Disclaimer: I didn't steal anything. I borrowed it. Borrowed without permission. But with every intention of giving it back.
A/N: A troublesome chapter to write, mostly because of the emotionally weighty subject matter. The next few will be similarly dark, with perhaps a shaft or two of light sneaking in.
Historical Note: There really is a convent at St. Joseph, in the Trinidads, although it was founded at a somewhat later date (1870.)

Special thanks to Shadow Phenix for reading my rough draft of this chapter and providing much-needed constructive criticism that proved invaluable, especially in regards to Jack and Norrington's characters. I think you'll find I took most, if not all, of your input to heart.


Chapter XXIV.
Under the Wave

Heavy the beat of the weary waves,
falling, falling, o'er and o'er on the rocky shore
when he comes no more, alas! no more!

"Heavy the Beat of the Weary Waves"


The unmistakable sound of two pistols being cocked simultaneously echoes in the empty street.

"Good to see you again, mate," Jack Sparrow drawls. "Almost didn't recognize you without all the trappings. The coat gives you away, though. Still, must say--civilian rags, very becoming on you. And I really never cared for that wig--"

"James!"

The figure who has stepped from the shadows of the alley to confront Jack stiffens at the sound of Elizabeth's voice. Both men leave off glowering at one another to stare at her as she reaches Jack's side, breathless. Anamaria is close on her heels, her own pistol at the ready.

"Elizabeth?" For a second, Commodore Norrington's mask of imperturbability slips; he actually sputters. "What in the devil...good God...what is the meaning of this, Mrs. Turner?"

"What a surprise, eh?" Jack says amiably. He does not look in the least bit surprised; the terrible--whatever it was--that was so raw in his eyes a minute ago has been wiped smoothly away and replaced by serene nonchalance. He holds his flintlock almost idly, elbow at his side, his stance relaxed. Elizabeth is not fooled by this. She wonders if Norrington is.

She moves between them until all three pistols are aimed at her own heart. "It's all right, James," she says quietly. "He didn't kidnap me, if that's what you think." Her urgent gesture in Jack's direction is challenged by a skeptically raised eyebrow; but after a moment, he shrugs, clicks the hammer of the flintlock forward, and tucks the weapon in his belt. Elizabeth says, watching Norrington's face, "Ana, too."

The quartermaster hesitates, her expression mutinous; at Jack's nod, she lowers her gun but leaves it cocked, fingering the trigger and favoring the Commodore with a long, warning glance.

Norrington follows suit reluctantly, though he is scowling like a thundercloud. Then he swears with sudden and surprising fluency, and grips Elizabeth by the shoulders, giving her a little shake just as Jack has done earlier in the evening. She seems to inspire such behavior often these days. "Damn it all, Mrs. Turner," he says. "I thought... Have you any idea...?" He pauses, appearing to seize control of himself with Herculean effort. "You had us all believing that the worst had happened."

"I can explain..."

"You had better," he says tightly. "And I hope it's a damn good explanation. Your father," he adds for good measure, "will not be at all pleased."

"Of course he won't be," Elizabeth says, irritated. She welcomes the irritation; the familiar diversion of arguing with Norrington does much to reduce the panicky dread she's been struggling with since she and Jack came ashore. "He'll get over it. He always does." But will I..."get over" it? "Jack rescued me," she tells Norrington. Again. "In Tortuga. If it weren't for him, I would have been stranded there when…when the Spanish came."

Jack clears his throat. "Actually," he offers, "it was Miss Elizabeth here who saved my life, as it happens, Commodore." Elizabeth shoots him a quelling look. "Er--we...rescued one another, if you would."

Norrington, clearly, would not. He appears more displeased than ever, as Elizabeth well expected of him. "The only reason I have not arrested you," he says to Jack over Elizabeth's shoulder, "is because I have none of my own men at hand to clap you in irons and drag you off to the brig."

"Well, that's a relief," Jack says, over Ana's audible growl, and Elizabeth does not even have to turn round; she can hear his cheeky grin. "Was beginning to suspect you didn't love me anymore, James, darling."

Norrington, scandalized at the usurpation of his given name and obviously unable to come up with an adequate retort, settles for saying nothing at all in a way that says very distinctly that Jack is too far beneath his notice to warrant response. Elizabeth peers curiously past the bristling Commodore into the darkness of the alley behind him. She has assumed it to be inhabited by redcoats. Instead, one of the bulkier shadows detaches itself from the wall to tip its cap to her.

