Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Note: For anyone wondering, the star in question is Venus, and an albatross is a big, ungainly seabird, often considered bad luck by sailors and featured in Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner. A traverse board was a means of calculating a ship's course during a four hour watch. It was marked with a compass rose, with eight holes at each point; every half-hour, a peg would be placed at the point corresponding to the direction the ship had run. At the end of the watch, the approximate course of the ship could be determined from the distribution of the pegs.

Thanks to all who have read and reviewed! And to Erin, Rebecca and Shad, the three best writing-buddies/beta readers ever: I love you guys! This story owes a huge amount to your continued support, input, and of course friendship...as do I. Thank you, as always, from the bottom of my heart.


XVII.
Evening Star

Tho' women's minds like winter winds,
May shift, and turn, and all that,
The noblest breast adores them most,
A consequence I draw that.

--"Tho' Women's Minds"


William Turner stands at the starboard prow of the 'Dauntless'; to his left, off the bowsprit, he can see the black shape of 'La Venganza' out of the corner of his eye, leading them southeast before a strong wind. Leading them to Hispaniola, to Elizabeth's salvation and Will's own almost certain condemnation.

Determined, he blocks the fateful vision from his mind, looking away from it to the west, watching the evening star grow gradually brighter above the darkening horizon.

He used to wonder about that star, when he was a boy, wonder why it didn't move in the same patterns as the rest of its fellows. Once, a very long time ago, he'd asked his mother about it, and Anne Turner had looked at her son with more sadness than usual in her weary, far-away blue eyes and said, "Your father would know."

He didn't ask her again. Hadn't had a chance to; that winter had brought sickness to Portsmouth, and his mother had never been strong, not since his father disappeared and the life in her had faded along with the light in her eyes. She hadn't fought the fever, just let it take her, let it hollow her cheeks and reveal her bones just under the skin, fragile as a bird's. He held her hand; she gripped his tightly, told him he should find his father and show him the gold coin he always kept under his shirt, next to his skin, where it lay cold and heavy like a promise. Told him that his father was a good man, would take him in and care for him. Was waiting for him somewhere in that mysterious Caribbean.

Later, he realized that grown-ups lied, sometimes. They thought it made things easier. And when had he forgotten that hiding the truth makes it harder to face, in the end?

A light wind brushes his face, the sea-breeze that he would normally breathe deeply for its comfort, for the scent that says "home" to him like nothing else; but tonight, though the air is warm, it carries the promise of approaching autumn, and he shivers slightly. He hasn't thought of his mother's death in a long time. And he'd forgotten about the evening star until many years later on the deck of a commandeered Naval vessel en route to Tortuga, when Jack Sparrow took it upon himself to teach Bill Turner's son the basics of navigation. Still wary of a man whose ilk (whose very crew, if only he'd known) had killed so viciously and indiscriminately on that long, long-ago night on the Atlantic, driven to a frenzy in their lust for gold, Will participated in the lesson grudgingly.

He found himself impressed despite himself at the wealth of sea-related knowledge possessed by his disreputable-looking, uneducated-sounding partner in crime. But he'd never had much schooling after being apprenticed to Mr. Brown at the smithy, and he was quickly overwhelmed by the slew of numbers and figures that Jack tossed at him over the traverse-board in a slightly disorganized and overly precipitous fashion. Jack's mind, Will now knew, was the type that worked twice as fast as that of a normal person's, and he had a habit of either skipping an unfortunate number of steps in his explanations, or going at solutions by insanely convoluted and roundabout methods that made sense only to himself.

At the time, this led inevitably to the both of them becoming violently frustrated with one another. Jack, despairing of him, contented himself with showing Will how to read his bearing under a clear night sky.

"If you're sailing under my command, young Will, you must at least be capable of knowing which direction you're sailing in..."

"As if you'd let me steer this thing anyway."

"Which I wouldn't and won't, if I can possibly help it," Jack agreed. "However. Being that you and you alone constitute the entirety of my crew--" he surveyed said "crew" with resigned distaste-- "I would prefer that I am not the only one who has any idea where the devil we are at any given moment. If I should happen to allow myself the luxury of a hour's cat-nap, I should not wish to wake and find us halfway to Panama."

He then briskly outlined the various constellations' positions, pointed out the Pole Star, looked inexpressibly shocked when Will asserted that he knew how to find the Star in question, and gave him a five-minute crash course on how to use a quadrant.

"What about that star?" Will asked, pointing at the jewel-like beacon burning in the west.

