Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Author's Note: Half of this chapter is entirely new, and the other half is what used to be Chapter 5. I apologize for any confusion. Also note that a short new scene has been added to the end of the previous chapter. In revising the story, I find I had left many aspects of Will and Elizabeth's relationship unexplored; these scenes should round out the tale.
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III.
By Starlight

Down by the salley gardens
my love and I did meet
she passed the salley gardens
with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy
as the leaves grow on the tree
but I, being young and foolish
with her did not agree.

"Down By the Salley Gardens"


Will and the Governor have carried their discussion of trade law and commerce at sea from sitting room to dining table. Elizabeth, playing the good wife, endeavors to speak only when spoken to; behind her lowered gaze, she watches them intently. Two kind, earnest, beloved faces, yet she finds herself searching them for clues to truths they're not telling her...

Only Hattie seems to notice her mistress's uncharacteristic silence; the cook gives Will a sour look as she sets the roast hen in front of him with a bit more force than is perhaps necessary, and stalks back to the kitchen. Will appears mildly taken aback, but sets about carving the bird without comment. Meanwhile, the Governor, oblivious to this minor ripple in domestic waters, launches into an account on Spanish merchants' flagrant disregard for treaties and their depredations upon competing British vessels.

"It's certainly a concern," Will agrees. "But of late, the privateers roaming the Windward Passage have been beaten back quite effectively by," he hesitates fractionally, "by our men. There have been several significant victories in the past few months...or so I've been told, that is."

"Privateers?" Elizabeth puts in, despite her resolve to stay quiet; this is the first really interesting tidbit of news that they have discussed. "Pirates, you mean."

"Not exactly," Will corrects her. "These men carry letters of marque. They are protected and sponsored by rival Crowns, and they attack and loot as they are ordered. In this case, most of those orders are issued by Spain, and most of the attacks are against ships flying British colors."

"I know the definition," Elizabeth says, irritated. "My point is that I hardly see the difference. Letter of marque or no, they still pillage and plunder just the same, don't they? It seems silly to me that the actions of a brigand who happens to possess a piece of paper with a blob of wax on it should be considered lawful, while other men must hang for the same offenses." Even good men, she amends privately, thinking of Jack Sparrow.

"We still hang 'em if we catch 'em," says Will darkly.

"Not if they're our brigands, we don't!"

"Yes, well, that is interesting news indeed, William," the Governor says hastily, by way of heading his daughter off. He glances pointedly at Will. "If you don't mind, my boy, perhaps we might have a serious chat about this business after supper. I should like a detailed report of--well, of any information or rumors you have heard."

"Yes, of course," Will says, and falls silent. Elizabeth realizes that she has been effectively shut out of the conversation. She smiles grimly at her plate, unsurprised.

In the ensuing pause, the Governor clears his throat loudly, and changes the subject. "Elizabeth, my dear, I believe I haven't yet told you that I'm riding up to Spanish Town on the morrow. Perhaps you would like to come along? William said you might enjoy a change of scene."

"Did he," she says, arching an eyebrow at him. "How very thoughtful of you, Will, darling...I'm sorry, Father, I really must beg off this time. Will sails in only two days, you know, and I would feel simply dreadful if I was not here to see him off."

Will says earnestly, "If you wish to go, Elizabeth, there's no reason why you shouldn't--"

"No, no!" she protests merrily. "I wouldn't dream of it. And after all, there's my health to think of! It's such a long ride, and--" she affects a delicate shudder-- "there are snakes."

Will frowns. "This is Jamaica. There are snakes everywhere." He hasn't caught onto her feigned superficiality at all; and she's not being in the least bit subtle about it.

"No, perhaps you are right, Elizabeth," her father says. "Those native townships along the road are most unsanitary. Better you should remain safely in Port Royal, after all."

"Oh, yes," says Elizabeth. Her smile makes her cheeks ache. "Much better."


They bid Governor Swann goodnight at the foot of the porch steps; as the coach rattles off down the road, Will turns to his wife. "You seem fatigued, my dear. Are you ready to go up to bed?"

She doesn't answer. He realizes she has wandered a little distance into the garden, trailing her fingers through white sprays of night-blooming jasmine, her head bowed as if in contemplation.

He follows her; slipping his arms around her slim waist from behind, he presses a kiss to the fine porcelain curve of her neck just above her collar. But she stiffens at the contact and pushes at his wrists to free herself, breaking out of his loose embrace and moving away from him into the perfumed shadows beneath the hugely overgrown bougainvillea. The thing is gigantic, dominating the front of the house; he suggests having it cut back every time he comes home, but Elizabeth refuses to allow it, saying its shade keeps the house cool in the hottest part of the day. Let it grow as it pleases, she insists each time.

