Unfortunately, Captain Jack Sparrow hadn't much chance to enjoy Bootstrap Bill's unfortunate fate—he was soon favored by a less fortunate fate of his own: Isaac Faust's crushing embrace. So strong it was that it brought Jack to tears… of pain. Having been squeezed too tightly all too much, being strangled in his son's arms was, well, the clinch that broke the pirate's ribs. Jack gasped. That sharp intake of breath pierced his already acheing chest with pain—but instinct had him gasp again. Jabs like needles pricked his insides. Jack grit his teeth, summoning what strength he had left to silently curse that wretched serpent, that snake.

At the very least, Isaac stepped back to frown at him for the reaction and in the process relinquished the death grip. It took him a moment to take in the picture of the pained pirate—from the grimace upon his face to the strange stillness of his chest—but then worry brought his brows together. "Did I do that?"

"Not… entirely." Wary of moving, Jack kept stiff as a board. It was difficult keeping his hands, both which seemed to have a will of their own, from flicking the question from the air. His fingers twitched with the effort. "Damage was done."

Faust was squinting at his bruised and bloodied flesh through the tattered remains of his threads. There was a pinched look to his face that Jack knew all too well. It was the look that the lad and lady had shared more oft than Jack preferred—for it was the look that meant he was about to be told just how incredibly foolish he was, Captain Jack Sparrow or not.

Indeed, the lady had abandoned her bullying of Bootstrap to rush back to Jack. It was, he thought warily, as if Alice and Faust shared some sixth sense in that look. If one wore it, the other was soon to show up with the same face and humbling words he'd rather not hear.

"Jack, you're hurt," Alice said as if she'd not noticed before and then turned to Faust. "Let's get him to the Pearl."

Like those, he thought, irritated just a bit that for all his swagger, Ahku Neko Neko Khar hadn't uttered some magical incantation to heal his wounds. The One Great Great God, whose knowledge encompassed all, could not have simply pulled some strings? Was Ahku Khar—

"…santa Maria!"

Bootstrap's outburst turned his head, painful as movement might be. Jack had only heard the man speak Spanish once or twice, and his accent had never been as strong. But the importance of that matter faded as he saw, with his own wide eyes, the source of the man's amazement.

From within Will Turner glowed an unearthly light, not silver or gold but bright enough to be either. It happened fast—as soon as his skin seemed full of the fire of light, it began to fade. Clothes that had been reduced to rags were whole again. And Will, turning his palms over to study them, looked to be so amazed that he couldn't possibly be in as much pain as he had been when he and Jack had limped along the riverbed.

The light had barely gone from the blacksmith's fingertips when it snapped at Jack.

Jack stared down at his midsection in disbelief. Bruises faded. The stabbing pain had ebbed away from his chest like receding waters, and was fast dissipating. A silver flash caught his eye and he tore the shirt from his person to gape at the lines of light criscrossing his chest. Lightning-quick, its ends shot around his flank to his back. Feeling warm from the inside out, Jack did not mind so much the grotesque squelch of his bones being mended from within.

From the disgusted look on her face, Alice did seem to mind the sound. But before Jack could assure her that he'd previously been as disgusted by her own transformation, the light snapped at Bootstrap and he couldn't tear his gaze away as the man's worn and weathered threads were restored to their former glory. A few lines lifted from his face, and though the grey remained, Bootstrap's hair regained its gloss and the swing of its curl.

Ahku Neko Neko Khar.

Jack winced. He steepled his hands together in contrition but glanced warily upward. Though appreciative of the miracle worked upon his person, and those of his friends—friend, and former friend rather—he hoped dearly that the echo of the deity's voice in his head would not be a lingering affliction.

"Was that Spanish, William?"

Bootstrap didn't answer. He couldn't. Will had shaken his son off his leg and had thrown a punch at his own father. It caught the man in the jaw and Jack winced with the rest of them as Bootstrap's head spun. When he recovered, he stood straight and tall. Eyes narrowed as one hand wiped at the bloodied lip. An ugly scowl twisted his mouth.

"Make ye feel better, did it?"

If Will was trying to look defiant, Jack thought, he was doing his very best. Turner's son had the look about him that Jack remembered only too well—the narrow-eyed, thin-lipped stare that made even the best pirates squirm under its harsh scrutiny. "And what if it did?"

Recognizing the challenge, and almost certain Will would be disappointed by his father's inability to meet it, Jack stepped forward to take Will by the arm. What he did not expect was Will's resistance. When he held firm, Jack cast a glance over his shoulder only to find his confusion mirrored upon the younger Turner's face.