"That star?" Jack guffawed. "'Fraid there's no dependin' on that star, mate. The ancients named her for one of their heathen goddesses, and not for nothing, either...she's as inconstant as any other woman, that one. She's not even a true star, or so they say..."

"Surely not all females are so fickle," Will protested.

Jack quirked a skeptical eyebrow at him. "Aye, and you have in mind your lovely Miss Elizabeth, I'll wager. Well, then, I won't be the one to crush your oh-so-romantic illusions."

"You know nothing of Elizabeth Swann," Will said hotly. He had in fact been thinking of her, and had been inclined to wax poetic in his comparison of her beauty to that of the brilliant star, before Jack proclaimed that heavenly body false.

Jack shook his head slowly. "Perhaps not. But I know women, mate, and I know the games they play at. Take my word for it. The prettiest and most well-spoken females are the most treacherous of the lot."

But in spite of Jack's cynicism, Will thinks of Elizabeth every time that clear, shining light appears in the wake of sunset. And even tonight, when the sound of her name in his mind is fraught with worry, fear, and guilt, it brings him back momentarily to the sense of wholeness that he loses every time he leaves her.

He realizes suddenly that he's never told her that.

There are so many things he hasn't told her.

He rouses himself from his reverie. There is something he must do.


Commodore Norrington is about to sit down to his evening meal when someone knocks on his cabin door.

"Enter," he calls out, resigned. He hoped to take his supper in peace tonight, to use the time to mull over this extremely unorthodox situation he has found himself embroiled in, as well as to sort out his unruly thoughts.

He was hoping he'd left behind his tender feelings for the Governor's daughter, as any proper gentleman would, at her wedding to William Turner. If in there were indeed any remaining vestiges of attachment for her still in his heart, they should have vanished on his own wedding day. His Violet is everything he'd hoped for in a wife, is more than he'd hoped; and indeed she is very dear to him. But while a seemly concern for Elizabeth Turner's well-being is still not at all inappropriate, a brief examination of his own actions, words and state of mind during the interview with Captain Francisco Morena--that devil--cannot ignore the fact that he did not act merely in accordance with the call of duty.

The door cracks open, and Norrington looks up, expecting to see one of his men come to report some small problem. Why must they always run to me with this nonsense--? he reflects irritably. Can't even decide to caulk the boats without me...not a single spark of initiative among them.

But the dark-haired head that pokes itself around the doorjamb is not that of an anxious Navy officer. Norrington sighs again, discovering that of all the men on the Dauntless, the one with whom he least of all wishes to deal right now is Will Turner.

"My apologies for disturbing you, sir." Will hovers awkwardly on the threshold.

"Yes, yes, it's quite all right." Norrington waves him forward impatiently. "Have some wine, if you like."

Will doesn't sit. "Actually, I was only going to ask if I might borrow pen, ink, and paper."

"Ah." He pulls open a drawer of his writing desk and hands Turner the requested items, and adds, because he feels he should, "How are you holding up, man?"

Will seems surprised at the question for a split second; then he laughs, a sharp, humorless sound. "Given the circumstances, Commodore? As well as can be expected, I suppose."

"It is certainly a most difficult and...regrettable situation, Master Turner."

"Difficult doesn't even begin to describe it," Turner says shortly. Laying the writing materials on the table, he picks up the previously offered wine bottle and pours himself a glass; wipes a hand across his face as if trying to erase some of the fatigue and strain marking his features. He appears to have aged years in a single day.

There is a little silence; Turner swallows a gulp of wine, seemingly without tasting it. When he speaks again, his words are indistinct, almost inaudible.

"It's nearly impossible to grasp. I find I almost don't believe it. That this is truly happening. Has happened." He lifts his head, and looks straight at Norrington, his eyes dull, blank. "It's only just occurred to me this evening, Commodore, that I will probably never see my wife again. Never speak to her again. Never..."

His voice fails, and he turns away, shoulders shaking not quite imperceptibly.

Searching unsuccessfully for a response that could be judged anything but thoroughly inadequate in the face of such emotion, Norrington watches Turner pace the room and pause to gaze fixedly out the stern windows, though it's fully apparent the other man sees nothing of the dark, empty ocean beyond the thick glass.

"I have it in mind to write Mrs. Turner a letter this night," Will says tonelessly after a moment, control regained. "I was hoping that you would be so kind as to deliver it to her. When the time comes."