"Elizabeth?" he says cautiously. "Did I do something wrong?"

Her words are low, deliberate. "You invited Father to dine with us tonight on purpose, didn't you? To...defuse me?"

"No!" The thought had crossed his mind that the Governor might provide a buffer against any lingering pique or awkward questions to which his wife might be inclined; but to admit that strikes him as entirely unwise, just now. "I assumed that you would like to see your father; he wanted to see you. I thought you would be pleased."

"I see," she says, her motionless form half-visible among thick-hanging clusters of bougainvillea blossoms. "It didn't, you know."

"Didn't what? Please you?"

"Defuse me."

"But..." He tries and fails to catch a glimpse of her expression, sees only one slender shoulder; her back is to him. "Are you really still angry with me? When I left, I...I supposed you had forgiven me."

"Why?" She rounds on him, face pale as jasmine in the dark. "You didn't ask me to forgive you!"

"I thought it would go without saying," he says helplessly. "Anyway, I'm asking now."

She raises an eyebrow.

He sighs. "Please forgive me?"

"No."

"For God's sake, Elizabeth." He cannot conceal his rising exasperation. "What more do you want of me?"

Behind the screen of drooping branches, he hears her snort. "To start with? An apology."

"I'm sorry." Then, knowing his own folly, he nevertheless adds obstinately, "May I know what, exactly, I am apologizing for?"

Silence. After a moment, she steps out into the moonlight; her eyes, meeting his, are as remote as her voice. "Among other things...you lied to me."

He cannot meet those eyes; he studies the ground between his feet and hers. "I am sorry for that, truly I am," he says, meaning all of it, not just the lie to which she refers. "It's just...I don't want you to worry about our finances. And now look at you." He tries to adopt a light, teasing tone. "I can see you worrying."

"Will," she says softly; she makes it sound like a warning. "We are supposed to do these things together. Even worry. In case you have forgotten...this is a marriage."

He flushes, stung. "I could never forget that--!"

"Really?" she says evenly. "Because I must admit, I myself forget, sometimes."

"Elizabeth..." He stares at her. "How could you say such a thing?"

"Because it's the truth."

"I told you, I wish I could be home more often..."

"But you can't. I know." Her lips twist wryly. "And you wish you could take me with you."

"I can't..."

"Of course not."

He reaches for her hand. "Elizabeth, my love..."

"Don't," she says. "Not right now, Will."

He drops his arm, folds both across his chest. "What would you have me do, then?" he asks at last.

"I think..." She looks away from him, out across the garden to where the sea can just be seen beyond the cliff-edge, glimmering silver under the moon. "I need to walk, a little. Take the air. The house feels very close tonight. Too many walls..."

"We could stroll down to the beach," he suggests, relieved.

"No, Will," she says gently; her expression is almost pitying. "Leave me, please. I appreciate the offer, but just now...I'd rather be alone."

"I see." He doesn't; but there doesn't seem to be much else to say. Her request was so matter-of-fact, so formal. "Good night, then," he says, and is surprised to find himself on the verge of anger.

"Good night," his wife says quietly. "I'll be upstairs in a little while."

He turns from her, climbing swiftly up the verandah steps. He's nearly reached the front door when he thinks he hears her say, "I'm sorry, Will." But when he glances back, she appears lost in thought again, still gazing at the luminous ocean.

A beautiful girl standing in a moonlit garden, surrounded by flowers: it's a peaceful scene, one that shouldn't make him feel like this, shouldn't irritate and frustrate him; shouldn't make his heart ache so.

"I'm sorry, too," he mutters to the doorjamb. "More than you know, Elizabeth..."

He wishes things could be different, too. But why, and how, she couldn't possibly understand.


Elizabeth watches him go, his shoulders hunched as if against a storm.

Oh, Will. You always were a bad liar.

She's still not sure what he's lying about, but she intends to find out.

Standing very still, she lets the small rustling noises of the night seep into her awareness, hearing behind those noises, all the time, the faint sound of the ocean. An owl calls softly, somewhere close by. Elizabeth tips her head back to stare up at the stars, feeling herself nearly as cold and distant as they seem.

In fact, wasn't there a high-born lady up there somewhere?

Jack Sparrow told her about stars, once, the shapes they formed and the stories they told, lying beside her on a white beach as the embers of a bonfire burned out. She remembers this hazily, as if it happened in some other lifetime, many more years ago than three; perhaps she only imagined it. Cassiopeia...was that the name he said? No; Cassiopeia was the Queen. Elizabeth knew the story; she'd read it long ago. The maiden's name was Andromeda, the Chained Lady. Searching the sky, she finds herself listening to a memory.

