CHAPTER SEVEN
Watching and Waiting

She can't breathe.

The air is being drawn out of her. Rasping groans fill her ears, but she can't tell who is giving them, if it's her or... someone else. She has a feeling there's someone else nearby, but there seems to be more than one groan. Faces swim before her, a blur of colours and shapes, some familiar, others new, all with strange expressions, some seem to be shouting, others laughing, but their lips move without words. It feels like she's falling, but staying stationary at the same time, the rush of wind beating sharply upon her face and eyes.

And then darkness, and the next thing she knows there's a sudden weight - firstly on top of her, and then she becomes conscious of the fact that it crushes into her from all sides, stiff and yet parts are oddly soft as it presses against her. And there's a smell, a terrible smell. Something is moving beneath her, jostling her and the rest of this load. The realisation dawns upon her that it is cold - very cold - and that she can hardly feel anything, not her hands, nor her feet, and that something is blocking out all light.

Suddenly she is back in the cabin, where she was only hours before, and the good captain stands before her, grinning from ear to ear.

"Sorry about that, Etty. Needs must and all that."

He grabs her shoulders, pushes her away, and she is falling again. Only this time she lands with a thud on her back. There is something different covering her now, lighter, coarser, and yet she can still only make out more darkness. Then something begins to fall on her, the pressure on her body increases with every second that passes - and still she cannot move. She finds through trial that she can scream, and beat her fists against the strange cover, and others begin to scream too, and someone is laughing, and there's light and falling and earth and pain and then -

--

Jeanette sat up, panting heavily. For a moment she thought she was still in the nightmare, what with the darkness surrounding her and the thick air, and she groped frantically around with her hands, her head flicking from side to side, trying to discern what place her sleep had taken her to now.

It was somewhere different, of this she was sure, yet her heart still thumped quickly in her chest, every beat echoing in her ears like a drum of war. Bringing her hand to her forehead, she felt sweat beneath her fingertips, and still her skin was cold. Her mouth was dry and her breaths were coming in sharp gasps, but however much air she took in was not enough. It was as though there was a deep, dark void within her chest, brought on by sheer terror.

But gradually the pale light of morning filtered through her sleepy eyes, and she knew that she was awake.

Where exactly she was awake still eluded her. Not in her home, that much was certain - the blanket that she could feel draped around her waist was too thick to be her own. Perhaps she had fallen asleep at the Bryant's, in the nursery... but then who had allowed her to sleep on, and covered her up?

And then she remembered.

Damn the dream. She drew herself up, and banged her head on the hard wood of her berth, further serving to wake her up and replace the feelings of fear with ones of annoyance. Damn Sparrow. Damn... oh, everything.

Tentatively rubbing her head in an attempt to alleviate the pain, she untangled her limbs from the blanket and swung around, placing her legs down on the ground – groaning as she felt water under her feet. Well, it's your own fault, she grumbled mentally to herself, after all, you were the one who demanded to sleep separately from the rest of the crew.

--

"I can't!" she had protested after Jack had told her to go and rig up a hammock with the others.

"'Course you can," he replied without hesitation. "You just take hammock and -"

"No, Sparrow, I can't sleep down there with the crew! It's not -"

"You're on a pirate ship, Etty, do you really think anyone would be concerned over the propriety of the situation?" this was clearly a rhetorical question, for he continued. "Speaking of ships, whilst you're on mine it's Captain Sparrow."

"It's the lack of concern over propriety that worries me, Captain!"

"When Anamaria was here, she -"

Jeanette shook her head in confusion, "Anamaria?"

"Well, she was -"

She interrupted before he could finish. "Please, there must be somewhere I could... a cabin..."

"To be frank with you, Etty, I still don't see a problem with a hammock. Rig up some screens, it's not like you -"

"Please, J-... Captain Sparrow," she kept all sarcasm from his title this time, and perhaps it was that which caused him to pause. He closed his eyes for a moment, raising a finger to his chin, before snapping them open with a grin.

"I've got an idea."

--

And this was it, Jeanette lifted one foot from the ground gingerly. The brig.

When he'd brought her down here, she'd thought for one terrible moment that Sparrow had actually intended for her to sleep in the brig itself, bars and all, maybe even locking her in. A misunderstanding that he'd been quick to play on - going so far as to open the cell door and gesture inside, before laughing at the shocked expression on her face.

Bastard.

No, what he'd meant was this small berth on the other side of the cells, built into the wall. Built so that a crewmember could watch over particularly dangerous prisoners. There was no company for her at the present.

"But you never know your luck," she muttered sullenly. "Not that I've got any luck to know in the first place."

Grousing under her breath was for her, as with many people, the normal start to the morning - and today was no exception. Still slightly bleary-eyed she stumbled to her feet, cursing all the while at the morning, at the night, at dirty, deceitful, good-for-nothing pirates, and at any other damn thing that came to mind - half the time she neither knew what she was complaining about, nor cared.

Automatically her hand moved to grope for the small shard of mirror she usually used to dress by, and promptly found something else to curse about, because, of course, it wasn't there – it was back at home along with the rest of her meagre possessions. With a sigh she reached back, and proceeded to re-plait her now loose hair, scraping flyaway strands behind her ears.

Although she felt positively heavy with dirt and grime, she had no desire to smell like a fishmonger, thus washing with the water on the ground was out of the question. And so, once her shoes had been slipped on, it was a tidy but not entirely dirt-free Miss Jeanette who emerged on deck.

