So candles are definitely allowed, Lizzie mused as the captain swept her into a chair.

"We serve ourselves," he announced, taking a seat on the other side of the table.

Lizzie, looking up, found the candlelight much more friendly than the oil lamp. Zev was Jon once more, his eyes mirroring a dozen candle flames but still apple-green behind the gilt. Settling herself in her chair, she smiled and said, "Oh, I don't mind."

"I didn't think you would," grinned the captain and Lizzie blinked, certain she felt complimented but equally certain he'd actually meant to insult her. And she too muzzy to parry his thrust adequately.

Backbone, she reminded herself, drawing a deep breath for a direct, disarmed, "Why not?"

"What's that?" he asked, helping himself to what looked like a sliver of white fish covered in seaweed.

Licking her lips, she repeated, "Why do you think I'd not mind serving myself?"

"Oh, that," he shrugged, but the eyes he raised to hers were hard. "I simply meant that ladies are fussy about servants tending their needs. You would not be so because you are not a lady."

Ah. So that's what this was about. A touché to call her bluff. But Lizzie rather suspected he was trying to punish her for having the effrontery to demand passage on his ship. And in a room he probably meant for someone very specific, someone very much not her. Returning his shrug with one of her own and helping herself to a large portion of the white fish and seaweed, Lizzie nodded.

"Yes," she agreed. "Very true. I am not a lady. I am only Elizabeth—Lizzie to my friends—but, really, that doesn't change the fact that I paid my passage fairly. How long's the journey to Aderet? Two days, I think you said? Come two days hence, you'll be well rid of me, and you can go back to dreaming of whoever you really want in your guest cabin. Geez. It's not as though my being here means you'll never have another person in that room. A little hospitality won't kill you, captain."

For a long moment, Zev just stared at her, but it was a stare that Lizzie found easy to return and in the end it was Zev who dropped his eyes. When he raised them again, they held an apology, his mouth a rueful curve.

"Yes, yes," he said. "You're quite right. I am sorry, Elizabeth. Just...well, this is not quite how I expected my story to go."

And Lizzie, repressing a grin at his choice of words, nodded and countered, "Yes, but perhaps it's the way your story had to go?" Of course, since this was one of the fairy tales she hadn't read, she had absolutely no idea whether that was true. Still, it seemed the right thing to say.

Apparently, Zev agreed, as he chuckled, "Yes, I suppose you're right. Let us start again?" And at Lizzie's nod, he began to speak of sailing and cargo, his crew and the Amana, herself. Before Lizzie knew it, they were laughing over the surprisingly appetizing meal, and by the time he handed her a small, long-stemmed glass of tawny, sweet alcohol, he was easily addressing her as "Miss Lizzie."

"This is your first time aboard ship?" he asked, pouring himself another glass.

Lizzie nodded, swirling her drink lazily before one of the candles. For something so sweet, it had a wicked little kick to it, judging by the warmth in her chest. "I've been on rivers and little lakes, and I've been to the beach, but I've never been on a ship like this before." She laughed. "I'll probably be lost as soon as I step outside."

Draining his glass with a gulp, Zev stood. "Allow me to show you around, then, Miss Lizzie."

Lizzie looked up, startled. "Oh, no. That's not necessary. I'm sure I'll be quite content to spend the next two days holed up in my room."

Zev smirked. "Hardly," he snorted. "You'll only make the seasickness worse, if you do that." Seasickness? Bloody hell. If there were any justice in this world—er, bubble universe—she wouldn't get seasick. Not after the past few days. "Besides," the captain continued, "as a guest, I cannot allow you to wander about utterly lost. Think of the disasters you might unwittingly cause onboard!" Extending a hand, he called an imperious, "Come along."

Only too glad to abandon her drink, Lizzie grinned, took his hand, and allowed herself to be lead out on deck. After the candle-brilliant dining room, the ship seemed a threat of darkness. The moon was only a pale shimmer over the hills of the village, and squat orange lanterns scattered along the deck seemed more to gather heavy shadow than disperse it. The rigging soared above her, a bewildering tangle silhouetted against the thin spangle of starry sky, and—combined with the gentle roll of the deck—soon sent Lizzie staggering, dizzy.

"Easy there," murmured the captain, his hand shifting to her back. "Best not to look up until you've your sea legs."