Bootstrap had taken his other arm, Jack saw. A rough hand gripped Will's bicep. Its grip tightened, forcing Jack's gaze up to meet William's. There was a steely look to the man—a cold determination—that flared Jack's anger.

How dare he make his only interest in his own son a battle of wills between the two of them?

How could Jack have ever thought that it was truly William who had cared enough to visit the both of them upon the island? How could he have ever believed that the man who was so good at the silent treatment would have said so much? How could he have ever thought this man was a good man?

"Careful William," he said, "some might say bruising a blacksmith is bad luck."

"Ah, Cap'n," said Gibbs, showing up at Jack's side, "funny you should mention that. I was just about to. A caution old as the forge itself… any hand hath harmed the hammerer shall go black as ash and sever from thine own arm." There was a moment of silence following that, and then murmurs from the onlookers who Jack knew would have gone up in a roar of utmost amusement were it not for the serious situation they found themselves party to. Will kept his look of defiance but his father seemed to be struggling with the forbidding glare as he considered Gibbs' absurd word of warning. Gibbs, for his part, looked all too glad to see his captain, a wide grin brightening his usually surly face. "Wouldn't put much stock in it myself but then I'm not the one with a grip on the smith, eh Jack?"

"Aye Gibbs," said Jack, narrowing eyes just a bit at William, "you're not the one should be worried."

"Perhaps you should both let go of me then."

Will's growl drew both pairs of eyes to his. He directed a pointed glare at his father. William's jaw tensed to mirror his son's. So remarkable was the likeness that even Jack, who'd been quite aware of the resemblence for some time, was taken aback. His brows rose as Will's did. The younger Turner turned to him. He was glad to see that there was no such anger directed his way—only a look of exasperation. Feeling badly enough for him as it was, Jack dropped Will's elbow and took to studying the pebbles upon the cavern floor as the lad wrenched free of his father and hustled his family—Elizabeth and Jack both protesting loudly as Little Lucy huffed in her mother's arms—up and toward the cave's entrance.

Jack nodded Faust after them and was pleased to see no defiance on the face of his own lad. He watched with a certain pride as Isaac, carrying a torch, picked through the rocks without complaint and marched with purpose out of sight. Then he turned to Gibbs—and a scowling Anamaria.

"Don't give me that look, love," he said, "when you're about to be rich as a king." He ducked a fist and winced as a palm he wasn't expecting smacked his forehead. "Queen. I meant Queen…"

"You," she spat, "are goin to tell us what happened!"

This demand seemed to come from all those around Jack and William, whose arms barred his broad chest now, and even the meek Intuit priest looked eager to hear tell of the tale. Jack saw in his eyes that he already knew what had transpired and felt it quite a compliment that the man would like to hear it in his own words. He was also relieved to see that the Intuit held him to no blame for the disappearance of the priestess…

"Where is Neris?"

Alice, having always a sharp eye, had honed in on his lingering look at the priest and was glancing between them. Jack frowned and toed the pebbles a bit before daring to answer the question. He glanced hopefully at William—but the man offered nothing. If he knew any more than Jack did, he was not going to say. Realizing this, Jack kicked at an overly large pebble and shrugged his shoulders.

"Gone."

"Gone?"

"What," Jack snarled at her, "do you suppose that she's hiding under a rock waiting to pop out at you?"

Alice fell back from him with a hand to her heart. Wide grey eyes blinked. There was a quiver to her lip that made Jack reach out to her but too late. She had turned and fled from the cave, nightrobe rustling. Biting back a growl of frustration, Jack moved to follow but was stopped by a firm grip on his wrist. When he turned to Anamaria he meant to howl at her, but her serious, steady gaze becalmed him.

"We were all worried."

Jack sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose and turned weary eyes upon Roth. The helmsman looked as sincere as the rest of them. Cotton's blue eyes were bright with tears and Sweet Sam Samson wore so solemn a look that Jack felt a bit choked up his self.

"Tell us," Anamaria said levelly, "what happened."

"Tis a tale to be told with a ration or two of rum in hand," he said to her and the rest of them. "Which we shall all enjoy—after it is we explore this island for its riches… which are, gentlemen—and lady—all ours." He waited patiently while the lot of them absorbed what he had said, and then canted his head towards the pile of glittering green upon the cavern floor. "Believe those will tide you over… now, me, I've had a trying day and would like nothing better than to get back to my ship."

Anamaria frowned and pointed at Bootstrap. "And what about him?"

Jack paused in stride but refused to turn around. "Oh don't worry about him love," he said, glancing over his shoulder in time to catch Bootstrap's glare. "He's none our concern."

