Hunting, as it happened, proved less enjoyable than James had hoped for. Crunching through the snow in boots that were not his own, James Norrington considered that perhaps teas with the woman in the attic would not have been as miserable. It seemed a hopeless situation, hunting at Tirwitter did, and every dreary day was made none the better by their being cross with one another. The contention among them was, as Percy had blown out in one hot breath that marked the cold, due to the oppressive presence of the VonCochs.

James, who'd been sore at his friend since the morning incident in which Percy had griped about James' borrowed boots—which were the absent Nolan Witter's and two marks bigger than made a good fit for James—slowing them down, stuffed his pride and agreed that it was indeed the VonCochs who had made matters so difficult to swallow.

Charles and Charles had risen early each morn to take the best of the munitions out into the best patches of the forest which were, they had stressed to the gamesmen, expressly theirs to occupy and hunt. Each day the sullen gamesmen handed off a map to Starling with orders not to stray in the direction marked and each day, after long hours spent in vain stumbling over the icy ground and narrowly avoiding soaks in freezing waters, the lot of them returned to the lodge in time to watch attendants struggle under the weight of heaps of prey slain by the proud VonCochs. On that, the third eve, James stood with the others watching Hawk VonCoch sneer in admiration at one of his deadened beasts when Starling had shifted the pack on his back and snapped that the rest of them should hurry on to rid themselves of their burdens. James stared after him as he stalked, still outfitted for the hunting, into the lodge.

"Where's he off to?"

Percy shrugged, quiet as he had been by the end of each fruitless day. James sighed and followed the Pickwicks to do what Starling had ordered. There was little consolation in the attending gamesman's apologies. James scowled as the man took his ill-fitting boots and followed Percy—who was to James' guilty pleasure pink around the edges—into the lodge and up the stairs to their room where waited their dinner.

The meal, however, was tasteless. They indulged in it without the mirth they had the first time they'd supped here together. When they'd finished, and Starling still had yet to return, Patrick took out the Bible and James turned away from the brothers as he did not want to think of the last time he'd laid eyes on the Good Book…

James scowled, thinking of the way Alice Witter had looked at him. Just what he thought of her pity he longed to tell her but since that eve he'd seen her only once and she had been in the company of Charles the younger. James hadn't dared to approach them. Not only was he as sore as the others for the VonCochs' dominion over hunting grounds—he was quite unsure just how Charles might make to belittle him and sure for certain that in any case it would simply make Alice Witter pity him all the more.

"And worse," he murmured, "would treat me better than she would if otherwise as well."

To James' dismay the voices that had been arguing about the Exodus stopped and when he looked up two sets of green eyes were fixed as sadly as hers had been on him. James bit back his anger on count of these being friendly faces. He was wondering what to say to them when the door burst open to admit Starling to the room.

"Turn down the sheets, lads," he said, dark eyes gleaming. "Early to bed, early to rise makes a man stealthy and wins him the prize."

The three of them watched with some degree of weariness as the young gent led by example, stripping down to a nightshirt and all but leaping into his bed. Percy, who'd been complaining for days that he got little to no rest on count of the fool's snoring, wrinkled his nose in silent complaint but dragged himself to the neighboring bed anyway. Patrick and James glanced at each other and then looked questioningly at Jonathan who stared back at them with wide, innocent eyes. That, James thought with trepidation, could not be genuine…

"What's the rush?" Patrick scoffed. "Isn't as if we're going to get to much hunting on the morrow anyway."

"Well, you know what they say," Jonathan drawled, dropping back against his pillows and smiling serenely up at the canopy of his bed, "the early bird catches the worm."

James was certain that he'd only just closed his eyes when an insistent tap on his shoulder jerked him from sleep. Up from his pillow he jolted, dragging his blankets with him. There was, to his horror, a figure looming over him and he gasped.

"P—pirates!"

A low, throaty chuckle that could've been a pirate's sounded, but it was Starling's face that poked too close to his. True to his word he'd been—for it had to be earlier than any of them would normally wake of their own accord. James glared into the dark eyes gleaming at him in the darkness.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Jamesy," said Jonathan, "but there's no pirates here—less you count ol' Onry as one."

"Onry Witter is a privateer," James asserted, lifting his chin. "He is not a filthy pirate."

"Oh I'm not sure about that—cunning enough." Starling grinned and clapped a hand on James' shoulder. "Let's get to it shall we?"

But it was not without a struggle that the two of them wrangled both Pickwicks from their beds. Patrick's voice was of a petulant pitch as he pleaded with Jonathan to stay abed "just a bit longer". Percy was no better, diving back under the covers each time they were yanked off him, though James did count himself lucky for his friend's stubborn silence in the matter. He counted himself even luckier when Patrick, who'd come to realize his dreams of staying abed were much as shattered, did the work for him.

"If I have to get up, so do you."

James stepped aside and just in time. Patrick wasted not a step as he heaved the blankets off and Percy up. He dropped his brother heavily on the floor.

Percy blinked at the three pairs of feet around him. Scowling at his brother's, he leapt up off the floor. By the looks on both Pickwicks' faces James guessed thunderclouds would clap softer than their impending argument. It was, he thought, a very good thing that Jonathan Starling's hands clapped quiet each of the brothers' mouths.

"Shhh," he breathed, dark eyes darting between the Pickwicks. "The hawks are sleeping."

It was the first time in days that real light shone in Percy's eyes. Patrick, too, looked quite a bit happier to be awake. When Starling let loose their mouths, the both of them beamed at him.

"Brilliant!"

But less brilliant was their sneaking down the stairs. Wooden they were and creak they did. Each step James took seemed louder than the next. Several times did Starling glower at him over his shoulder and by the time they'd made it to the bottom it had been one time too many. James, quite ruffled, stepped hard on the gent's foot and watched with a certain sense of glee as Starling struggled to stifle what James guessed by his wide eyes would have been a startled shout. Figuring it best to leave him hopping behind, James ran ahead with Percy to ready their breakfast in the otherwise empty kitchen.

They were quick and quiet about it. When they'd packed in what they could eat they packed up what they couldn't. They stuffed their packs with smoked fish and lamb and even a few sacks of raisins. Starling took the task of filling their flasks and canteens with water and made fast of it. When satisfied they went through the hall that led into the groundskeeper's office.