See, just there, love? No, and he'd leaned over her, taking her wrist to trace the figure in the sky. There. A fair young maid...aye, all in white, her hair tangled by the sea wind--his fingers fluttered, lifting a lock of her own salt-roughened hair briefly--with her arms outstretched, calling for her lover to rescue her. He laughed, then. If it were you, though, love, you'd be rescuing him instead, now wouldn't you?

Around her, the wind picks up, stirring the foliage of her beloved bougainvillea: a stiff nor'wester off the open sea, bearing the sharp, wild smell of salt and ozone. It rouses her from her reverie, and she flares her nostrils, breathing deep; the cool air awakens a restlessness in her blood, a yearning for movement. Pulling her thin shawl closer around her, she makes her way to the cliff's edge, climbing among the rocks until she can see the narrow strip of sand below and the dark ocean stretching away to meet the darker horizon.

She finds herself thinking suddenly of Mrs. Gage's ghost. Had she fallen, or been pushed? Or perhaps the walls of her own house became the bars of a prison cell, a cage within which she was trapped and domesticated, until the balcony walk seemed to be the only way out, the best way. If Elizabeth squints her eyes, she can picture her there, a slender form in a white night-dress balancing on the iron rail, suspended momentarily over empty space before the nor'wester rises and claims her for the sea...

Inhaling sharply, she steps back, away from that edge.

When she goes up to bed, finally--thinking to kiss away that lost-little-boy look Will gave her as he turned to leave the garden, to run her hands along his body until he looks at her again as a man looks at his wife--he is already asleep. His left hand lies palm up on the counterpane like an unanswered question, revealing the long ragged scar there; she lays her own palm against it so that her own scar aligns with his, a reminder of the things they've shared: a childhood, a cursed gold medallion, a brush with death that grinned at them in moonlight.

She can't help wondering if their scars are all that remains of that shared life.


All the stars are out tonight. Captain Jack Sparrow tips his head back and hangs onto the wheel to keep himself upright as the movement puts him off his precariously maintained balance. The stars spin deliciously, fueled by half a flask or so of rum, and he laughs out loud.

They've had a very good run of luck this last fortnight, very good indeed; tonight, having gained a small fortune this morning in silks and spices without the loss of any lives, he's celebrating. He lifts his flagon skyward, toasts the watching stars.

"Aye, this is the life..."

The crew hardly give him a glance. They're used to him talking to the sky, the Pearl, the sea--all manner of things that don't talk back. Most aren't quite sure whether Jack knows that a good proportion of his conversations are one-sided. He prefers it that way; he's found there's great advantage to be had in appearing not to have all his wits about him. It's like carrying a knife in one's boot, or a card up one's sleeve. Winning is all about what one's opponent doesn't see coming; and the fewer people there are who know how the trick is played, the fewer there are to give the game away.

There are one or two trusted members of the crew, however...Anamaria Vargas, for one, and perhaps Joshamee Gibbs, for another...who do know that Captain Sparrow has a far better grip on reality than he lets on.

Well, somewhat better. Maybe not too much.

Sanity is highly overrated, really.

Jack sways as the Pearl crests a wave, and pulls himself back up to something close to vertical. Drapes himself over the wheel, and regards his crew with lazy benevolence. They aren't listening. Well, that's fine. The Pearl listens. The Pearl always listens.

Aye, and sometimes she does answer.

He sings to her softly.

"We're devils and black sheep and really bad eggs..."

He swings the wheel to the right a little, eyeing the stars to gauge the Pearl's course.

"Drink up me hearties yo ho!"

As he often does when he sings this particular song and when he's had enough rum to descend into memory or even nostalgia...for while most men drink to forget, he drinks, just as often, to remember...he finds himself thinking of another night under the stars, some years ago, and the first time he heard that song.

Was it three years ago now, or four? Funny how he still recalls that night so clearly, as if it were yesterday. Especially since they'd both been at least three sheets to the wind, and maybe more sheets than that. Especially since so many more eventful nights had passed since, with various women in various places, under the auspices of varying qualities and quantities of alcohol. He doesn't remember their faces or their names, doesn't remember the they said to each other; all those other nights blur together, unremarkable.

But he can easily picture Miss Elizabeth Swann, the governor's daughter, slim and proud and insufferably self-satisfied, standing on a virgin beach in her sea-stained white shift and telling him off in a manner that was at once magnificent and maddening.