The Commodore nods, clears his throat. "Of course. It would be no trouble..."

Turner, his expression carefully impassive, gathers up paper, quill, and ink-bottle. "Thank you, sir." He drains the rest of his wine in one swallow--Norrington frowns, thinking that he wouldn't have pegged the lad for much of a tippler--and turns to leave. Then he halts in the doorway.

"Commodore Norrington," he says softly. "I know you and I haven't always been on the best of terms, but I know you've cared for Elizabeth as long as I have." He meets Norrington's questioning glance. "You'll...look after her for me, won't you?"

Norrington reads the stark desperation in Will's eyes, experiencing a deep pang of sympathy for the younger man's struggle to come to terms with the knowledge that he's about to lose everything. Including, in all likelihood, his life.

"For that, Will Turner," he says, hoping the other can hear the weight of sincerity in his words, "you may certainly depend on me."

Will seems about to speak; but instead, he bows his head in a brief nod and is gone, closing the door behind him. In his wake, the Commodore pours himself a glass of wine, sipping it absently. Not for the first time, he finds himself thinking that if Elizabeth Turner, nee Swann, had the good sense to remain safely in Port Royal in the first place, this never would have happened. He wonders, also not for the first time, where she acquired such views as she expressed in her missive to his father, of which, as it was read to him repeatedly and emotionally by that honorable gentleman, he has every phrase committed to memory.

A prisoner in her own life, indeed.

He prays that the lady has finally learned the difference between the true meaning of imprisonment and that of her proper station, the safe confines of the home where she belongs. Unfortunately, it will be too late by then. Her foolish quest for "freedom"-- whatever that means to her quaint little feminine brain--will have already cost her husband his life.

The only true freedom is the liberty to execute one's duty, he thinks severely. The King serves his duty to God, we gentlemen owe our duty to the King, and women...why, their duty is to their households, husbands and family. It occurs to him that he shouldn't be surprised if Mrs. Turner picked up her ridiculous ideas during the fiasco of her kidnapping and forced sojourn aboard the 'Black Pearl.' She had seemed to emerge from the adventure remarkably unscathed, but there has to be a reason for her current and highly lamentable lapse in judgment.

He scowls into his wineglass. In fact, he shouldn't be surprised at all if those ill-conceived notions were planted in her pretty, impetuous head by none other than the single most unwashed, unbalanced, and utterly unprincipled scoundrel of the lot...none other, in fact, than the intolerable Captain Jack Sparrow.

He finishes off the glass, with the uneasy inkling that he has been somewhat negligent in fulfilling his duty to his King. He should have taken care of that blasted Sparrow problem on the first go-round. One day's head start might have been sporting, but it was hardly wise.


That "blasted Sparrow problem" is currently sunk deep in contemplation of the twilight horizon and the single clear, bright star that gleams steadily there in the wake of the vanished sun. His mind, aided and abetted in its wanderings by a fairly strong dose of alcohol--which has, nonetheless, begun to fade rapidly and regrettably from his blood--roams freely in the past, to the memory of a young man besotted with that shining beacon and what it stood for.

Sorry, lad. I fear I was right, after all. As per usual...

Which brings him to the uneasy discovery that he does not feel extraordinarily good about his astuteness in this case. In fact, he feels unusually not good about it.

Can't really help it that he's right ninety-nine times out of ten, though.

Y'know, there are some things a man just can't help.

Slim shoulders stir beneath his hands.

"I didn't quite catch that, I'm afraid."

Bollocks. He must've said that last part out loud, by accident, the sound of his voice breaking the fragile peace that had fallen between them.

"Apologies, love. Was talking to somebody else."

Elizabeth slips adroitly out from their loose almost-embrace, and turns to look at him suspiciously. Wears that expression far too well, she does.

"I'm the only one here, Jack."

"So you are," he agrees, genially.

"Then who--?"

He places one foot up on the log of driftwood she's sitting on, leaning an elbow on his knee, deliberately nonchalant. "Not that it's any of your business. Bit of a private conversation, savvy? But if you must know, I was mostly speakin' to that dazzling great bauble hanging over yonder." He waves vaguely at the western skyline.

"The evening star?" A graceful eyebrow arches upward. "And I suppose you two are old cronies."

"Aye, you could put it that way," he says, amused.

"You're daft, Jack."

He grins at her. "It's been rumored." Then he frowns, noticing something; catching her chin firmly, he lifts it a little to examine the shallow cut across her throat. "What's this, love?"