"Evenin', Missus," it rumbles. "Gladdens me heart to see ye safe an' sound, it does."

"Gabriel!" It's all she can do not to fling her arms around the big Scotsman. "You escaped, then! What of the crew?"

"Most...got out alive," McBride says, and stops there.

"And...Will?"

The name drops into an abruptly deepening silence like a stone into water. At her back, Jack has gone completely still, though she thinks he makes an odd half-noise, like he's strangled some word before it can escape his lips. Gabriel studies his big hands miserably, turning his cap around and around; when they pause, his callused fingers tremble slightly. The dread returns tenfold, a breaking sleeper wave, hitting her broadside, sweeping her under. She cannot catch her breath.

Norrington says, heavily, "I thought you must not know, yet." He looks meaningfully over her head again, and says, as if in response to some betrayal written in Jack's eyes, "But you do know, don't you, Sparrow."

"I wanted to...be certain," Jack says, in a voice that is not Jack's. "It is--as I had feared, then?"

"Aye."

Elizabeth takes a step backwards, searching each of their faces in turn, seeing the same answer in each. The impossible thing. No; rather, the possibility she has been refusing to acknowledge, while aware of it all the time, a shadow waiting in the back of her mind. Like fate.

The inevitable thing.

"Jack," she says, hearing herself as if from a long way off. "Certain of what?"

And he says, even farther off, "I'm sorry, love."

"No," she says, but without breath behind it the word is not even a whisper. The wave roars in her ears. The earth drops away from under her feet, leaving her floundering in deep water. Out of those depths rises a nightmare image of a body sprawling limply on a dock. Except now, she knows its face.

Will.

Oh, God...

And then Jack's arm is strong around her waist, anchoring her, pulling her upwards. Keeping her head above water. The wave recedes, taking everything with it.

Except one thing...Bereft of thought or emotion in the wake of the deluge, she draws a long, shuddering breath. She must not weep, not here. Not in front of the Commodore, not in this strange place, out on the open in this wide street, not here. Not. She focuses as hard as she can on this single resolve, pushing the enormity of everything else down, down, ruthlessly crushing any sneaking urge to hysteria.

"He was locked in the brig of La Venganza," Norrington says, subdued. "We were on our way to commandeer the ship." Grim irony emphasizes the word commandeer. "We were...too late. We saw--" He hesitates. "It was very quick," he says. "No one could have escaped. Elizabeth, I am sorry. I cannot tell you how sorry."

She is hollow inside, like a shell. If one of them put an ear to her, they might be able to hear the echo of the wave. Roaring.

Later. She will feel what there is to feel later. Now, she must remember how to stand up, how to inhale and exhale, how to speak, though the words keep slipping out of reach, washed away on the tide. Flotsam and jetsam. She manages to capture a few, hang on to them long enough to string them together. "I don't understand. Why...?"

"Will gave himself up." Norrington speaks gently, as if he's afraid a too-sharp word will shatter her. "In exchange for the freedom of his crew. He thought--" He breaks off.

But she already knows the truth, of course; has struggled with that knowledge for two wakeful nights and two restless days on the Black Pearl, where the sea's rhythm should have soothed her but did not. "He gave himself up for me," she whispers. Will she ever sleep again?

"Not for you alone," and the Commodore's characteristic sharpness resurfaces at this. "Your husband also loved his men. His sacrifice was honorable, and not purely in vain."

"'Twas a fine thing he did, ma'am," says Gabriel, awkwardly.

"Damn fool lad," Jack says. "Damn fool heroics." His voice is rough. "No bloody sense in that family. Bill was just the same."

Ana says, fierce and low, "Where be that murderous devil? Morena?"

Elizabeth hopes he is nearby. She's never killed anyone before, but she thinks it might help appease the roaring thing inside. But Norrington says, with unusual passion, "In Hell, I hope. He was aboard the ship when it...happened. Belowdecks."

"Morena was there, eh?" Jack stirs at Elizabeth's side. "That's interesting...You're certain?"

"Quite certain." The Commodore regards Jack frostily. "What of it?"

"I knew it," mutters Jack. "Fire was no accident. Must have been the lad's doing, aye? Stupid bloody Will...He would do a thing like that, wouldn't he. Taking his enemy with him. Did it a'purpose. Must have done."