Delightful girl.

Honestly.

Unchecked, his mind presents him with the exact shades and contours of her skin in firelight, the gleam of her full lower lip, the precise angle to which her eyelids fall when weighted by illicit rum, the teasing echo of her voice. The lazy sensuality that emerged in her drunken state surprised him, coming from a lass so obviously naive to the ways of men...real men, that is, not just the pansies, eunuchs and tight-arses to whose courtship she was accustomed.

Not that young Will Turner was any of those things, of course.

Thoughtful, he takes another swig of rum, ruminating on his last conversation with young Will. Hah. Rum, ruminating...certainly no coincidence that the one word begins with the other...


It had been last fall in the Floridas that Jack had run across Will Turner attempting to argue with a Spanish harbor master in sadly limited Portuguese. He didn't recognize the lad for a few moments; Will had aged overmuch in the two-odd years since Jack's famous escape from Port Royal. Then he heard the plaintive tone rise behind him, laced with a horrendous attempt at a Buenos Aires accent, and the growing anger in the voice of the official. He wheeled around and inserted himself into the center of the dispute.

"Pardon the intrusion," he said smoothly. "Good to see you again, Will. Now, if you'll allow me..."

He placated the harried Spaniard with a few well-chosen words in the correct language, hampered by a barrage of questions from Will and aware that Turner's companions were looking askance at one another. When the harbor master finally left them, satisfied, Jack threw an arm around his friend's shoulders.

"The last thing I need today is you bringing the whole bloody Armada down upon us before I've finished me business here." He steered him along the dock toward the town. "Come along, lads, drinks are on me this morning. I'm feeling generous."

"You made that look so easy," Will complained. "And you're hardly the respectable-looking one out of the pair of us."

"Wellll," Jack drawled. "It's time you learned that good looks won't get you too far in a place like this. Although mine are always an asset, no doubt...But, no, in this business it's much more about what you know..." he waved an arm at the tavern across the street, "who you know, and most importantly, who you are. However," he added thoughtfully, "in this case the poor blighter was likely just plain overjoyed to be addressed in Spanish rather than pidgin Brazilian."

Will's face fell. "I thought that Brazilians...oh, never mind. What brings you this far north, Jack?"

He raised a warning finger. "Captain Jack...and, that's none of your law-abiding, moralizing concern, young Will. Can't have you jeopardizing your respectability, now, can we?"

An odd look passed over Will's honest features; then he grinned. "That's Captain Turner to you."

"Is it, now?" Jack said, startled. He'd thought he'd heard Will's associates say something like that, but he hadn't thought he'd heard them right. He peered quizzically at "Captain" Turner; Will's grin wiped away much of the age Jack had previously noted, but that guarded expression remained in his eyes. Well, I'll be damned. Lad's lost his innocence after all. "That's interesting...Where's your vessel then, Captain?"

"Right out there," Will said proudly, pointing to the harbor.

Jack stared in disbelief. He'd admired the sleek, newish carrack on the bay when they'd rowed in earlier, but he'd pegged it for a Spanish trader with a nobleman's wealth behind her.

"That ship." He glanced back at Will, then out at the bay. "That's your ship?"

"Aye," said Will, still grinning like a boy. "The Freedom. She's mine."

They had paused in the yard of the taberna, the Delfin Oro.

"The Freedom, eh."

"Elizabeth named her."

Ah. "She did, did she." Jack glanced once more at the clean white sails. "Well, my lad, it seems you haven't done half-bad for yourself, I must admit. I assume you claim legitimate title to her, too. Aye, naturally. And since you're obviously dying to brag about it, let's find ourselves a berth inside this charming establishment of vice and debauchery and get us some refreshments while you do so. I've got me own reputation to maintain, after all."

They settled themselves at a back table, and Jack invested in liquid fortification for Will's men, most of whom had already congregated around the group of fully-painted ladies lounging at the bar.

"So how is the lovely Elizabeth these days?" Jack inquired. He took a judicious swig of his rum, rolling the burning liquor over his tongue appreciatively. Not bad, not bad at all. Those Spaniards certainly knew the finer points of distillation.

Will's expression clouded somewhat. He sipped his drink warily, swallowed, grimaced. "She's all right, I suppose," he said somberly. "All things considered."

"Married her yet?"

"Aye. Last spring." Will stared into his flagon, that troubled look still haunting his countenance.

"Well, what's the long face for, then?" A sudden thought occurred to him. "You really are a eunuch, aren't you. Won yourself a woman like that, and incapable of bedding her properly? That's a shame, lad, a damn shame..."