Two of the three gamesmen were snoozing on their cots, their green jackets muffling their snores. The third, however, was awake and sitting at a table with a steaming mug in his hand. He was not alone. Old Tom, the groundskeeper, was sorting through an assemblage of brass keys and Onry Witter himself stood frowning over the fellow's shoulder at the jumble.

"Good morning gentlemen," said Starling without the slightest hesitation, "we're here to stake claims."

Old Tom's head snapped up and the gamesman jolted. Tea splashed his green coat. Onry Witter, though, seemed to have been expecting them. When he looked up at them there was no surprise on his face—only a fair bit of amusement.

"Ahh, boys," he said with a wink at Starling. "Up early today?"

"Early bird gets the worm," Percy said.

Onry's face brightened with a wide grin at that. He considered Starling and on appraisal seemed to approve. "And so he has." He took from the gamesman's pocket a quill and offered it forth to Starling, nodding at the map Old Tom had swept his keys out of the way to lay atop the table. "Mark your territory."

There was a second's hesitation that James could not for the life of him understand but then Starling accepted the quill and stepped forward to consider the map. Patrick took the time to strike up a conversation with Old Tom. The boys, Percy and James, took the opportunity to gawk at Onry Witter while the man watched Starling's work intently. When the cartographer at long last made the last careful swoop of red ink, he laid the quill carefully upon the map and stood up to look the privateer in the eye.

"And no one without my express consent is to touch what's marked mine," he said, "savvy?"

Onry laid a hand on Starling's shoulder. "How could I refuse the request of a man who has proved he takes every care and consideration to even the slightest of details?" He drew the gent in close, embracing him in a way that was not unlike the clasp of brotherhood. James looked away; he busied himself with studying the parts of Tirwitter that Starling had marked out for them to hunt. "Yes, you alone will have what is yours to take. Lewis?"

The gamesman straightened, looking glad to be called on. "Yes Sir?"

"Do make copy of this to ensure no other men make the mistake of stepping where they ought not?"

Lewis stared down his nose at the map. His gaze traced the various red lines upon it—all encompassing the best grounds and cutting through the worst so as to make them impossible to navigate for any who hadn't Starling's consent to step foot on his territory—and one eyebrow inched up. "Certainly, Sir."

"Easy as that," Witter told Starling. "Shall you consent to the company of my brother?"

Jonathan folded his hands neatly behind his back and gave a curt nod. "Of course."

"What of you?" Percy, it seemed, couldn't help himself—when the two men turned to eye him, he flushed scarlet but stared determinedly back. "Will you have a hunt with us, Captain Witter, sir?"

"I would much enjoy that," said Onry, "but I must see to the keeping of other matters." He looked at Starling whose eyes widened innocently. "And you shan't worry on that… I've the sharpest of eyes, sharper than even a—hawk's…"

Patrick, whose conversation with Old Tom had long since dwindled, turned a curious ear to the conversation but it seemed it was the end of it. Starling had started giving a list of names with his consent to hunt their marked land. James shrugged and followed Percy out to where the gear was stowed. They pulled and piled it on, watching as the groundsmen—who had been promptly waked by the groggy look of them—sorted through the munitions for the very best they had to offer. James accepted two longshot rifles with utterings of his thanks. Percy, beside him, was handed an archer's bow. He glowed as Lewis strapped the quiver of arrows to his back. It was not until they were, the four of them, trudging merrily through the snow that Patrick Pickwick's curiosity got the best of him.

"Was that about," he asked Starling, "what I think it was about?"

Jonathan raised a brow. "More than likely."

"But—" Patrick spluttered. "You can't be—"

"James," said Starling over him, "what sort of prey's our prerogative today?"

Two sets of eyes settled on James. He was doing his best not to fall behind in the bothersome boots that did not fit. He scowled and put a resolute foot forward, passing Patrick who was yet staring at Starling as if the gent had gone undeniably mad. James garnered some amusement from the look on the older Pickwick brother's face and it served him well as he thought on something he wished not to think on at all—his last hunting expedition at Tirwitter.

"Well," he said, "that depends on our aim, doesn't it?" He stopped to squint into the murky morning light of the woods they were fast approaching. His gaze swept left. "If we're wanting to capture our supper… I should think turkey, doe, or rabbit would do. There's ducks by the lake…" He looked right. "But if we're out for glory, there's fox and buck and beyond… there's bear."

"Oh no," said Patrick, freckles standing out on his pale face, "not again! Not this time. No, last time with the bear was once enough."

Percy smirked and flapped his arms at his brother. "Chicken."

"Least I'm not foolhardy—"

"You've a yellow belly, don't you?"

The four of them continued on to the sound of brothers bickering. Strangely enough, James felt relieved to hear their banter. It was not the irritable sort that had plagued them for the last several days but the brotherly back-and-forth to which James had grown accustomed. Stepping lighter, he followed Starling straight into the woods.

"We'll first see what's best for the taking, eh?"

James nodded, finding that approach better than any. "Sounds as if a plan."

"We cartographers are adept with the plotting, young James. Find our way in or out of anything," said Starling, glancing down at his copy of the map still clutched in his hand before sending a narrow look James' way. "But sometimes there is only one route to take."

"You make it out so simple," James complained.

Jonathan smirked. "On the contrary, Jamesy—I find I've a way to make things ever more complicated than already they are. But that's neither here nor there…" He frowned. "Or maybe it is, but no matter. Rabbits."

Indeed there were rabbits about. Long-footed tracks marked trails in the powder on the ground. Their burrows made visible indentations in the tufts of snowdrifts.

The four of them went still and silent, watching as one dark brown hare hopped into view. It, too, stopped in its tracks. Even its nose stopped twitching. James felt Percy move beside him and reached to still his friend's arm.

"No."

"What do you mean, no? We're out to hunt!"

"She's a mother."

"So? She's a hare, James—"

"She is a hare who is a mother."

Percy glared at him but dropped his arm. "Where's her bunnies then?"

James smiled, feeling much relieved and nodded toward the bank of snow above her head. Small heads with ears laid back waited for their mother's move towards their burrow. They made not a sound—all too obviously aware of what must seem certain danger between their family and their home.

"Good eye, lad," Patrick said. He smiled approvingly as he passed. "And a heart of gold to match."

"Aye," Starling agreed, stepping ahead, "that's our young Norrington."