Straining to extricate herself, she raises a hand to hide the wound. "It's nothing. A scratch. Let go."

Instead, he tightens his grip for a second; she glares up at him--another expression she's all too practiced at--and he feels the slight tremor along her jaw, the warmth gathering in her cheeks as he searches her guarded eyes. When he releases her abruptly, she jerks away from him, hand still at her throat.

He makes a noise of exasperation. "Honestly, m'lady, I promise I am not attempting to seduce you just at present, so all your righteous indignation is most uncalled for." After perfunctory consideration, he cannot resist, and adds, "I daresay you'd know it if I was to try anything of that sort, really..."

She has dropped her head to stare at the sandy ground, exposing the nape of her neck, and without thinking he allows his fingers to stray fleetingly across the bare skin there. A visible shudder runs through her body, and she leaps up from her seat, the gentle sound of the small waves lapping against the rocks obscuring her low exclamation. About to ask her, against his better judgement, to repeat herself, he abandons the question; he's seen the suggestion of something like pain pass over her face, obvious even in the dim light. She sways on her feet, but quickly recovers herself, shaking off his supporting arm.

He grasps her by the wrists. "Do us both a favor, Elizabeth, darling. I know it's difficult for you...but please, endeavor to restrain yourself from your customary foolishness for one brief instant." She looks away, and he tilts his head until she meets his gaze. "Now, kindly tell me what ails you, aside from the fact that you've apparently managed to get your throat very close to slit."

"Nothing ails me," she says, on a shallow breath, but she ceases struggling.

Regarding her skeptically, he notes the fatigue dulling her features, and finds he's not sure her sudden, uncharacteristic compliance represents a good sign. He waits, letting the silence stretch.

"I rose too quickly," she mutters finally. "I felt lightheaded for a moment, but it's passed now." She sighs. "I haven't eaten at all today, Jack. Is that what you wished to know?"

"It'll do," he says, relaxing his hold on her. "Perhaps we should remedy that oversight, however..." He extends a courteous arm for her to take. "I happen to know a lovely establishment right here in Tortuga, m'lady, wherein is served the most delicious slow-roasted pork you'll ever taste. You really must try it while you're here. I assure you it would be a great loss not to."

She looks at the proffered arm, then back at him, and he observes the mischievous glint in her eye with some relief.

"You appear to have forgotten that I'm no lady, Jack," she says lightly. "Although I imagine you'd make quite a stir as the gentleman escort of a comely young lad such as myself."

He chuckles, lowering his hand. "In Tortuga, love? No one would bat an eyelash. They're used to anything and everything, round here." He watches her closely as he speaks, trying to gauge her mood, but night is falling quickly and he can see nothing in her eyes but shadows. He says, "Shall we?"

She draws a deep breath. "I suppose so." And then, with a resolute little nod, she says, "Lead on, Captain Sparrow."

"Right, then," he murmurs. "Good girl. Come on."

Elizabeth lapses back into silence as they walk together up the quay and down the street towards the pub Jack has in mind, a small but thriving institution known whimsically as the Albatross Nest. In an effort to combat her reticence, as well as a means of diverting himself, he cheerfully points out to her various items of interest along the way, relating associated tales of his previous adventures in Tortuga. But despite increasingly fantastic embellishments on his part--some added just in the hope that she'll at least be moved to argue with him--she acknowledges each of his favorite landmarks with barely a turn of her head, her murmured responses remaining short and abstracted.

Blasted women and their moods, he thinks. The wind itself has never been so bloody changeable. And he's never known a woman--not even the indomitable and inescapably sharp-tongued Anamaria Vargas--to ever behave so unpredictably, to run so damnably hot and cold...nor one who shies so warily from his touch like some delicate wild creature.

Of course, it has been quite a while since he spent such a long period of time in close proximity to any female other than Anamaria; and he less views Ana in terms of her femininity, these days, than as his quartermaster, his first mate, and one of the most reliable and skilled members of his crew. It occurs to him that the last girl--before Elizabeth Turner--with whom he kept company for more than the mere space of an evening was none other than...Elizabeth Swann. And before her, long before, it had been Nichole D'Bouvoire.

Nichole...now she's an unusual one as well, unusual enough to pique and hold his interest beyond their first night. Fierce and mercurial as any, she is; but easy enough to understand and anticipate, for all that. He'd quickly learned the rules of engagement. Cross her, and one'd be wise to have a weapon on hand to parry her attack; truly injure her pride, her interests, or anyone she claimed loyalty to, and she'd probably kill the offending party. Thoroughly.