Squeezing her eyes shut, Lizzie gritted, "Right." But when she opened them again, the night seemed more welcoming, shadows rising against shadows so that she could almost discern squares and circles, line and curve. It wasn't much, of course, but it was better than nothing.

"Shall we?" asked Zev, and with a nod, Lizzie yielded to the gentle pressure of his hand and began slowly walking up the deck.

The captain was a superb guide. Not only did he manage to keep her from running aground on hatches and hooks and the occasional sailor, he also provided a surprisingly lucid explanation of the parts of the ship they passed. Larboard was left, starboard was right. Fore was forward, aft was back. The bow was at the front beyond the fo'c'sle, the stern at the rear behind the quarterdeck. This was the mizzen mast, the mainmast, the foremast, the bowsprit. The yards were there, the sheets here. This door led to the mess—that is, the crew's dining room—and the bell, there, rang the hours and the duty shift. By the time he'd pointed out the helm on the quarterdeck, Lizzie was amazed. The Amana was not a large ship—probably not even half the length of a football field—but there was a great deal of stuff packed in and onto her.

Stopping in front of his cabin door, Zev explained, "We stock the last of our provisions early in the morning and leave on the dawn tide, so this is the last night we'll be at anchor. If you're tired, I'd be happy to escort you down to your quarters, but if you'd rather stay awake, the crew always joins in a little revelry before we weigh anchor. You'd be most welcome to join us."

Lizzie certainly wasn't tired...not yet...and since the crew was probably as unwilling to welcome her as Zev had initially been, it was likely a very good idea to join them tonight, when their captain was around to set an example. And so Lizzie nodded, said, "I think I'd like that very much," and made her way on Zev's arm to where a group of crewmen stood near the mainmast.

"D'ye fiddle for us, Mr. Aloway?" she heard the first mate ask.

"Suppose I could," a low voice teased, "an Shoe here wants to dance a jig."

A jostle among the shadowy bulk of sailors. "Gorn," creaked an abashed voice. "'Tain't dancin' nothin' f'you lot."

"You will ere the night's done." A different voice, chirpy but rough with age. "Y'just don't have enough grog in y'yet." The group's laughter swept over Shoe's vehement denials, and Lizzie couldn't help giggling a little herself.

"Cor!" This voice like a mouthful of marbles. "Lady's present, lads!"

Immediately, the laughing ceased and it was all too easy for Lizzie to discern the sudden flash of eyes turning in the faint lantern light. "Lads," Zev stepped in, "I believe you heard we've a guest on board." The eyes which had darted to their captain swerved again to her. Damn, that was uncanny. Like beady little bird eyes and she the worm. "This is Miss Elizabeth. Miss Elizabeth, my crew. Finest bunch of men to be found in any of the nine seas." Lizzie curtsied a greeting, as aware as the crew surely was of the warning in Zev's words: they were to treat her as if they were the best men in all this fairy tale world...or else.

Lizzie wondered idly if the "or else" involved keelhauling.

"Nice t'see you again, Miss Elizabeth," Mr. Jeshin rumbled, and Lizzie caught a nod of the first mate's head amid the shifting, shadowy crew.

"And you, Mr. Jeshin," she smiled in the direction of that nodding head.

"We's about to set Shoe dancin'," a young voice added.

"Oh, no I amn't," Shoe protested with almost religious piety, and the crew was all over laughs and ease once more.

"A simple song, then," Mr. Aloway announced, "to get us started." And without a moment's wait for an answer, he launched into an eager, tripping melody that was joined immediately by at least a dozen voices.

It was, in a way, much the same as that merry feast she and Gordo had shared with the brothers and Lily that last night, but in many other ways it was very different. The songs were much bawdier—oftentimes garbled by the marbly fellow's screeching "Lady's present! Lady's pre-sent!"—and the alcohol flowing free. But it was a delight, and Lizzie joined easily in the songs and, eventually, the dancing until at last, still laughing, she dragged herself to bed, almost too happy, almost too exhausted to think of Gordo.

Almost.

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end of chapter 16

Chapter Notes:
Again, thanks be to my wonderful, all-knowing Father-Dearest for yet more sailing assistance. Again, all mistakes are mine. :) If you're interested in delving into sailing—and tall ship—terminology (including or beyond the little I've mentioned this chapter), this website was extremely helpful: w w w (dot) schoonerman (dot) com (slash) sailingterms (slash)