Percy, however, was not as pleased with James' good intentions. He scowled for a time and remained mostly quiet so that the only sounds filling James' ears were the twigs snapping and snow crunching beneath their feet. James' heart would have been heavy were it not for his gladness to finally find himself in the heart of the woods at Tirwitter. Within that grove of trees he stopped to turn round—seeing possibilities in every direction. James was struggling to decide which way to go when the distinct sound of boots crunching through snow turned him around to glare suspiciously into the woods from whence they came.

"That," Starling growled, "had best not be either of those beaky buggers…"

Much to their relief it was not either of the VonCochs but Wilhelm Witter. He gave a quick nod in greeting to most of them but drew himself to his full height to stare down Jonathan Starling. James wasn't sure what it was all about, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Wilhelm did not take as much a liking to the young gent as his brother Onry—and everyone else, save the VonCochs, for that matter—seemed to.

"Sir," said Starling, extending a hand without his usual flourish.

Wilhelm took it but offered no smile in return. "Don't patronize me, lad. I'm not my brother and I'm no fool. We are quite different, as are you and I."

"Who am I to deny that?" asked Starling. "But I must say, Wilhelm, that I think none of the three of us fools."

"Yes, well," said Wilhelm, "we shall see about that, shall we?" He clapped a wary Jonathan on the shoulder and looked to the west. "Come to the lake and we shall fire at the fowl…"

"If," Percy snipped as they moved to follow, "James hasn't a softspot for ducks as well."

"Don't be such a cad, Percy," Patrick chided. "A duck could be somebody's mother."

James scowled though was not thinking on ducks but on his indecision in choosing a direction to follow. Was there truly any way to decide which possibilities would bear the best? He thought, worriedly, that there was not… the only certainty there could be was the choice in course and his will to see it through. But how, he wondered, could he ever choose a course of action if he did not know which course of action would yield better than worse?

The lake was glass reflecting the grey sky and dead trees. There was a hush to the place that invaded James' thoughts and once again he was glad for it. He hadn't been to the lake before and set to exploring it with his eyes as the five of them set up camp a good distance away on a mossy knoll.

A bit later he'd come to the swift conclusion that he did not so much mind preying on ducks whether or not they were mothers. He did not fancy their squawks. In fact, he once or twice found himself firing if only to startle them silent. In truth he was not so good with a rifle—missing all but one of his targets, the unluckiest of all. That duck, to his and the others' consternation, had fallen dead into the lake to be claimed not by James himself but by the water. A lengthy discussion as to why one should only shoot at the birds in flight if they were not flying over the lake itself followed his mistake and by the time it was done with James felt like telling Percy to take wing.

"At least I hit my mark."

Percy rolled his eyes, grabbed James' gun, aimed at the sky, and pulled the trigger. A crack filled the air around them with smoke but a terrible squawk overhead had them both clawing through it to see what the younger Pickwick had hit. Neither had luck in the matter, but as luck would have it, neither needed it: the bloody duck's body smacked right atop James' head. His eyes rolled up to evaluate its glossy feathers and then narrowed accusingly at Percy who beamed brightly back at him.

"And I mine."

"Well done, Percival," said Wilhelm Witter, eyeing the dead duck still limp on James' head with a certain sense of admiration. He turned to Starling, who had yet to hit mark, and raised his brows challengingly. "Who'd have thought a young boy could outhunt the son of the Pilot Major?"

James, not much for wanting a fowl wig, reached up and gingerly removed the duck from his head. He handed it off by the neck to Percy and frowned down at his bloodied hands. It was the first time he'd ever seen them so and it shook him so that he could not rest until Starling gave in and allowed him to the water's edge.

James dipped his hands in the cold water and hastened to rub them together. When he brought them up to survey the results he was not much pleased; the blood had stained his skin. He sighed and dipped them in again. A few frenzied scrubs later and James was still staring at the same bloodstained flesh. He gave a cry of dismay and backed away from the water, tucking his hands out of sight and into the warmth under his arms. It was no comfort, not knowing that there was still blood on his hands.

When he returned to the others they took no notice of him. Wilhelm had taken out and was eating a great crusty pastry that Patrick, who was munching on straggly dried meat, eyed jealously. Starling was glaring up at the grey sky and Percy was beaming on the three ducks he'd since shot, the first being the one whose blood now marked James' hands.

"Think I'll have one stuffed."

James said nothing and reached into his pack for the raisins he'd stowed there. He opened up the sack and dug out a handful that he quickly realized he could not eat for knowing his hands were stained beneath the fruit. With a sigh he dumped them back.

"What's with you?"

"Nothing," he lied to Percy. Being dishonest, though, was not James' forte and so he swallowed his pride and lifted his eyes to those of his worried friend. "I don't like having blood on my hands."

Percy frowned. "It'll fade, James."

"Not fast enough."

"Here," said Percy, grabbing up the raisins and yanking James' head back by the hair, "this'll do." He dumped a mouthful of the dried fruit in James' mouth that had opened to complain.

James chewed. Though he would have preferred Percy give him some warning as to what he had intended to do, James had to admit that he was glad both for the food and his friend's silence on his sudden sensibilities. He nodded his thanks, albeit a bit grudgingly, and swallowed the tart, sweet fruit.

"What do you think Wilhelm's got against Starling anyway?"

James shrugged. "I don't know."

Percy huffed. "Me either. But don't you think it's strange? Onry has as much contempt for VonCoch as we have, but his brother seems happy enough to bend about backwards for the beaky bugger…"

"Mayhaps it only seems so, Percy," said James. "For think on if not one of the Witters made nice with Hawk VonCoch what that might mean for their family fortune… Souring the cousin to the King seems like bad business to me."

"Hm—you could be right about that."

James shrugged. "Either way, does it much matter?"

Percy's green eyes darkened. "I don't like the VonCochs," he said. "I don't like them one bit. And I'm not sure any of us should like those who like them."

"I second that," Starling said. "Can't trust 'em a lick."

Patrick, who'd not quite finished drooling over Wilhelm Witter's pastry, distractedly nodded his assent.

The four of them looked curiously at Wilhelm Witter who, for all intents and purposes, seemed not to have heard one bit of their conversation. The man was polishing off the last of his treat. He took great care in brushing the crumbs off his coat. A great sigh heaved from him as his shoulders fell.