But Nichole has never been ambivalent about anything, for as long as he's known her. And Nichole has never feared passion, if indeed she fears anything...except, perhaps, like himself, the loss of freedom. Elizabeth, it seems, despite her attempt to escape the restrictions of her appointed station, is still afraid to break free. Afraid to break the rules, afraid of her own desires, and, he has begun to suspect, afraid of him--and not, he recognizes wryly, for the usual reasons. She has never feared him because he is a pirate, a scoundrel, or a notorious criminal with no respect for God or country; she fears him now for what he represents to her.

He looks sideways at her, realizing that her preoccupation has somehow rubbed off on him, and that in her presence he has begun to engage in far more serious reflection than he's accustomed to. He can't say he likes it much.

It's rather uncomfortable. Makes his head hurt. He rather thinks it's time for more rum.

He opens his mouth to assert this opinion, but she startles him quiet by speaking first.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

Her eyes are still fixed on the ground. He stares at her. Elizabeth Turner...perhaps the only person on land or sea with the ability to render him anything like speechless. "I beg your pardon?" he says at last. "You're sorry for...what, exactly, lass?"

They have both stopped walking, still a few yards, lamentably, from the door that leads to slow-roasted pork. She hesitates, arms folded across her bound chest, gazing past him down the dirty street as if she might discover the right words lying somewhere in the evil-smelling gutter.

"For blaming you." She glances up at him quickly. "My weakness is not your fault, nor is my sin. It was I who--who acted rashly." Her voice is low, and he has to lean towards her to make it out. "I'm sorry for that...for," she averts her gaze, faltering, "for kissing you. For being here..."

"Good God, woman." He raises an impulsive hand to touch her cheek, thinks better of it, wavers a bit helplessly. He has no idea how to respond to this sort of thing. Most women don't bother apologizing to him; they generally slap him hard across the face and have done with it. Now, looking down at the slender, hunched shoulders of the girl in front of him, he decides he vastly prefers the latter behavior. "Elizabeth," he says, and stops. All the words in the world, even couched in the most persuasive tones that he can muster, will not convince her to feel that what they have done is any less wrong.

He's having enough trouble convincing himself.

"Listen to me, love," he says finally. "There's no need to be sorry on my account. I can carry the weight of sin, as you put it, better than you...much more practiced at it, y'know." This last, he fancies, almost makes her smile. "I did what I did, lass, and though I can't say as I regret it as perhaps I should, I'll take my share of responsibility for what happened, same as you." At that, she meets his eyes, her expression startled, and he rushes on. Where angels fear to tread... "As for your being here, honestly, I find I'm not sorry about that, not in the slightest. You did drag my bleeding body up off the floor and patch me up, which was terribly nice of you, by the way. Put a lot of effort into saving me worthless old life, too, though I'm still not entirely sure why."

"Well, I couldn't exactly leave you to die, Jack." She laughs shortly. "After all, you were the only person in Tortuga I could trust, even halfway."

"I wouldn't have died, darling. I am Captain Jack Sparrow." Then he lays a hand over his heart dramatically. "You wound me, m'lady...only halfway? I think I've earned at least three-quarters of your trust, surely."

Her answer to his joking question is grave. "Occasionally, a bit more than halfway. Maybe."

"Come now...have I ever given you reason not to trust me?"

The sight of her abruptly frozen countenance causes him to wince involuntarily.

"What?"

She doesn't answer.

"Blast." He fidgets, and then says rapidly, "Look, I admit that my behavior this morning could not, by any definition, be called gentlemanly. In my defense, I cannot remember any lass ever appearing quite so horrified to wake up beside me..."

She skewers him with a level glance.

"Bugger. You mean to make me say the words, don't you."

"Yes."

He sketches a desperate, aborted gesture in the air, looks to the sky for inspiration, looks back at her, observes the obstinate set of her mouth, and promptly abandons all hope of maintaining any shred of his much-subjugated pride.

She waits.

"I am sorry, love," he says softly, after a moment.

"Are you?"

He sighs. "Yes, madam, I am. I am sorry. I am a bad, rude man--even for a pirate. I concur, I grovel, I beg for your forgiveness, and I shall refrain from asking you what, in all honesty, you expected from an irredeemable rogue like myself. Now, can we eat?"

"Please." She smiles sweetly at him. "You can finish groveling later."