Will flushed and glared, reminding Jack why the boy was such entertaining company. Couldn't help but rise to even the most blatant attempts to bait him. That particular barb worked every time. Made him wonder, really.

"Don't speak of her that way. She just...hasn't been well, is all."

Jack tapped his forehead knowingly. "Gone a bit touched, has she? Always suspected that was a liability with her. Never did strike me as an extraordinarily rational gel, y'know."

"No, it's not like that," Will snapped. "Just lay off her, why don't you, Sparrow."

He lifted his hands, palms out, in mock defense. Clearly, the topic of Elizabeth was an unhappy one at the moment. "Terribly sorry, mate...but the truth's the truth. Now, do tell," he added hastily, as Will looked prone to violence, "how did you come to possess such a fine ship as that...Captain Turner?"

"Wedding present," said Will shortly. "One of two."

"Two what? Two ships?" He'd be damned if the lad hadn't surprised him twice already today, and it wasn't even noon yet.

Will swirled the liquid in his cup. He hadn't drunk any of it since that first sip. "Yes, two ships from the pocket of Governor Swann, and an order...excuse me, a gentle suggestion...that I use them to make a seemly living for the sake of milady."

Jack looked at him sharply, beginning to understand the weight that had settled over his friend's shoulders in such a short time. "Ah. If you can't make the lady wed a Commodore, you can still make a Commodore out of the man she weds."

"Something like that."

"And indebt that man to your Grace in the process..." Jack mused. "Aye...the Governor's cleverer than he looks, i'n he." He finished off his rum in one long swallow and clapped Will on the back. "Come now, drink up. Look on the bright side. You've got yourself two bonny ships...and the bonny lass...out of the bargain. Commodore."

Will winced. "I'll stick with 'Captain,' thanks."

"Should have gone pirate, lad, while you still had the chance." He waved over the tavern wench, a black-haired, ivory-skinned little thing who flashed him a beguiling smile as she leant to refill his drink. "Thanks, love..." He followed her progress across the room, noting with appreciation the sway of her shapely hips and then flinching at the resounding slap she bestowed upon the hand of an overly familiar patron. "Nice girl, don't you think?"

"Aye, she looks to be your type of strumpet."

Jack shook a finger at him. "Must ask you to be more respectful when speakin' about my lady friend, Turner."

Will actually laughed at that, to Jack's relief. Then he pushed back his stool and stood up. "I'll leave you to her, then. I've got errands to run and a galley to restock...thanks for the drink."

"You didn't even finish it," Jack growled, offended on the rum's behalf.

Will pushed it over to him. "It's all yours."

"Give my love to Elizabeth," Jack called after him. "And, Will?"

"Aye...what?"

"A bit of advice." Jack lifted the cup in farewell. "Find yourself a better interpreter."


He stirs at the helm. Poor Will. He doesn't envy the life of a merchant shipper, especially not one beholden to his own father-in-law. And he knows that though Will would gladly and foolishly die for Mrs. Turner, nee Swann, such lesser sacrifices as he's been forced to make must rankle the lad's idealistically romantic sensibilities.

Perhaps he should stop by Port Royal sometime in the near future, and find out whether old Bootstraps' son has yielded to his heritage yet and turned privateer. And pay a call to his lady wife, too.

His lips curve up in a slight smirk as he imagines her reaction.

Or rather, her wide range of possible reactions. He's never managed to quite suss out the lady in question. One minute she'd be on your side, the next she'd be burning your valued cache of liquor; and when your future hung in the balance, the devil only knew whether she'd rush to your defense with blazing eyes and that quick tongue of hers, slap you across the face and toss a few choice expletives your way for good measure, or merely smile beatifically as you were hauled off to the gallows.

Delightful girl, indeed.

He shakes his head, as if trying to rid his mind of some unsettling thought.

They really are an interesting pair, those two. It has been easy enough to see which one of them wore the proverbial trousers, right from the beginning.

Poor Will, indeed!

He takes out his compass and flips it open, waiting for the needle to cease spinning wildly and settle on a direction.

When it does, he says, thoughtfully, "Ah." Then he frowns and shakes the instrument a little, watches the needle swing purposefully round again and halt, trembling, at the same point as before.

"If you say so, my friend." He shrugs and snaps the case shut. "Never steered me false before. Right, then..."

Humming to himself, he adjusts the Pearl's bearing slightly more south-west, setting a course for the Windward Passage that separates Hispaniola and Cuba, beyond which lies the little island of Jamaica and the famed merchant city of Port Royal.