"Young Norrington is right," he said at last. "There is only so much hostility one can show Charles before Charles makes a show of hostility all his own. It is best for at least one of us to grin and bear his boorish banter…"

Even Starling looked mildly surprised at this statement having come from Wilhelm Witter. The man gave him a sharp look and took out another pastry. He tore it in half and handed the other piece to an instantly sheepish Patrick.

"Yes," Wilhelm agreed darkly with Starling, "you are the last person to whom I'd have ever thought I'd tell such secrets." He gave the younger man an appraising look and then turned away with a frown. "Though I suppose there are worser wretches than you, young sir…"

If Jonathan was affronted he did not show it—in fact, for the insult he looked rather grateful. "Thank you kindly, Wilhelm."

"Don't thank me yet," warned the older man. "There goes along with my trust a certain responsibility."

"Yeah," muttered Patrick, "and she's bound to make you miserable."

Jonathan snorted and Wilhelm looked furious, but James and Percy exchanged bewildered glances. They'd both lost the thread of conversation. Nothing could they make of it and so gave up in favor of betting who'd get the next shot.

In the end it had been Starling. Wilhelm Witter's confidence seemed to have given Jonathan his swagger back. It was the turning point of the day as well. By mid-day they were thick in bodies of birds. A weary Wilhelm had piled every last one in his arms and retired their company for a reprieve at the lodge. It had been difficult convincing Jonathan that he needn't see the furious faces of the VonCochs but in the end Patrick's promise that they'd outfox the foxes held him back from following Wilhelm triumphantly through the woods.

It did not matter roundabout. As they returned on nightfall, foxes draped about their shoulders and Percy tugging two turkeys by their toes, all four of them walked with a spring in their step that the VonCochs could not hope to match. Charles and Charles looked on with matching scowls as the boys trampled smugly past to the stores.

"We'll sup," said Starling to the three of them, "and then we'll sleep."

"Another early morning, you think?"

"Oh yes," he told Patrick Pickwick, "I do believe another parade such as this is absolutely necessary."

It happened just as such. On that next day they rose quite early, earlier than the previous day, and made fast to the groundskeeper's office where Old Tom was the only soul awake. Starling approved the same map he'd charted before and with the help of two groggy gamesmen they were scurrying off into the woods before anyone had a say as to otherwise. They spent the day trapping and hunting, Percy exasperated as always when Starling pulled a stunt that ended up their prey making a hasty retreat. James, though, found no fault in this—he hadn't wanted to trap the hare in the first place. Patrick seemed as lessly worried as he, and indeed as they four sat down to break for a bite he told his younger brother in no uncertain terms to stuff it. Percy, predictably, spoke all the louder until the both of them were speaking at the top of their lungs calling each other names that had not sullied James' ears before. As interesting as this exchange was, James couldn't help but take an interest in what Starling was doing—consulting a small instrument James recognized as a compass.

"Lost, are we?"

Jonathan tsked the question away and rolled the compass in his palm. He stared down at the needle thoughtfully and turned his head up to the grey patches of sky showing through the boughs and branches. A smirk lifted his lip and he glanced down once more, first at the compass and then at the map he'd laid out beside him.

"Well if we're not lost," James persisted, "why consult the compass rose?"

"Why not?" Starling rolled up the map and tucked it away in his coat. He raised an eyebrow at James as if awaiting a response and when seeing by the glower of James' face that he'd not be getting one, rolled his eyes. "S'always best to know where one's going, young Norrington." He patted him on the head as he climbed to his feet. "Remember that. Last one up on his feet with his mouth closed's a rotten egg!"

Luckily, this bellow stuffed both Pickwicks' arguments and got them up off their rumps. But this bellow was followed shortly by another bellow not quite as loud. It had come from afar. James, who'd already been on his feet, turned sharply around and took a step in the general direction of whence it came. A hand on his shoulder held him back, however, and James watched Starling take a cautious step forward as Percy leapt ahead of him. A glance back found a pale-faced Patrick gone still as the animals they'd stalked.

Starling withdrew the map from his coat and snapped it open. He glared, first at it and then at the woods ahead. Darkness crept across his face as he studied the map and a snarl lifted his lip as he put it away. "Someone's out of bounds on our grounds." He reached back and took his rifle in hand. The frizzen snapped up to lock in place and he glared out through the forest. "Decided gentlemanly conduct's not a preferable nor pleasurable pursuit, I suppose."

"You can't mean to—to shoot them?"

Starling didn't answer James. He and Percy stalked ahead without a word. James moved to follow and remembering Patrick turned to give him a despairing look. The older Pickwick recovered himself quickly. He stomped forward, bringing James along by the arm. Soon they'd caught up with their two companions who were in the thick of a heated discussion as to how to trap the prey they were stalking.

"…ll be hiding—"

"Aye, 'hind a tree—"

"Or up it—"

"Up it?"

Percy shot the young gent a glare. "Aye, up in its branches!"

"Ah, but I don't think either of those fusscoats'd have the salt to be up a tree," Starling breathed, "though I must say, Percival, that I'd fancy a lookon during the attempt to get down."

"Do you mean," James asked fast, "you think it's the VonCochs?"

"Like as not," Jonathan said. "Onry's too busy for hunting, Wilhelm would have found us by now, and the gamesmen likely have had their fill of the hunt as its midseason. Can't see Lewis hunting haughty as he is. Doubt Old Tom's much for the task either. Only one's I figure'd be stupid—and snotnosed—enough to stomp our grounds without saying G'day… are the Beaky Brothers." He darkened and eyed the ground they were walking on. "And stupid enough to be trampling close to bear territory as well. Watch your step."

James looked down and glanced ahead in the direction they were walking. He saw what Jonathan meant to warn them of—rusty traps waiting to be sprung. They were meant to trigger by bear claw but James imagined that a man's—or lad's—foot would do just as well. He winced, remembering the surgeon's tools aboard the Godspeed…

"Look out!"

It was Percy who'd shouted, but it was Patrick who knocked Starling off his feet—one of which had just missed springing a trap that had been hidden by a covering of twigs and bark. A few of its menacing teeth gleamed white as the snow on the ground from its hiding spot beneath a bramble branch. Starling glared at it and rose to his feet slowly as if it might take a leap at him and do the job it might've done had the Pickwicks not been watching his step.

