After what felt like a lifetime of walking to Theo's exhausted limbs, they finally came to a stop at a path outside of a decent-sized house that was far removed from the noise and (thankfully) the smells of the middle of the town. It was hardly a mansion, but it was still fairly big, with a great wooden door and two large windows on each side of it - inside she could glimpse a dining room and a sitting room through the glass, but no candles burned upstairs for her to glimpse what lay beyond the large matching windows on the second floor.

"…This isn't a church," she mumbled.

"I see your time in the jungle didn't dull your powers of observation," Norrington commented drily.

"I thought you were taking me to a church."

"And I seem to remember you swearing that you would leave the church as soon as you were able, should I take you there - and so doing that seemed like rather an exercise in wasting time. Or am I wrong in thinking so?"

"No, no," she said quickly "I just…didn't think you were listening."

Norrington scoffed "You are the one who does not listen, Miss Byrne, not I."

"So this is your home?" She asked slowly, following him.

The look he gave her in response told her just how obvious a question he thought she was asking there.

"As I said - you are my responsibility for the time being. Had I not seen your camp for myself, I might not have believed your assurances regarding your father. But I did see it and, contrary to my better judgement, I do believe you. I therefore have no wish to be the one to inform him I washed my hands of you for the sake of my own comfort when he inevitably seeks you out here."

Jesus Christ, did this guy have to talk like he was reading a set of terms and conditions? She felt like she was analysing some sort of classical novel for a lit class just to get through a conversation with him. It was difficult to think of how to reply off-the-cuff without resorting to the only Shakespeare she remembered from her school days - which happened to be "villain, I have done thy mother". Somehow she didn't think it would serve her particularly well here.

"I've two unoccupied bedrooms, a bath, and food - I struggle to see how you might find a better offer," he faltered for a moment before adding, in a tone that felt just a bit more sincere "I have a maid, and a cook, so it's all quite proper - we shan't be in the house alone."

It helped a bit that it wasn't an offer - more of an order, than anything. But god, it was tempting, damn him. The opportunity to be clean, to eat food that was actually cooked, and to sleep in a bed that didn't run the risk of leaving her covered in ant bites.

"…Only if you promise not to make me pray five times a day," she grumbled finally, following him up the steps to the house.

"If either of us is to start praying for mercy before this matter is settled, I doubt it shall be you," was his response.

Theo laughed, shaking her head as she pulled her shawl tighter around her. She felt all the filthier for the pristine surroundings around them - but while she couldn't be entirely sure, she thought she just might have seen the beginnings of a dry smirk trying to inch its way onto his face, but it disappeared the moment the maid he'd just mentioned opened the door, and regarded the two of them with poorly concealed horror.

It was a reaction Theo was learning to grow used to.

Once the maid - Hattie, she introduced herself as - recovered from her horror at Theo's appearance, she was actually heart-warmingly welcoming. It was almost funny how a woman who must have been younger than her managed to be so utterly motherly at the same time. The kindness made her more emotional than she wanted to admit. Oh, it was hardly the first show of kindness she'd received since waking up in this world. In fact, she'd been downright lucky in that department - the fact that she stood here, in Norrington's home, made that much very clear. She would have to find one hell of a way to thank him for all of this.

It wasn't just him, either. Groves had gone out of his way to make her feel more at ease on the deck of the Interceptor, and even Will had been trying to look out for her…in his own way. Even if she knew it would take her some time to admit that out loud. No, she had been shown a lot of kindness since finding herself afloat in this world. But this was different - this nurturing, this fuss. Normally it was the sort of thing that would set her teeth on edge, but after so much of…well, everything, it truly was a balm. Every smile, every sympathetic look, every motherly sigh when the maid noticed some new sign of hardship in her appearance threatened to bring tears to her eyes, and she had to struggle not to either fall asleep or lean into the touch when the woman insisted on brushing out her hair before she prepared a bath for her.

Questions and worries still warred furiously in her mind - how long would she be here? Was this just an opportunity to clean up, eat, and get a night of good sleep before then being dragged to the church? Was it the beginning of some sort of long-con style interrogation? Lulling her into a false sense of security before plying her with questions? How long would he tolerate her presence here before she would have to find some other set-up? Could she really maintain some façade of normality if she was staying with him? What did any of this mean? Plenty of these questions were doomed to go unanswered for a while, she suspected, and even then she feared that the ones that did get their answers would only then be replaced by fifty new questions - or fifty new problems.

…But for once, mercifully, she couldn't bring herself to care. At least not to the extent that they overwhelmed her. Captain Norrington's home was fairly Spartan - simple, and not over encumbered by knick-knacks, with everything seeming to focus on practicality, simplicity, and comfort rather than décor. Some would describe it as needing a woman's touch, but after what she'd just been through, in Theo's mind it was practically Buckingham Palace.