Hours later, after which Jack had tried and failed to speak with Will—Elizabeth sending Faust over with notes of apology several times before the lad, weary from rowing so much between the two ships, had told his Captain in no uncertain terms that he'd not go back with yet another request that would only be denied—and managed to further incense Alice Witter with his having offered Ash and Cinder their fix of feline herbs that resulted in their clawing apart one of her elaborate skirts that resulted in her leaving the Pearl in favor of the Swan—he was most glad that at least one thing had gone according to his word.

Crew of the Pearl had, after long hours spent on Antolune, come back in boats to the ship alongside those rowing toward the Swan. Anamaria, first to leap from the boat, had dug a bulging sack from her hip pocket and tossed it to him. Gibbs had done the same. Emeralds—fragments of the sword of Ahku Neko Neko Khar—glittered darkly from within both and Jack had packed them away amidst whispers of the man who would not speak.

Of course, Jack knew that the man who would not speak was Bootstrap. As it was, Bootstrap was also the man who was not their concern and so he was very happy to see that after all had returned to the ships there was but one solitary figure sitting ashore. Gibbs, who stood with Jack at the railing, did not look so pleased. There was a glum look to his face.

"Think it's wise to treat him this way, Jack?"

"Only as wise it was having us think him dead so long."

Gibbs frowned but had nothing further to say on the matter. He clapped his captain on the back and hurried off across the deck. His footsteps faded away and left Jack in silence to stare out at the dark figure of his former friend.

It continued in the same manner for a few days as Jack sent out crew to Antolune to gather any riches they could find. To his mounting irritation, however, it seemed there was not much to be had on the island. The men—and woman—brought back buckets of the silver dust that was Antolune's sand until it was Jack feared for the shoreline and forbade any more silver to be brought aboard. The declaration was met with hostility for the lack of much else to bring him.

Once, Gibbs muttered 'mutiny'. Captain Jack Sparrow was more frustrated than surprised—in fact he was of the same mind as most the men—and woman—on the matter. 'Mutiny' was on the tip of his own tongue. Fortunately there were yet barrels of rum to be had and so in a desperate move to improve morale he dragged several of those heavy oaken barrels from the stores up all the many stairs abovedeck.

Morale trumped mutiny. In fact it seemed that some of the men drew inspiration from their drink. After quite a many mugsfull Roth riled Tearlach and Cook, who pushed his glasses up with extra fervor, so much that the three of them were off on "an expedition" before Jack had even a moment to approve of it. He was glad they had not waited for his approval—which he wouldn't have been likely to give at the time what with the three of them all but drowned in their cups—when later they returned with a cache of rare herbs and spices.

Their success was infectious. Soon the crewmen—and crew-woman—of the Black Pearl were combing Antolune for its excess of natural resources. Cotton went off with Marty and Tearlach to pull up saplings of rare trees(which did not, Jack was thankful, attack them), Roth and Anamaria scoured the riverbed for rocks that weren't pebbles(bringing back a barrel's worth of uncut emeralds the size of plums), and Jack himself accompanied Cook on a hunt for rare flowering plants(finding a fair few, many of which were exotic orchids Jack had only dreamed about) while Gibbs watched over the ship.

It was as Jack boxed up a tiger-striped orchid that Toddul, Lemmy, and Shakes came at him. They were shouting triumphantly, Shakes carrying something long and flat in his trembling hands. It shook until Toddul grabbed it from him. It was a long, wooden box. It had been unearthed, some dust still clinging to it. Jack brushed it off. On its lid was painted in gold a circular design. Inside, they discovered, were many tightly-rolled scrolls of silvery parchment.

The Captain was very thankful. Leaving the other two men with Cook to continue digging up flowers, Toddul and Jack took the artifact to the Pearl. Jack handed the box off to Gibbs, insisting it be placed in captain's quarters until he could examine the scrolls to discern what they contained. Toddul toddled off to rejoin his comrades on Antolune, but the captain was waylaid.

Enthusiastic crewmen presented several specimens of strange animals—one a black lizard with a whiplike tail that seemed to favor striking at a glowering Gibbs— to Jack in cages. He ducked as an overly excited Cotton's cage nearly beheaded him, its hissing occupant nearly as unsettled as the captain of the Black Pearl. A very big, very purple turtle begged Jack with yellow eyes to let it go and he did, after a lengthy explanation to a fallen-faced crewman of turtles needing to live in wetter climes than was the Pearl, plopping the shelled thing in a boat and rowing it ashore himself. After lifting the turtle out of the boat and setting it on the silver sand, he glanced about but did not see Bootstrap. In fact, for the three days that he sent crew to shore they had buzzed about the man who would not speak who would not be seen until nightfall, and Jack realized upon the third evening that they were quite right. For on that third evening as he rowed back from having taken the turtle ashore, he saw the lone dark figure emerge from the shimmer of moonlit trees. Gritting his teeth, he kept rowing and when he stepped out of the boat onto the Pearl Jack stormed off to his cabin to examine the scrolls. What was on his desk, however, stopped him. There lay where he and Will had left it the map he had plotted the course to Antolune on.