"Perhaps so," Norrington allows. "I think it more likely, however, that some sort of struggle transpired, and a lantern was knocked over in the confusion. A great pity...Regardless, it matters little, now."

"Wrong, Master Commodore," Jack says evenly. "It matters a great deal. Among pirates, the manner of a man's going bears as much on the measure of his life as his living of it."

"Allow me to remind you, Mister Sparrow, that Captain Turner was no pirate." Norrington seems to derives great satisfaction from the neglect of Jack's preferred title.

Jack's grin is slow and dangerous. "He was no more pirate, Commodore," he says, "than you are a fool."

"Precisely so," says Norrington, with a scornful little smile. "Whereas you, sir, are as much the paragon of one as of the other. Now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Sparrow, I believe I have a more urgent matter to attend to at present..."

On Jack's other side, Anamaria, watching both men intently, has assumed the coiled attitude of a panther preparing to spring; it occurs to Elizabeth that she, too, should be paying closer attention. Remotely, she recognizes that a savage, barely-contained energy seething behind Jack's deliberately casual mien; he's spoiling for a fight for reasons she does not quite understand, and the tension inherent in the uneasy truce between the two men is stretching to its breaking point. Nonetheless, it seems to her that their conversation is happening at a great distance, and to no great consequence; they may as well be arguing interminably about someone else's tragedy. Someone else's grief. Nothing that is at all to do with her. She stands up as straight as she can, though her mind is numb and every bone in her body is dreadfully, achingly tired, listening to their voices echo in the empty space around the column of her spine.

But the voices have stopped. In the silence, a hand appears in front of her, waiting. After a while, she realizes the hand belongs to Norrington. "Come, Elizabeth," he is saying, not unkindly. "I will escort you back to the Dauntless. We sail immediately for Port Royal."

She stares at his hand, then at its owner. It takes some time for his meaning to sink in. When it does, she says, from the depths: "No."

Norrington says politely, "I'm sorry, what?"

"No." Louder this time. "I'm not going with you to the Dauntless."

A pause. Then Norrington says rather carefully, "Mrs. Turner, you are clearly beside yourself just now. I know you've had an unimaginable shock. But this is a hostile port, and it's time we saw you safely home."

"I'm not going with you, James," she says again; remembering how to stand up. Both Jack and Norrington are frowning at her now; Gabriel McBride looks mystified. Only Anamaria displays no surprise.

"I fail to see your meaning, madam." Norrington's tone is one of sorely tested patience. "Where else have you to go, for pity's sake?"

Nowhere to go but back to the noose...

"I'm going with Jack. If he'll have me," she adds, noticing the Captain's fleeting expression of astonishment. To her relief, he gives her a bemused sort of half-nod.

"Of course." Norrington pins Jack with an accusing glare. "I should have known this was your doing, Sparrow."

"First I've heard of it," Jack says airily. "All her idea, I assure you, mate--but why not, right? Who am I to refuse a lady, an' all that. Wouldn't be gentlemanly, y'know."

If he intends this last--and the ingratiating golden smile that follows upon his words--to aggravate the Commodore, he has succeeded admirably. "Why not?" Norrington snorts, incredulous. "It's an utterly ridiculous notion. Even you, Mr. Sparrow, must be aware of that. Mrs. Turner!" he snaps. "I've had quite enough of this nonsense. You will come home to Port Royal. Consider it an order." And he takes hold of her upper arm; not violently, but firmly enough to pinch a bit, so that she lets out an inadvertent exclamation.

She hears Jack's indrawn breath, but doesn't see him move. She only sees the glittering after-image of the cutlass blade as it flashes past her cheek and comes to rest lightly but deliberately against the collar of Norrington's uniform coat.

"You heard the lady, Commodore," Captain Sparrow says, lethally calm.

Norrington releases Elizabeth and steps back, away from the unwavering blade, but his features are hard with fury. "I don't believe you understand, pirate," he says icily. "It is not your choice to make. You have done the Crown a service, even if unintended, by delivering Mrs. Turner safely into my custody, and in exchange for this good deed I shall not attempt to bring you to the justice you so richly deserve. This time." He draws his sword, raising it warningly. "But it remains my duty to look after the lady and convey her home, and I cannot allow you to obstruct that duty."