James swallowed the panic rising in his chest and followed along, ever more careful for the traps. He thought it might be a sound practice to take up a long stick and trigger the traps so as to have no problems with them later—but Starling was in a hurry, dashing to and from the cover of the biggest trees and glancing every which way for any sign of life. Were it not so dangerous a territory… James would have thought the process of sneaking and lurking quite the comedy.

"Mayhap it was an animal," he said hopefully.

"Don't wish on that," Patrick said sharply. "Were it an animal, most likely a bear!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Percy shot, "bears don't bellow, Patrick, less they've been trapped." Hope lightened his eyes. "Oh if only—a shot'd do it and we'd have ourselves a nice bear rug o' the floor."

"Bears—and animals—may bellow," said Jonathan, "but they haven't voices to shout and a shout is what we heard. Hush up the both of you, we're in the thick of the wood from whence it came and whomever's voice it was can't be far off!" His eyes narrowed and his voice went to whispers. "We are not to be seen nor heard till we've set proper sights on the culprit, understand?"

All three of them nodded, eager to get on with this particular hunt. Starling, pleased with this, resumed his sneaking. Left then right he looked and strode forward to lurk behind a thick, dead tree. Cautiously, he leaned to the side to peer through the bramble and brush. James made it to his side first and peeked out around the embellished elbow of Starling's coat. He heard the Pickwicks make haste to join them but didn't turn around for his eyes were fixed upon the scowling young man leaning against a tree. Even so many yards on it was easy to see who it was, for the prominent nose was not in the least diminished by distance.

"Knew it," Starling said. He cast a longing look at his rifle but in the end propped it against the tree and turned to face the rest of them—sending James back a step into Percy. The resultant kerfluffle seemed not to bother him as he moved in closer to confer with his companions. He glanced down at the moss showing through the snow and a gleam brightened his dark eyes. "I've a thought…"

Patrick groaned.

Later, when it was just James left at the tree to watch over a sod-covered and fuming Patrick, young Norrington felt he should have been as disheartened by that idea as the older Pickwick had been. If Starling's plan went off the scene would be worth the effort. But if it did not—James couldn't believe Percy had so enthusiastically insisted that the plan was worth the pains to pull off. Were he in his shoes he would not put his brother at such risk—not that Brian would ever have let himself be put in that position with James close by.

"See them yet?"

James peered out around the tree in the direction he was supposed to be watching and shook his head slightly. "Not yet."

"Well they best get on with it," Patrick grumbled, "or I'll truly be a bear when it is we're together again!"

"Whyever did you agree to it in the first place?"

Patrick frowned, then scowled and looked away. "Just you let me know when they give us the signal."

James shrugged. After a time he saw the glint of the compass that meant both Starling and Percy had met their destinations. James frowned and looked at the spot Percy was supposed to occupy. He could not see his friend amidst the branches and brush. There was no indication that anyone was near the spot until James squinted and saw that the dead wood was swaying just a bit more than dead wood should.

"Go on," James whispered to Patrick.

If the older Pickwick brother had any reservations for lowering himself to the sort of debasement Starling had cooked up for him, he made no show of them. There wasn't the least bit of shame on his face—or maybe it was that James couldn't see it through the mud that had been caked on—as he opened his mouth wide. A fantastic bellow befitting a well-injured bear issued from him.

"Well?" he hissed at James.

James, who'd not been able not to watch Patrick be made a fool, turned his attention hurriedly to the beak-nosed twit some ways away. Indeed, it was as had been expected—Charles the younger had taken up his rifle and snapped 'round to stare in their direction. James gasped and ducked back behind the tree, his heart pounding. He looked worriedly down at Patrick and nodded.

"Go on!"

It wasn't a man that lumbered out of hiding, but a bear. Starling had done such a job on Patrick—pressing dark moss into wet mud for the look of fur—that the stocky man did resemble a bear. Red hair had been slathered down with a good helping of mossy mud and James had to admit, as Patrick made forth on all fours, that the moss-tufted pinecone ears were a nice touch. As Patrick stopped to shake and grumble as any bear would, James looked ahead at the ass of their joke and wasn't surprised to see Charles moving slowly forward with his rifle at the ready.

"Come on," James murmured, glancing from VonCoch to the tree that would find him in range. "Closer, you coward… that's it." He held his breath as Charles took aim and then he let it out in a sharp whistle that pierced the air as the zing of an arrow punctured it. The feathered projectile took Charles' hat clean off his head and pinned it to the tree. Shock reigned on the beaky brat's face and then pure terror as Patrick-bear roared and rose up on hind legs. James couldn't help it—he laughed like the devil as Charles fell back on his bum and took off in the direction opposite Starling's hiding place. Patrick, though, was on his tail and forcing him to go the way they wanted him to go—right into a hard-flung snowball that smacked him hard in the nose.

Blood streaming down his face, Charles gave a shrill screech and ran for it. He tripped over a trap and screamed as its sharp teeth just barely missed his toes. Another snowball broke over the back of his hatless head.

"Ghosts be gone!"

It was something they were not expecting to see—Charles take a crucifix from his coat. The idiot swung the icon wildly around his head. There was a mad look on his face that doubled James over. Soon he felt Percy crouching beside him and the both of them wheezed with laughter.

"I'll not stand for such mockery, you dead wastrels," the boy spat. Though his words were hard, his voice was high and horrorstruck, his face a match for it. "I know it's you, Norrington!" He stalked around in a circle, glaring wildly at Patrick, who had taken it to be a smart thing to begin lumbering out of sight. "Send all the bears you want—it will not bring you ba—"

A ball of snow hurtled into his open mouth to cut him off and a mudball followed immediately, splatting upon Charles' highbrow. The twit dropped his crucifix to the ground. Though his face was uglied by anger James couldn't help his snort of laughter. Poor Percy had simply fallen to fits on the cold ground. There was the snapping of twigs and the slough of boots through leaves and then James saw Starling step out into plain sight and stroll amiably up to Charles with an apologetic look on his face that didn't match the darkness in his eyes.