Twelve, twenty-one, eighty-seven.

Bootstrap had written the last entry of that bloody journal on the day that he and that cursed crew had set out to find that last coin that the man knew was a lost cause—because he had lost the coin on purpose. For many years had Jack been shamed by the thought of Bootstrap having gone to a watery grave on his account. For many years the scene he had not witnessed had haunted his dreams, Barbossa egging them on and William begging them stop. For many years Jack had woken in cold sweat, wondering if William's soul were crying out to him in those dreams…

But William had been alive the entire time. William had been alive and had hidden from him for… for too long a time! Jack cussed and stalked back out on deck.

There was really no purpose in his pacing. Several of his crew tried to make conversation but, after the fourth man walked away having been ordered to scrub the galley, no more attempted this difficult feat and Jack was left to his furious thoughts of desertion and—dishonesty! He was trying to remember what The Code allowed for those crimes when he caught sight of a familiar figure standing forlorn upon the Swan.

Will was facing the shore.

Jack sighed.

"Won't talk t'any one o' us."

Samson's low brogue startled Jack. He jumped. A glare he spared the Scotsman before glancing toward the other lone figure—the one sitting idly on the silver beach.

"He won't talk t'me aether." The jagged scar tightened, Samson's jaw tense. Darkness settled behind his green eyes. "So I say let th'bloody fool sit!"

"Aye," said Jack, "s'what I say too, mate."

Silence passed between them. There was not much either could say to the other about it without one of them going on a raging tirade and Jack knew that the both of them knew that. William was still a sore spot between them, but now in an unanticipated way, a way in which they agreed.

"Young Turner though…"

"Will talk when he's sure he's able," Jack assured Samson. "His silence is as stoicly stubborn as William's."


"Stubborn fool," clipped the Ice Queen. "Still staying his distance." Standing on her toes to see out the porthole, the small woman glared out at what Jack Turner could only guess was Uncle Jack on the Pearl. She'd made no secret of her sudden dislike of the pirate captain, many times throughout her days spent aboard the Swan making snide comments about the 'crazy cuckoo' and his 'insistent insensitivity'. After two days of this, Jack had, along with the skinniest Intuit priest, pleaded with his mother to send her off to the Pearl but to no avail—Elizabeth Turner had shooed the both of them out of the cabin. They should have expected that reaction. Missus Turner was in no better mood herself.

To be fair, Jack supposed some of his mother's irritation was his fault. Indeed he had come under her wrath no less than five times, the last having been the worst. But he'd never been the sort to ignore curiosity and truth told he was more than a bit curious about the man he knew was his grandfather. That curiosity led him to badger her morning, noon, and night, begging and pleading to go ashore to speak with Bootstrap Bill. Afterall, he had heard so much about the man from Uncle Jack, and from his father, and he saw no reason why he should not be allowed to at least introduce himself. Apparently, though, his mother saw several reasons, each of which she screeched at him the last time he had got up the courage to approach her once more.

But most of her snappishness seemed to have come from the dark mood that had crept upon the Swan. From Samson to the skinny Intuit, no one seemed to be in good spirits and Jack suspected that his mother, Elizabeth, found this as irksome as he did. Behind closed doors she and Jack's father had had quite a few discussions that turned into shouting matches that resulted in Will Turner's storming from wherever his wife had cornered him to stalk about the Swan.

Jack had just only witnessed one of these rows when Miss Witter had swept into captain's quarters to snipe about his namesake. Sullen from having heard his mother berate his father with insults he as a proper boy dare not utter, he scowled at her back. Ice Queen or not, he was, himself, in no mood to mind her.

"Your father," she snipped, turning to acknowledge Jack, "is just as foolish!"

Much as he wanted to, Jack could not disagree. His father had been acting foolish. If he had been lost for so long as Bootstrap Bill had, and Jack had found him, there would be no way Jack could choose not to speak to him. Still, he did not much enjoy hearing his father put down by a woman who most often looked down her nose at him.

"And your grandfather's as bad as the both of them!"

