Over the next few weeks, I learnt more than I'd ever thought I'd know from my nighttime talks with Anamaria. She told me about her life as a slave, how both the masters and other slaves treated her badly because of how she looked. I had assumed all dark skin was the same, but the other slaves hated her because her blood wasn't pure. She explained how she ran away to be a sailor, promising her mother she would return and buy her freedom. Her pride when she was able to do that three years later, and the pain two months after that, when her mother's weak back caused her to trip and fall down a flight of stairs – a fall which at first paralyzed, and then killed her. She talked about the pirate's code, honor amongst thieves, the injustice and unfairness of the world. She planted new ideas in my head, and none of them sat well with the ones I already held.

And I, in my turn, told her about my life at home, about my maids and slaves, my lessons, the dances and dinners, the dresses and jewels. I would cry relating stories of my parents, and blush when explaining my various sulks and impatient rages. How I soaked my mother's new Persian rug with wine because she would not buy me a hat with stuffed humming birds on I wanted so fiercely at the time – she loved birds, and couldn't bare to see it. I told her about my father's business, and we traded knowledge of ships. I had thought myself pretty well versed, but Anamaria was born on a ship, and returned to live on them when she was only eleven – she always vowed she could lead a galleon through a gale blindfolded, and I didn't doubt her.

In short, we talked of everything, there were no rules, she would shock me and I would anger her. Some nights we would have blazing rows, where our experiences of life forbade us to agree, and we would go to sleep sulking, and tugging at the blanket. Others we would fall asleep holding each other and crying, talking about people we had known and lost. I had never talked like it, before or since – with the girls I knew on Barbados there was always a right and wrong thing to say, ruts for the conversation to run along, and endless gossip. I cringe to remember how I would sneer at the girls who had worn an old dress to a dinner, or who had been known to give favors to soldiers, or whose fathers were doing badly in business.

There was only one thing Anamaria and I never talked about, and it drove me to frustration, because it was the one thing about which I was sure she knew so much, and I infuriatingly knew absolutely nothing:

Captain Jack Sparrow was the most unusual and contrary man I had ever met. He was forthright to the point of rudeness, headstrong to the point of insanity, dressed like a clown, acted like a fool and yet was treated like a king.

I could not understand him. Since the first night he spoke to me seldom, but every conversation we did have ended the same way, to my distraction and, seemingly, to his amusement.

"When will you return me home, Captain Sparrow?"

"When the winds bring me that way." Usually spoken with a merry swig of rum.

"That is no answer, only the same codswallop you always give me, Captain."

"Then why, my delicate trembling orchid, do you persist in asking the question?"

There was no talking to him, no reason to a single solitary action he took from dawn to dusk.

For a beginning, he seemed to have no plotted course, he dashed the Black Pearl about the Caribbean in a frenzy, attacked every ship we came across, big or small, fully laden or almost empty, no target was spared. He worked his men hard, but they seemed to take no joy in their plundering, even when we were mightily laden down with almost more coin from Spain, Holland, France and England than the hold could accommodate.

It was frustrating beyond words. At home I had prided myself in being an excellent judge of character, and had often caused the comment "You took the words straight from my mouth". Sparrow actions were unfathomable to me.

There was some mystery at work here and, having nothing better to do, and seeing Anamaria would tell me nothing, I contrived to find out for myself.

So I followed Sparrow, wherever he might be on the ship, I was there – concealed and watching. The crew took no mind of me, the Captain's warning to Jeff on my first evening had seen to that. The things I observed however, only served to deepen the mystery.

It was not until my forth day of following the cad, my ninth aboard the pirate ship, that I began to learn of his plans. And even that knowledge came at a high price.

I began, as usual, by watching the Captain at breakfast, through the thick green glass of the port deck cabin. The other crewmembers, and I with them breakfasted on thick porridge, sweetened with molasses. Sparrow, however always had two dainty brown eggs from the ships two very ragged chickens, with them he took a good, long drink from a leather bottle. Rum, I was sure – what other explanation for his behaviour was there? I pitied the crew, and me, for being under the command of a drunkard. After breakfast he pulled on his hat and took up position at the helm. From here on in, my days work became very simple. For he stood at the helm for hours on end, his darkened eyes fixed on the horizon, rough hands gripping the wheel, only occasionally calling out orders to the crew. They, for the most part, knew their duties and watches well, and despite being of rather small number for the ships size, kept her sailing without a hitch.

The day went on, and the sun wheeled high in the clear sky, the rocking of the boat was soothing, the heat soporific and I leaned against the starboard rail, half-closed eyes still idly trained on Sparrow.

"Interesting, was it?" I nearly fell overboard with shock, Sparrow grinned to himself and tightened his grip on the wheel.

"Pardon, Captain?" I contrived to reply smoothly.

"My breakfast, love. Can't imagine it was much of a show, but – takes all sorts." He raised his eyebrows. I spluttered for a moment, but recovered admirably.

"Why do you get eggs, and I must eat slop with the crew in the berth?"

"I'd like to see my quartermaster's face if she heard you say that about her porridge." Was his only reply. I turned away for a moment, watching the waves roll up to the ship while I considered my retort. But before something suitably cutting came to me, my thoughts were jarred by a piercing whistle from the crow's nest.

"Ship Cap'n! French merchant, due south!"