"Oh Charles," he said, quite polite, "perhaps the spirits are trying to tell you that you shouldn't be where you're not supposed to be—"

"You," spat Charles, "you have ruined ev—"

"Easy," said Jonathan over him, "as apparently it is to mistake a man for a bear—" he paused and nodded at Patrick who walked past as a man made up with mud toward the tree James and Percy rolled behind, "and as much as we'd all like you to be that mistake—"

"Mistake!" Charles was livid. He wheeled around wildly. "The lot of you have made a most regrettable mistake. Just you wait, Starling—"

"Keep away from what's rightly mine, you insolent little snot!"

A boot to Charles' rear sent him face-forward to the ground. He rose up cussing and whipped around to glare daggers at Jonathan Starling. If James had ever saw murder on the face of another, this, he guessed, was it. Starling's, he noted surprisedly, was not much different.

"Uh oh," Patrick breathed.

But, James saw, he wasn't worried about either Jonathan or Charles killing the other. What Patrick had undoubtedly saw was the figure of Charles the elder emerge from the trees beyond and begin stalking swiftly forward. There was a hideous sneer on his face as he reached the two young men staring so hard at each other. One look at his son's muddied face reddened his own and he poked Jonathan hard in the back with the nose of his rifle.

"Come on!"

James' jaw tensed as he made to obey Patrick Pickwick's terse order. He followed the muddied man out from behind the tree, glancing only once at a crestfallen Percy, and approached the scene laid before them cautiously. It did not bode well in his opinion.

Starling had gone rigid but the malice had not left his expression. "So it seems you're the master hunter, Hawk," he was saying in a strangely calm voice for having a gun aimed square on him. "But I think we both know you'd have too much to explain should you carry out what was undoubtedly your plan all along."

"My father hasn't planned a thing," Charles the younger sneered. "He's only caught you up at your own plot. A propitious coincidence for if he hadn't come to my aid who knows what you and these hooligans would have done!"

James felt a flash of anger and spoke before he could control himself. "I am not," he stated, "a hooligan."

But the VonCochs and Starling were paying him no heed. In fact it seemed that Jonathan was, of all things, amused. His dark eyes rolled back over his shoulder to the red-faced Hawk at his back. The corner of his lip lifted to reveal a flash of pearly whites.

"Progeny too proud to even consider his father would besmall what little dignity he has just to be rid of someone as meaningless as a lowly cartographer, in'nit he?"

At this, Hawk's face paled and his son's flushed bright with anger. Black eyes raged at those of his father. A growl gargled in his scrawny throat and he shook his fist.

"You set me up? For him!"

VonCoch's beady eyes were cold as he stared down unblinkingly at his furious son. "Don't be a fool, Charles. You are the heir's heir to the throne of England. Even at your worst you are better than these boys could ever hope to be."

"And you look best with mud in your face," Percy spat.

Hawk VonCoch's eyes narrowed so that James gasped. It was the direst fear. He stepped before his friend without giving a thought to the consequences. There was no way, he thought fiercely, that he would let a villain like VonCoch have at his friend's young life.

"Listen," Patrick Pickwick pleaded, "this is senseless, this fighting is. We're all men here of our own caliber and none of us of the lowest kind. It would do well to end this quarrel for the day." When it seemed his suggestion made no matter to either the VonCochs or Jonathan Starling, he hurried to say more. "Let us go on back to the lodge together and make ourselves merry by the fire and forget that this ever happened. What say you, gentlemen?"

Calling the VonCochs gentlemen, James thought, was absolutely absurd. However, he knew well that Patrick was trying his best to be the diplomat. If telling untruths would sway Hawk to abandon his malicious intentions and Starling, one of his compatriots, out of the line of fire—well, James decided he wouldn't press the issue.

Percy, however, was not about to let such come to pass.

"'Gentlemen'," he snorted. "Look more like vultures to me."

There was the loud click of the rifle's lock. James gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the report of gunfire. When it didn't come, he frowned and opened one eye to see Hawk had uncocked his gun and was holding it stiffly at his side. Jonathan Starling was stalking angrily past Patrick Pickwick and Charles was glaring at his retreating back. James turned 'round to look at Percy and found his friend's furious face turned up at his brother who was looking apologetically back at the both of them. He opened his mouth to say something but Percy grabbed James' arm and hurried them after Starling.

"He was only trying to help," James defended Percy's brother. "He did not want to see any of us shot, and neither did I."

"I know," Percy said grudgingly, "but Starling has got the map out of the woods!"

"Oh," said James, "right."

But later, when they were all at the lodge, it turned out worse than James could have imagined. For it was that Hawk VonCoch had not been swayed by Patrick's dabble in diplomacy—he had only agreed to a stalemate until it was he had chance at suffering them a worser fate than death. As soon as he and Charles stalked into the lodge they demanded to speak at once with Onry Witter. A broad, dark figure loomed over the railing that looked down into the hearth-heated room until the two so-called gentlemen were by Wilhelm whisked out of sight and only then did Onry Witter step into the light and make his way slowly down the staircase.

James gulped, fearing the worst for himself and his companions. He could not imagine explaining to a man of such stature any reason for the petty—and dangerous—acts that the four of them had perpetuated. He could not imagine Onry Witter being sympathetic to their cause and yet when the man reached them there was sympathy in his eyes.

"Wait here, will you?"

It was all he said before striding purposefully in the direction Wilhelm had taken the VonCochs. James watched after him, his hope of staying on at Tirwitter fading fast. He caught the look of dread on Percy's face and mirrored it before stomping across the room to sink into a chair. He slumped forward, blowing irritatedly at the erstwhile lock of hair that tickled his nose.

"I don't want to go home," he grumbled.

"Were I you," came a sharp voice he wasn't expecting, "I'd not want to go home either."

James frowned and looked up. Finding no one before him, he turned left and right to find Alice Witter. When he did not see her, he began to question his sanity and leaned all the way forward so as to peer beneath the chair. A hand on his arm he was not expecting and leapt from the chair as if it had touched him itself.

Grey eyes laughed as Alice pranced to the other chair and sat herself in it. Being so small a girl, her feet did not quite touch the floor and she kicked them happily. "Scared of Uncle Onry?"

James' face flushed—though whether it was because of what she done or said he didn't know. "What do you mean by what you say?"

"Oh, don't be cross—lots of boys are scared of Un—"

"Not that," James cut in. "What you said before!"

"Oh," said Alice, and a positively sour look twisted her face. "Well you live so close to Admiral Sutton—and such a pleasant man he is that I imagine he must be as dear a neighbor."