"Is that so?" Jack grins wolfishly. "Generous terms, Master Commodore--especially from you. But I fear I must withdraw my services, after all." Advancing upon Norrington, he continues in a conversational manner, "Mrs. Turner is not mine to deliver, nor yours to receive. You see--" He raises his blade. "Some treasures have no price, even for a pirate...Savvy?"

"Jack, ye bloody stupid fool," Ana mutters under her breath. "Bound an' determined to get yourself skewered, ain't ye--"

The Commodore's sword swings up to meet Jack's with a discordant clash of metal upon metal.

Will made that sword...

"Enough!"

The combatants freeze mid-parry, startled; almost as if they have forgotten her presence except as the requisite item of contention. Deep down, in a place where she still feels, she is angry at both of them for that.

"Please, gentlemen." She comes forward, placing a hand on Jack's arm. "Jack, it's sweet of you to take my part, but I really would prefer that no one else should...come to harm tonight, on my account."

"Damn shame," Jack growls; the dark eyes glitter dangerously, but he stands down.

Norrington sheaths his sword with a bit of a complacent air. "I hope that means you are prepared to act rightly in this matter, madam."

"It does," Elizabeth says, "although perhaps not in the way that you mean." She meets his gaze squarely; it seems to disconcert him. "I am not your ward, James, nor your wife. If there is duty here to serve, it is mine, not yours. My choice."

"'Twill not be the only rash choice you've made." Norrington's short laugh is rather more bitter than she would have expected; she realizes, belatedly, that her words have prodded an old wound. "I am well aware that I am not your husband, Mrs. Turner."

"I'm sorry, James. I didn't mean--"

He holds up a hand for silence, but it is his expression, not the gesture, that brings her up short. "I did, however, make a promise to your husband," he says. "When he asked, I told him I'd look after you. And it is not my habit to give my word lightly."

Suppressing a pang at this, and stung by Norrington's veiled rebuke, she says coldly, "So you would make me a prisoner, then? Escort me back to my father like a wayward child? I know you mean to honor Will's wishes... but what of my wishes? Do they matter not at all to you?"

"I venture to suggest that if you were thinking clearly, you would most likely find that you wished differently," Norrington observes dryly. "We both know that the Black Pearl's business is piracy. Captain Sparrow is a criminal, a wanted man, and consorting with such a outlaw willingly could be construed as a hanging offense. Yet you still wish to sail with him? As usual, Mrs. Turner, your reasoning escapes me."

She steals a glance at the outlaw in question; he stands watching her with arms folded, his face unreadable. Catching her eye, he inclines his head slightly, lifting an ironic eyebrow as if awaiting her answer. She says, as much to him as to Norrington, "Jack is my friend, Commodore, hard as it may be for you to imagine, and a good man. He will keep me safe. And he is--" She falters. Remembers how to breathe. "He was Will's friend."

"But I was Will's friend, as well," Norrington says quietly. "As I am yours. It is your best interest I have in mind, Elizabeth. You must know that."

"And I do," she says. "I do know that. But James--" On impulse, she reaches out, takes his unyielding hand between both of hers. "I cannot bear the thought of Port Royal, of home. Not now...not yet. I..." But there is no way to explain the roar of the wave to Norrington, how it waits to rise and swallow her in the echoing chambers of her small white house, in the slow ebb-tide of a widow's life. She says instead, "I won't ask you to understand, or expect you to approve. Only let me decide what is best for me, this time."

The Commodore stares down at her, as if taken aback at her gesture; after a moment, he reclaims his hand, his mouth a thin, troubled line.

"I ask you," she says. "As my friend, James. Let me go."

"Is there nothing that would persuade you to choose differently?"

She shakes her head once, biting her lip; she doesn't quite trust herself to speak.

"Very well," he says slowly. "I will not force you to do aught against your will, though I cannot say I care for the situation...You," he barks. "Sparrow. Will you swear to grant the lady safe passage and accommodation on the Black Pearl, for as long as she might desire it?"

"On pain of death," Jack says, unsmiling.

"Indeed." Norrington's expression is equally grim. "If she should come to any harm, Sparrow, rest assured I will hold you responsible." He turns back to Elizabeth. "And what of the Governor? What would you have me tell him?"

"Father? Tell him I am safe. Tell him..." Her mouth twists, not quite a smile. "Say I have gone to the convent at St. Joseph's, and that I will remain there in mourning for a while. He would accept that, I think...But tell him I shall come to visit him, by and by."