"It was a figure of speech," he growls, and stalks away toward the Albatross Nest. He can't be sure he's not imagining it, but the rhythm of her steps behind him sound faintly triumphant.

Bloody women.

"Y'know what your problem is, missy?" he demands, when she catches up to him at the door.

"Why don't you tell me, Jack?" she replies, in that same treacherously sweet tone.

He scrutinizes her for some sign of mockery, but she only widens her eyes at him innocently.

Wench. He's perfected that little trick over the years, and now she's stealing it. He must admit that she utilizes it fairly effectively.

"You," he says, somewhat unsettled and struggling to retain his train of thought, "you, m'dear, haven't the faintest idea what it is that you want."

"Oh, I don't, do I." She is forced to hurry after him as he swaggers into the tavern.

"Not an inkling," he informs her over his shoulder.

"And I suppose you do?"

"I've probably got a better handle on it than you do, I imagine. And I'd tell you--" he rounds on her suddenly-- "except it wouldn't matter, not one whit. By reason of the fact that even when you do know what you want, you're afraid to pursue it."

She opens her mouth, closes it again, bites her lip with a small frown.

Good. He's hit home. He jabs a finger at her, his face a few centimeters from hers. "That is why, no matter where you run off to, no matter how many pirates you bed, and no matter how many ridiculous penances you impose on yourself for the injuries you feel you've done your darling William in your adventures, you will never be happy. Because you have no idea what will make you so."

Despite his intentional invasion of her personal space, she stands her ground. Jack, temporarily out of steam, is reduced to scowling blackly at her; to his surprise, she does not meet his glare in kind, doesn't even seem hurt. Instead she considers him, her forehead creased rather quizzically, as if seeing him for the first time. "And what," she says slowly, "makes you happy, Jack Sparrow...if I may ask?"

Nonplussed, he draws back a little. "Me, love?"

"Yes, Jack. You."

"The Pearl," he says instantly. "Standin' at her helm with a good wind behind us, a high sea afore her keel, and the promise of plunder just over our horizon. Or," he adds, dropping casually onto the bench of the nearest empty table, "failing that, an unflagging supply of rum, some quality pork, and a comely wench on me knee." With that, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her onto his lap.

"You forget yourself, Captain," she hisses, straining against his unyielding grip.

He enjoys the sensation of her fruitless struggles briefly, before releasing her. She moves away, and he assumes she is about to turn and leave, but then she slides into the seat across from him, tight-lipped.

"Whatever happened to not calling attention to ourselves, I wonder?" she inquires archly. "Everyone's watching us, Jack...and I daresay they're all thinking the same thing." She's smiling that dangerous smile again. "And you were so concerned that the good people of Tortuga would take you for a boy-lover, last night."

He grins right back at her, fully unrepentant. "Darling...I'm Captain Jack Sparrow. Do you really suppose I give two damns what this riff-raff believes I get up to on my shore leave?"

"Don't you?"

He shrugs. "Not particularly."

The serving-girl arrives with cups and at his grateful wave, proceeds to fill them.

"You see, lass," he tells Elizabeth, as the barmaid departs to fill their orders for Albatross pork, "let me explain something very important to you."

She rolls her eyes, and adopts an expression of resigned patience. "And what might that be, Jack?"

He leans forward across the table, ignoring her obvious attempt to humor him.

"No publicity," he says solemnly, "is bad publicity."


Nichole turns her head, watching the lights of Tortuga slide sternward of the Gyrfalcon as she steers the light vessel toward the mouth of the harbor. The town appears almost impressive from this distance, in the dark, though she knows she will not escape the stench until she clears the bay; even then the memory of it will linger in her nostrils, in her hair, until she has the opportunity to take a long swim in clean water.

That may not happen for awhile, but she cares little. Her fingers unconsciously caress the hilt of her cutlass; her mind has wandered to what lies ahead.

Revenge.

Her lips curve in pleasure at the thought, as well as at the knowledge of the diverse collection of supplies and equipment below in the cargo hold.

Nichole has never been one to rely upon Providence to arrange matters for her, nor upon any greater wisdom to even things out, to make the world a fair place. She does not believe in the power of prayer, of sacrifice, of karma, of voodoo, or any other magic she's met and scoffed at in her extensive travels. But she knows she and Captain Francisco Morena are fated to meet again in the very near future. Only this time, she will be prepared.

It is fated, because she has decided it will be.

Because Nichole D'Bouvoire makes her own destiny.