"Oh," said James, feeling slightly deflated. He huffed and folded his arms over his chest. "And I'm not afraid of your Uncle, merely what sentence he prescribes us for our penitence."

"You've done something wrong? The four of you?"

James shrugged. He was not exactly sure what they had done was wrong—for it had felt quite right. "Just done something most would call daft."

Alice clucked her tongue. "Boys are such trouble."

"What do you know of boys?"

"What do you know of girls?"

"Shouldn't you be off practicing needlepoint or some other such nonsense?"

"Yes," agreed Percy's voice, "why are you here anyway?"

Alice shot a dirty look at him. She sat up straight in her chair, gripping the arms of it in her little hands. "I have not to answer to you, Percival Pickwick! This place is by name Witter and so it belongs to me as much as it does my Uncle. If anyone should ask why anyone is here, I should think it my place to be asking you!"

"Only a girl would ask why a boy was taking shelter at a hunting lodge."

James couldn't help but snicker, for he felt that was quite true.

"Enough of that, you lot," Starling chided all three of them as he strode into proximity. "Your banter would send the sanest of men asway, it would! There's a more important matter at hand—"

"There is," said Patrick quietly. All turned to look at him but he was staring worriedly at his friend Jonathan. "Hawk VonCoch was set to kill you." Finally, he turned to stare warily into the fire. "Would've done—if we hadn't stepped foot forward to show our faces as witness… You'd be dead."

"Most likely," Starling shrugged. "But it didn't work out to his satisfaction, did it?"

"It is not a game," Patrick growled. He whipped around to glare at Jonathan and then turned disgustedly back to the flickering fire. "You know well as I if a man gets in their way he's done for—so why do you insist on putting yourself between those two and what they want?"

"If I hadn't, we'd never have got to hunt—"

"I'm not talking about hunting—"

"Then shut your mouth, Patrick," snapped Jonathan, "fore it betrays your ignorance to whatever matter you've concerned yourself with that likely does not concern you."

James watched the two of them. Patrick, who was usually the most even-tempered of any of them, was seething. His green eyes were narrow and his mouth set in a line. Jonathan Starling's coat was doing his snapping for him. The gent had not paused in his pacing, not even for the exchange that had turned his friend against him. He was not, the young cartographer, looking at anyone of them around him, and if James were to guess he'd suspect that instead Jonathan Starling was looking in on his own thoughts. There was a dullness in his eyes that suggested he was not seeing out, but in. James was sure that he himself looked that way on many an occasion…

"Do you mean to say that the Duke attempted to murder M—mister Starling?"

James shook himself from his thoughts as Jonathan did. The both of them looked surprisedly at Alice Witter—had she just stuttered? Pale as she was she was unusually paler and her grey eyes were wide with fear as she stared unflinchingly up at Starling who stared just as unflinchingly back.

"Yes," he said. "And young Charles who you seem to think so charming, dove, would've seen it done as well. Believe it or not, Miss Witter, your Hawkling has not fallen far from the nest his father built for him—as much a predator he is and he has blood on his hands right to the tip of his lofty little finger."

James and Percy exchanged glances, expecting the worst. They had before witnessed the trouble that was a girl confronted by the unconscionable truth—previously, Lillian Littleton being told in no uncertain terms that she had the face of a fish—and had come to dread the consequences of said confrontation. Most usually, they found, a girl would meet truth with tears and, worst of all, sniffles. Though Alice Witter had barely shown an ounce of emotion in the entire time of their acquaintance, James felt sure that an upset Alice Witter would be worse than he could bear to witness—and he felt sure, by just the look on his friend's face, that Percy felt much the same way.

Starling, as it was, did not seem to be thinking the same thing. In fact, Jonathan Starling was advancing on the girl struck dumb in the chair beside James. The gent's lip was curled in a snarl and his dark eyes spat fire into her icy gaze.

"I don't believe it!"

"Well you wouldn't," said Jonathan matter-of-factly. He stopped only when he was directly in front of her. "But it's none your fault, is it? The broader the mind, in more you believe—and it occurs to me, dove, that you have only the narrowest mind of a little girl."

A tiny sound that was too much like a sob not to be slipped from Alice's lips. James caught a glimpse of the tears sparkling in her eyes before she ducked her head and leapt to her feet. One heel stomped hard upon Starling's toe. Alice pushed past him and took up her skirts to dash up the steps. The pounding of her furious feet faded with the far-off slamming of what James guessed was her chamber door.

"That," breathed an awed Percy, "was not very nice."

Jonathan, who'd been cussing and hopping about on his unstomped foot, fell hard into the chair Alice had abandoned. He frowned heavily at the youngest Pickwick. James, for his part, wasn't sure what Starling disapproved of—he'd certainly not been complimentary to the girl by any means. Surely he did not think his treatment of Alice Witter was of any higher caliber than any foolery Percy had ever pulled?

"But necessary."

James scoffed, caring not that Starling looked around at him with the same stare. "Surely you don't think belittling the bird will have curried any favor?"

"No," said Jonathan, rolling his eyes. "But it did get her up the steps to the safe silence of her little cage, didn't it?"

James frowned. "What's the difference where she is?"

"She won't hear anything that will hurt her ears is what he's saying," Patrick offered from his place by the fire. He didn't move to join them, but he glanced over his shoulder before leaning heavily against the stone of the hearth. "Little girls shouldn't be made to hear the worst of what mucks up the minds of men…"

"But he told her—"

"About Little Lord VonCoch?" Starling met James' gaze and raised his brows. "It's better she knows sooner than later to stay her distance."

"Don't worry, James," Patrick said darkly. "Starling's got only her best interests at heart."

James would have asked what Patrick meant if Charles VonCoch did not storm angrily into view. His usually austere stride was out of order—he was not so much stalking as skulking. Hellfire blazed at Starling but Charles said nothing to any of them as he went to stand silently before the fire. Patrick, in his good sense, moved aside but did not comment. James was glad when the older Pickwick finally joined the rest of them by the chairs. He had been wondering if the man's voice of reason would speak louder than his loyalty to his less sensible companions. All doubts of this were not quieted, especially as the two older men who were supposed to be the best of friends glared at each other, but James felt just a bit better all the same.