Her Docs were swiftly removed from her feet and taken away to be cleaned before they could mar the finely polished dark wooden flooring (she'd emphasised to Hattie until she was blue in the face that they were not to be damaged - if she was to get through what the future held, she would need them), and she was brought to the kitchen to eat so that her dress and, well, the rest of her wouldn't spoil the upholstery in the dining room.

It made no difference to her. Hell, if they'd insisted on her eating on the front steps of the house she would have done so gratefully, so long as she actually got to eat. It was a simple meal of salted fish and fruit - whatever they could have given her on short notice, really - but the first bite practically brought tears to her eyes and she knew no other meal would ever taste so good. If she never had to look at another coconut again in her life, it would be too soon.

The meal had been fairly small, but by the time she was finished her stomach felt fit to burst, shrank as it had over the last few days. The bath came next, a large copper tub set up in the middle of the bedroom that she guessed was her own for the time being. The water was filthy in seconds, but the moment she was settled into it, she suspected she'd have to be wrestled out of it…until her gaze was drawn to the bed in the corner, that was. Then it was just a race to clean herself with the strange scrubs, balms, salves, and washcloths that had been left beside the bath, so she could then pass out into a dead sleep for the foreseeable future. She was sure that if she really tried, she could just sleep her way right through until Jack turned up. She was sure she'd need the rest for what was to come.

"Captain Norrington? Sir?"

James looked up from his desk some hours later, seeing Hattie hovering nervously in the doorway, hands twisting in her skirt. He blinked in surprise - he'd assumed she'd long retired. Truth be told, he should have been in bed himself, but there always just seemed to be more work to see to. That fact was not likely to change when his promotion finally came through, but he didn't mind. In fact, he rather enjoyed the challenge.

"Yes?"

"I don't mean to disturb you, sir," she took a few tentative steps into the room before she carefully closed the door behind her "But you told me to inform you should anything seem amiss with Miss Theodora…"

Oh, lord. It hadn't even been one full night yet. Lips thinning, he set down his quill, giving the maid his full attention.

"What has she done?" He sighed.

He'd already long resolved to lock the door to the bedroom she was staying in before he went to sleep, just to make sure she didn't run back off into the wilderness, perhaps with his sword in tow this time. Allowing her to read his copy of Robinson Crusoe had been a bad idea. He'd unlock it upon waking the next morning - she would likely be none the wiser, and he could rest easy.

"Nothing, sir! No, nothing like that, she seems a good sort, she's fast asleep upstairs now, I loaned her one of my nightdresses…it's just…I went to her, to help her ready herself for bed after her bath, you see, but she wouldn't allow it - not until she'd dressed herself first."

Mortification and exasperation warred for control over his face.

"Yes, well," he coughed "She may be unused to being helped to dress. I wouldn't put too much stock in it-"

"Oh no, sir, me neither," Hattie quickly interrupted, eyeing him anxiously "But…I don't know how best to say it. I caught a glimpse, before she could fully…cover herself when I entered. I didn't get a proper look, and it was only for the briefest of moments, so perhaps I was wrong, or maybe I mistook what I saw…"

James idly wondered if there was anything he could do to encourage the ground to open up and swallow him whole. It was second only to the great hope he had that this torrid tale had some sort of point to it.

"What did you see?" He forced the question out, and felt like a lech when he realised what he'd just ask so he quickly added "To cause you concern?"

"Bruises, sir - the most terrible green bruises, all up her back," Hattie gestured to the right side of the back of her ribcage to illustrate her point, her arms coming down to wrap around herself when she was done.

James slowly set down his quill.

"Green bruises?" He echoed.

"A deep and vivid green - the nastiest I've ever seen, sir," she said.

Her eyes were wide and filled with worry as she spoke, telling him perhaps even more so than her words did just how shocking the sight had been. Well. This new revelation certainly put a different colour on things. An unpleasant colour, at that. He sighed heavily.

"Very well. Thank you for telling me," he tried to hide how this news troubled him, and dismissed her with a wave as he took up his quill once more.

Hattie bowed her head, left the room, and the moment the door was shut behind her James set down the quill once more, leaning back in his chair. This…was not good. But the more he thought about it, the more it explained their guest's strange behaviour. Had the maid described them differently - had they been purple or black, he might not have been so troubled. There were all manner of things lurking in the jungle that could've ended up with somebody as risk-prone as Miss Byrne black and bruised before her adventure in the wilderness was done with.