"You would have me lie for you," Norrington muses. "And as you place my reputation at stake along with your own, I am, as always, unable to refuse you." He adds cryptically, "As is Captain Sparrow, I can well perceive. I must commend you, madam." His little bow is sardonic. "You have all manner of men at your feet, it would seem."

Jack looks uncomfortable. Elizabeth says, somewhat uncertainly, "Thank you."

"Pray do not thank me," the Commodore says acidly. "I fear you'll recognize this favor for a grave disservice, should you come to your senses. I suggest that you sail with all haste, before I come to mine."

"Much obliged, Commodore," says Jack. "We'll just be off, then, if you don't mind."

Norrington fixes him with a stern glare. "You realize, of course, that I cannot warn the Royal Navy off the Black Pearl without inviting some very awkward questions as to my loyalties and good judgment."

"Of course not," Captain Sparrow says smoothly. "Wouldn't dream of asking such a thing. You'll see neither hide nor hair of us, I assure you. Shall we, ladies?"

"Aye, Cap'n." Anamaria looks relieved. "We've overstayed ourselves already, if ye ask me. Tide's comin' in, too."

"Elizabeth?" The Captain says her name softly, his touch light on her elbow.

"Aye," Elizabeth whispers.

Gabriel touches his cap. "Fare ye well, Missus Turner. My sympathies t' ye." He adds gruffly, "Never knew a better Cap'n, nor 'un so fair-minded as was William Turner, ma'am."

"Thank you, Gabe," she murmurs and grips his hand briefly, pushing back the knotted ache that rises in her throat at his statement.

As she turns away, Norrington says, "Mrs. Turner! A moment, if you please."

She hesitates. If he tries to drag her back to the Dauntless, now...She doesn't know how much fight she has left in her. But he only pulls something from the breast pocket of his jacket, and holds it out to her. "For you."

She takes it; a plain envelope, sealed. Puzzled, she raises questioning eyes to Norrington's.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Turner," Norrington says.

It is not an answer, but she knows that he means it. Because she does not know what to say, she says again, "Thank you."

"He was a good man, Elizabeth," the Commodore adds. Then: "He thought always, and first, of you..."

And she finds she has nothing at all to say, to that.


Elizabeth doesn't speak once on their way back to the Pearl. She follows Ana half-blindly down the beach like a sleepwalker. Jack, casting about for words that will reach her, realizes that no such words exist; not for this; not even if he was good at this sort of thing, or used to it. He settles for observing her narrowly out of the corner of his eye and steadying her when she stumbles, which she does with alarming frequency; she doesn't glance up at his touch, or react to his mild oath as he finally gives up and links his arm with hers.

He finds himself thinking about how she turned to him, realizing what they were trying to say to her without saying it outright; knowing the truth, hoping he would tell her it was not. Truth? No truth at all... How her eyes went dead, all the light drained out of them, when he could not tell her so.

Dead. Young Will is dead. That's two Turner's I've failed.

Make that three.

She'd moved, fractionally, as if to lunge toward the docks where the corpses salvaged from the wreck lay shrouded, mercifully, in canvas; and he'd caught her and held her back, until he felt her breathe at last. And that was all. No weeping, none of the hysteria he would have expected from any other woman. Instead, she stood ramrod-straight and resolute, face shut like a cell door, insisting that the Commodore submit his Royal Navy sense of duty to her whim with such conviction that the Royal Navy conceded defeat. He saw her strength, then, magnified by his knowledge of the vulnerability that lay behind it.

Still, he wishes she hadn't found out that way.

He wishes he could think of a way he could have told her first, a way he could have made it easier.

...Bollocks. He's definitely not good at this sort of thing. He should have sent her home with bloody Norrington, he thinks rather desperately. Why didn't he send her home with bloody Norrington? But she'd run him through with that pleading look again, and he'd abandoned all his better judgment.

Why didn't she want to go home with bloody Norrington?

And what in the blazes is he to do with her, now?

He helps her into the rowboat; she huddles at the prow, her gaze fixed on the dark, placid waters of the bay, where only a few timbers still float among the waves. He sees her shiver.

"You cold, love?" he asks, but she does not seem to hear. He sighs, and leans forward to tuck his greatcoat more snugly around her shoulders. She makes no resistance to his fussing; he wonders if she's at all aware of her surroundings, until she reaches up with one hand to hold the coat's collar closed against the wind. Her other hand rests in her lap, crushing that letter fiercely in white-knuckled fingers. It'll be a miracle if the message inside isn't smudged beyond legibility by the time she opens it.