Percy, who had been staring sullenly at the rigid stance of Charles VonCoch, had taken no comfort in his brother's presence, it seemed. Sulking, his shoulders drooped as he dug his toe in the bear rug. "Soon to be called upon and sent home, I suppose."

Indeed there was not a long time of silence between them before heavy steps sounded in the hall. James looked up to see Wilhelm Witter emerge from the shadows. Onry's brother made his way slowly towards them, the whole time frowning steadfastly at his feet. He did not address them immediately, first glancing towards the hearth where stood the son of the Duke and then taking a kerchief from his pocket to dab at his brow.

"Starling," he said. "See that you find the sense you must have previously been lacking and take yourselves to my brother's office where he awaits the four of you."

Jonathan lifted a finger and opened his mouth to respond but Wilhelm gave him no such opportunity. Lord Witter turned presently to approach the heir's heir to the throne and Jonathan Starling was left to frown at the hands folded behind the man's back. Patrick sighed and pulled Starling out of his chair with what small amount of patience he must have had left and motioned for him to lead the way. His next move was met with a slap—Percy promptly marched after Jonathan into the shadows. James frowned as he lugged himself out of his chair, knowing well what was waiting for them, but followed nonetheless for there were, in his estimation, no other options.

What they found as they neared the office was not what they'd expected. There were no shouts nor were there exclamations of their guilt. Realizing this, James lifted his head to take in their surroundings. He had never been the way they'd come before—through a dark hallway lined with suits of armor. Each bore a different brightly colored crest that he could not himself identify having left his studies when it was his family could no longer afford such frivolity. He guessed, though, that they were the crests of noble families and houses, for at the doorway where Jonathan Starling paused stood a suit of armor with the Witter coat of arms upon it. It was as Welsh as they with its doves entwined in white lilies—had Hawk VonCoch not been standing beside it sneering at them, James would have stopped to admire its elegant simplicity.

But Hawk VonCoch was standing beside it, and his beady eyes were colder than James remembered. He promptly looked away but it was too late—he'd already shivered. Feeling shamed for his cowardice, he faltered at the threshold and leapt forward only when the door snapped shut behind him.

Onry Witter had his back to them but he spoke before any of them drew upon the courage to address them. His voice was not tempered whatsoever. In fact, though he spoke loudly, he sounded quite calm.

"Tell me of this foolishness I have already heard too much about."

James looked to Patrick to answer but Starling spoke first. "Their foolishness, you mean, to cross the lines specifically drawn upon the map to mark our territory?" He paused, seeming to gather his wits, and then his expression hardened. "I won't mention the inarguable breach of the gentlemanly conduct they so claim to uphold—far be it from me to suggest that the VonCochs, men of such caliber, acted in any way unbecoming their station—but truly I must remark upon the sheer stupidity of wandering into the woods without so much as a word of warning to the men armed to hunt it."

"And be assured," said Onry quietly, "I have already condemned them that."

Jonathan's nostrils flared. "Have you?" It was no snarl, but a growl that widened James' eyes. "And was it a sharp slap of the wrist you gave to the man whose murderous plot was this time foiled?"

"Now, what's this?"

But there was no time for any of them to clamor up their version of the events that unfolded, for the door swung open immediately and the murderous man stormed into the room, that sent James knocking into Percy who stumbled into Patrick whose foot came down hard on Jonathan's already injured toes. The gent gave a cry of alarm. He fixed an accusatory glare not on his friend but upon the Duke whose sinister mouth was drawn back in a snarling rage.

"I demand explanations!"

"Sit, boys. And settle yourself VonCoch," suggested Onry Witter, "before it is you strain something." With that the Great Goat turned from the window that overlooked the gamesland. There was upon his face as much irritation as showed upon the countenance of his counterpart. He looked shrewdly between the two adversaries and raised his brows. "I'll not tolerate hotheads here any more than I would upon my ship."

"Ships," countered Jonathan, but he took a seat all the same and motioned for the three of them still standing to do the same.

Witter's glare switched to him but turned quickly to a terse nod. "Aye, ships."

"This insolent whelp deserves not the recognition of a man of your greatness, Witter—"

"Sir," Onry groused, "Sir Witter!"

A flash of a sneer crossed VonCoch's face but he nodded besides. "Of course. It is my case in point, Sir—you are a man knighted by His Majesty and yet this little lout shows to you none the courtesy for it! Far be it from me, the lowly cousin to the King, to expect the respect a man of your caliber deserves—but should I be so wrong as to mark offense at this lout's disregard of those in my company?"

Witter chose the wrong moment to glance beyond caustic VonCoch at Starling—who was, at that time, completely immersed in impersonation of the blueblood. Adverse to how the adage goes, however, there was no flattery in the imitation. With nose too high in the air and sneer too snide upon his face, Starling's imitation was more a mimicking mock of VonCoch. To his credit, Jonathan caught Witter's glance and effected an apologetic expression in response. Witter raised a brow and folded his arms as he turned back to the man whose sharp tone had turned to a pitiful whimper.

"Is it so wrong," VonCoch continued, "to wish for the safety of my son?"

At this, Witter rolled his eyes. "It was a bit of mud, Charles, not a bloody bullet."

At that, VonCoch's face reddened. "But just as damaging!"

"Well," scoffed the Great Goat, "I doubt that, man. Afterall, what with the many sterling qualities your son possesses to polish his pride… I can hardly imagine this incident dealing even a dent to his shining armour."

Even VonCoch realized he could not argue that. Instead, he adjusted the shoulders of his coat and hmmphed out of the room, shooting Jonathan a murderous glare as he went. Both Starling and Witter stared after him with some measure of amusement.

Onry sobered suddenly and turned to his companion. "Wouldn't venture far were I you." He arched a brow. "Muskets in hands of men like that do make the occasional mistake, afterall."

Author's Babble: Long time, no update. Sorry! But it's at least a lengthy update... that has to count for something, eh? Lykosdracos, I'm surprised at you! Jack Sparrow's namehas not even been mentioned in this fic! ;) I don't think James will fall for Alice Witter anytime soon and it's not exactly the alcohol that is turning James' stomach at that point. But thank you very much for your commentary- I enjoy it. Privateer, indeed! Windsbride, you're most welcome. I'm just glad someone's reading it really--and ever more happy to hear that I've painted James so well for you. Thank you for your review! I hope you continue to enjoy the tale.