Still, compared to the men who were already there, she was positively glowing with cleanliness, sticking out like a perfectly manicured finger amongst a collection of sore thumbs. And the thumbs, or, to end the metaphor, the pirates, worked as a team, moving in perfect unison throughout the morning tasks. She stood alone, a small, frail little governess, pale as death, right in the middle of everything, almost getting knocked over by a hurrying sailor. A spanner in the works, and yet not actually in the works at all, a curious observer, almost unearthly.

Yet neither party really bothered with the other. True the pirates nudged each other, and low murmurs filled the air as they looked her up and down through the corners of their eyes - but they made no move to talk to her. And she barely noticed the gossip - she was so used to this behaviour surrounding her in Charleston that it seemed entirely normal – indeed, she would have been uneasy if they hadn't started whispering.

Soon the low noises drifted into silence - there were jobs to do, a voyage to make, Antigua to reach. And for Jeanette... there was the view. Drifting to look over the edge of the ship she expected to see nothing but blue sea, but as she looked to the stern she saw a thin green line of land on the farthest point of the horizon. That must be Nevis. Odd. It was quicker this way, to be certain, skirting round the island would put them on a course that avoided many of the treacherous reefs that bordered on Antigua - but surely a pirate ship would get as far out to sea as quickly as possible?

But then how would the captain preserve his reputation of reckless insanity? She smiled to herself at this. Of course, Sparrow hadn't got the nickname of "Mad Jack Sparrow" back on the islands for playing it safe. And anyway, if anyone on land managed to see the ship, the legendary Black Pearl - which was rather unlikely in itself - they'd either think their eyes were playing tricks, or be too scared to raise the alarm.

Jeanette supposed that it wouldn't be too long before Mad Jack himself put in an appearance, and told her what he intended to do with her throughout the voyage. Work for her passage, probably, though she'd never asked for it in the first place. Yes, she could just hear him now - "This isn't a pleasure cruise, love."

But yes, not long to wait till her predictions were confirmed, she'd imagine. Gibbs was at the helm at the moment, but she was sure that Jack would be along to relieve him soon. She had no doubt that he wanted to spend as much time as possible guiding the Black Pearl through the waves, fulfilling his right as her captain.

And who wouldn't? With a ship like this you could go anywhere, do anything. She had been here less than a day, and already it was plain to see that the Pearl was just as much a part of Jack as he was of her. She was personified in the beautiful figurehead - she was his lady, he was her lover. They'd do anything for each other, she'd fight through tempests and hurricanes to get him safely to port, and he'd (if the stories she'd heard last night were true) search for ten long years just to feel her sway beneath his feet again, braving torture and mutiny and death all the while.

And soon they'd be unified again, cutting through the sea like a knife through paper in search of a new adventure, a new treasure, and dragging Jeanette along with them.

But for now, for Jeanette and the Pearl, the two seafaring women, all they could do was wait, wait for the man who would soon hold both their fates in his hands.

--

The room was dark. That was the first impression the young man had as he crossed the threshold and closed the door. It reminded him of a cave, of the lairs of the monsters his mother had told him of as a child to keep him out of trouble. Yes, there was some light in the room - the golden glow of a solitary candle - but the candle was dying, and failed to pass any illumination the only other living thing that resided in here.

The shape. It sat there as though it was on a throne. A regal silhouette, the profile of something with power and pride, made formless by a thick, dark cloak, a gaping, black hole where its face was hidden.

It laughed at the cautious entrance of the young man, who stiffened and blanched. The laughter was like a bubbling spring, clear and soft - and yet sharp, as though the water was polluted, poisoned.

"Come, Damon," it spoke, "there is nothing to be afraid of. Come." The voice was melodic, silky; the words ran off each other with ease, tinted by an accent that Damon had never heard before. It made his legs turn to jelly, his forehead grow damp with sweat. And yet he walked forward.

"Commander, I... we..." he took a deep breath, shook his head, pulled himself together. "We have had word from Nevis. The bird arrived but ten minutes ago."

"Ten minutes," the voice was cold. "I must wonder, Damon, why did it take so long to inform me?"

"Commander, forgive me," he trembled, "I was only... I..." he sounded desperate, wringing his hands together, as though he was both pleading and praying.

"Enough," the shape sounded bored. "It matters not. The message."

"Thank you... thank you..." but Damon stopped as he saw the shape stiffen, and drew another deep breath. "Commander, the message was from Charleston. It says that the Black Pearl docked in a cove not two miles from the city. It left again in under an hour, making in the direction of... of..."

"Antigua," the shape murmured.

"Y-Yes, Commander," Damon confirmed. "They say... the message, they say this means -"

"I know what this means, Damon," the shape snapped, causing him to cease speaking abruptly. "It means that Jack Sparrow has found where Simmons has made for with the map. The fool."

Damon was too afraid, and too sensible, to enquire as to whom the insult was directed at - Sparrow or Simmons. The silence was brief, and then the shape began to issue orders, now brisk and business like.

"Fetch Belos. Contact our associates in St. John's. Tell them to tip off Rowdon. Tell him that the Black Pearl is coming to Antigua. Inform Simmons of the situation. Watch Sparrow," the shape paused for a moment, and then continued to speak in that same silky voice. "And prepare the Alecto."

Damon nodded fervently, clearly too petrified of the shape to speak, and backed out of the room, bent over in a crooked bow, eyes fixed to the ground. He made such haste that he almost tripped over his own feet, causing another sharp laugh from the shape. He went even paler, and hurried even more, his hand shaking slightly as he closed the door.

The shape was left alone. It waited for a moment, and then it spoke again, so softly now that even if Damon had had his ear pressed against the door he could not have heard the words.

"And so it ends."

The whisper faded into the night, just as the room faded into darkness as the candle spluttered and died.