"Not much you can do for her just now," Ana says, watching him. "'Less you can snap her out of the shock, and then she'll need you, right enough."

Jack nods absently, frowning at the wrinkled envelope clutched in Elizabeth's hand. What did Norrington say to her as she took it? The Commodore pitched his voice too low to carry, and Jack was already walking away at the time. Norrington is a hard man, but not cruel; having sailed with him in pursuit of Hector Barbossa, Jack knows him well enough to be sure of that. He would not speak to wound, not in such a delicate situation. But something more than simple grief has left Elizabeth mute.

It's not right, this silence. Not right that her eyes should be so empty, all their fire quenched, not even a spark there now. He thinks he can't let her go on like this much longer; she should cry, or scream, before the pressure of that dammed-up emotion rises up and breaks her all to pieces.

So when, back aboard the Pearl, Elizabeth halts midway across the deck as if she's forgotten where she is and where she's going, he is right behind her.

"Get us underway," he orders Anamaria over his shoulder. "Before the Commodore has a chance to think things over, savvy?" To Elizabeth, he says, "Well? Aren't you going to open it?"

Only when he steps in front of her and plucks the envelope from her bloodless fingers does she raise her head, brows drawn slightly together in bewilderment, as she might regard at a stranger confronting her on the street. Her lips form the word, "What?"

"Here." He pulls out his pocketknife and slits the envelope open at the top without breaking the Commodore's seal. The single piece of foolscap inside is only somewhat the worse for wear.

He passes it back to her; she unfolds it slowly, her hands trembling a little. Then her face goes rigid.

"What is it?" he demands.

The letter slips from her loosened grip, and as he stoops to rescue it from the tar and salt-spray of the deck, she makes a rush for the portside rail. She's got one foot up on the bulwark before he overtakes her, yanks her roughly back.

"Sorry, love." He pins her arms to her sides as she struggles. "Can't let you do that, I'm afraid--"

The Pearl is already moving; Elizabeth chokes out, "But he's back there! We're leaving him! We can't just leave him--!"

Not good. "He's gone, Elizabeth," he says, as gently as he can, holding her. It must be said. "Will's gone. There's no going back for him now."

"Damn you!" She rounds on him suddenly, fists flailing wildly against his chest. "Why, Jack? You knew. Why didn't you tell me--?"

Her blows are fierce but light, the desperate tattoo of bird's wings against the door of a cage. For a moment he lets her strike out at him, because her eyes have blazed into life again and that means not all is lost. Then he captures her wrists, stilling her frantic movement.

Standing at bay, her fists raised and clenched, she looks at him as if seeing him clearly for the first time since the Pearl dropped anchor in Navidad harbor. And behind her eyes, the dam finally breaks, the seawall crumbling as she crumples into him.

"Oh, Jack…"

He gathers her in his arms, lifting the slight, shaking body easily; she clings to him, gasping, like a drowning woman pulled from deep water.

"Shh, shh," he murmurs. "I've got you, love. Let's get you in out of the cold then, shall we?"


To all readers and reviewers: Your support makes this possible. Thank you.

Vivianne: I will finish it--I've made a promise to myself about that. Hopefully by summer, although writing one chapter every four months isn't going to cut it.
Tephie: "I suppose that in exchange you want me to not kill the whelp?" Will's fate will be discovered in the next chapter.
Pirategirl1963: I've discovered while writing this story that Liz and Jack have a lot more in common than I originally knew.
Lord of the Peeps: Well, Jack hasn't quite admitted that he is in love, unrequited or otherwise, with Elizabeth. But I'm so glad you're enjoying the story! In fact there's lots of quality Pirates fic out there, it's just difficult to find among all the bad slash, mermaids, and girls falling from the sky.)
The Dutchess of Doom: Aha, another convert! Welcome to the wonderful world of J/E.
Literati-Sapphire:I left that cliffie hangin for awhile, didn't I...oops! This time around it wasn't writer's block, just lack of writing time. You know, I've never read Gone With the Wind, and I think I should. I know the story, of course, but I've never even seen the movie. It was good to hear from you--thanks for another long, not-boring review!
Missy Mouse: Hehe, you're not the only one ready to go after my writer's block demon.
Hereswith: That was my favorite line, too. :-)