However, they were green. How long did it take for bruises to turn green? A week - two, at the most, depending on how bad they initially were, and by the sounds of it these ones had been particularly bad. Whichever was the case in the case of Theodora Byrne, the conclusion was the same. She had not sustained them in Port Royal, nor on his ship. They had not seen fit to undress her when she'd been unconscious after being brought onto the Interceptor. It had seemed…lecherous. To undress an unconscious woman. No, instead they'd dried her off as best they could and given her something to wear over her strange underthings. Now he knew that if they had disrobed her, they'd have seen the bruises when they were fresh. In a way, he almost regretted that he hadn't. Maybe then he'd have had a better idea as to how to approach the strange redhead who had floated across their path.

So where, then? Where had she gotten the bruises? That, he ventured, largely depended on how exactly she had come to find herself in the water…something she still claimed to have no real memory of. The notion wasn't impossible to believe. Perhaps the ship she was on had been set upon by pirates, and she'd sustained the bruises in attack or subsequent sinking. Unfortunately, James didn't feel like it was all that simple. Were that the case, she'd have complained of the pain to the ship's physician - somebody - at the time. The fact that she had chosen instead to bear the pain in silence suggested to him that she wished to hide it and, by extension, the questions that would naturally arise regarding how she got them.

When it came to Theodora Byrne, he found himself with little other than questions. He just could not quite work her out. The only conclusions he'd managed to come to consisted of one good, and one bad - the first being that she meant no harm to anybody, and the second being that she was the human embodiment of a headache. The conclusion regarding these bruises, though…it was slowly beginning to answer some of his questions - questions that he had not directly asked her, for he didn't believe he'd get a forthright answer.

Her bearing was…strange, to say the least. Disjointed, almost, like she was two separate things at once - wearing a mask that had a habit of slipping. She was not comfortable when it came to the art of deception, then. That offered some comfort. There were times when her demeanour and manner of speaking would have him peg her as somebody of some station, not to mention her ability to read and the gold that still adorned her nails…apparently fake or otherwise. Perhaps not outright nobility, but certainly not as common or lowly as she would have him believe.

Then there was the other side of her; the one that would fit in easily with the merchant sailors in the tavern in town, the one that was the very opposite of squeamish or apt to swoon. Admittedly, that did not necessarily mean that she was of the lower classes. He needed no time to think of another woman who lingered on his mind more often than he cared to admit - a woman was also hardly inclined to lose her head when faced with difficulty.

Still, there was no denying that Miss Byrne was wearing a mask in some form or another. Hiding something…running from something? It made sense. Leaning back, he could feel his face darkening of its own accord. Everything about her actions thus far reflected that of a person who did not want to be found. Anybody seeking her in these parts would go directly to the church to enquire, and he'd seen firsthand her desire to avoid finding herself in that position. In fact, the more he thought on it, the more he failed to remember any time at all that she'd expressed any kind of desire to be reunited with her family. She'd spoken fondly of her father, yes, but she'd shown initiative to find the man beyond insisting that it could not be done.

While she insisted she had no husband, he found it hard to believe - and not just because she was well past a marrying age. Beneath the sun burns and the muck, he was sure she must have been suitably fair, and the daughter of a soldier of such importance would not be struggling to find suitable matches. So…what if she did have a husband? One who she wanted to avoid being found by? One whose mistreatment was so severe that she was willing to throw herself overboard and take her chances with the ocean in order to escape him?

They were assumptions, all of them. Extreme assumptions, at that. But for so long he'd been waiting for a piece of information that made anything about Miss Byrne make sense to him. What she'd told him of her father did so, to some extent at least. The fact that she gave him no impression of being a brigand, but made it her first order of business to take his knife upon waking up surrounded by unknown men on an unknown ship. It was precisely the sort of thing that a soldier who had seen to many horrors would instil upon his only daughter. But it did not account for the rest, and he'd still been waiting for that one piece of information that made the wider picture make some sort of sense.

The more James considered his theory, the more it felt to be the piece of information he'd been seeking…and the more it stirred a heavy sense of outrage within him. It was difficult for him to return his mind to his work after that, one question repeatedly cutting through any focus he tried to give to the papers before him. What kind of man could strike such fear into his wife that she'd rather live in the jungle than be found by him?

A/N: I spent an unholy amount of time trying to research the sort of salary somebody like Norrington might be earning in the 1700s, and therefore what his living arrangements would be like, with very little luck - especially when it comes to the sort of house he'd be staying in. So I had to use my imagination for the most part, along with some educated guesses - but I did find enough to be fairly confident that he'd be pretty comfortable, though. The fact that he's viewed as a good match for Elizabeth by others in the first movie just reinforces that belief in my mind - if he wasn't particularly well off, it wouldn't be viewed as such a "logical" match.