"Don't you talk about him!" Jack jumped up, having had enough of her griping for two lifetimes and thinking that going on about Bootstrap, whom she did not know any better than any of the rest of them did, was too much. He grabbed up his father's abandoned hat and jammed it on his head, not caring that it sat sideways. He pointed a finger at the wide-eyed Ice Queen. "You don't know him to talk about him!"

Miss Witter's wide eyes narrowed. There was a shrewd look in her eyes. Jack had seen such a look before—it was the look she'd shot at him when he'd said there were no secrets on the Pearl when he was aboard, and it was the look he came under when his mother knew he was up to no good.

"Nor do you, but it hasn't stopped you wanting to talk to him has it?"

"Well wouldn't you want to talk to your grandfather if you never had?"

The question seemed to startle the woman. She fell back a step and laid a hand upon her heart. That shrewd look was gone, lost to a glazed gaze that Jack was sure meant she was thinking. There were a few furious silent moments between them and then her expression sharpened. She gave him a quick nod and as pink showed in her cheeks turned around to stare out the porthole as if they had not spoken at all.

Jack took that to mean that his leaving the room would not be considered rude and so he did. He stalked out of there and on deck. He was not certain what he meant to do, but he knew that he was itching to do something if the adults weren't willing. But what could a singular boy do? Of that, Jack was not certain either. He was frowning down at the deck as if for suggestions when the soft creak of wood picked up his head. Not a yard away, two hanging longboats swayed in the breeze. Moonlight glowed upon them, illuminating the oars lashed to their sides.

Jack's eyes narrowed.

Echos of heavy steps nearing took him by surprise and he fell back against the mast of the ship only to scramble around it when he saw that it was his father who was coming closer. Hoping that he had not been seen, Jack held his breath. When his father made for the boats, he let out a sigh of relief.

Waiting only until his father had disappeared over the side of the ship, Jack crept up to the railing to peer over. When the boat met the water and Will Turner looked up, Jack had to duck. The rope that his father tossed up smacked heavy on his head, but he daren't utter a sound. After having heard the quiet slosh of oars for a few moments, Jack scrambled out from under the rope and popped up to gander down at his father. He watched, through narrow eyes, to see which way his father would row. When the shadow of boat made for the Black Pearl, Jack clucked his tongue, much annoyed.

Deciding it was high time to take matters into his own hands, Jack's hands gripped the railing. He waited for his father to disappear around the side of the Pearl and when he had, Jack glanced about the Swan to make certain no one was watching. Though the only sounds were the soft creak of timber and the gentle slosh of water against hull, he wanted to be sure that all decks were abandoned.

To his luck, they were. There was no man—or woman—around to catch sight of him. Jack stood on tiptoe to grasp the edge of the hanging boat. It was a head higher than he stood, but he was determined. With a struggle he made it, and his fingers fast unknotted the two ropes holding the boat in the air. He'd never himself lowered a rowboat, but he had watched his parents, the Commodore, Captain Groves, and Uncle Jack enough to know exactly how to go about it.

With a grin, he gave the ropes some slack.

The boat lurched. Over the side of the Swan it went, and at an odd angle at that. Jack's grin was gone for a grimace as he clenched his fists to stop the haphazard descent. He stared straight up the bow of the boat to the spool where the rope spun. He hadn't expected the measley rowboat to weigh as much as it did. It took all Jack's strength to keep hold of one rope while easing out the other to level the boat, and by the time he was finally in the water and tossing the ropes back up to the Swan he would have been content to slump back and have a rest. But that was not an option if he did not want to be stopped. Pressing his lips in a line, he took the blade he'd hidden up his sleeve—like Isaac Faust—and slashed through the tethers holding the oars. In what seemed no time he was rowing to shore, gaze steady upon the spot of fire and dark figure of his father's father sitting alone beside it.


Will wasn't sure what it was that finally broke him from the box he'd been keeping to, but he found himself rowing slowly toward his friend's ship before he even knew what he was doing. It certainly could have been Alice Witter's constant complaints—those were beginning to get on his nerves, especially those aimed at him without the use of a whisper when it was he was but ten paces away. Perhaps it had been Isaac Faust's final plea. The younger man had fallen to his knees and begged Will to go to Jack Sparrow before it was that poor Faust's arms fell off from all the rowing between boats. Maybe the Intuits' suggestions, unspoken but clear all the same, had nettled him from his forced calm once or twice.

Surely, he thought with a wince, it had somewhat been Elizabeth's parting words before he'd stormed off. Never before had she resorted to such crude insinuations, usually favoring trickier insults than she'd fired at him earlier on the eve. And, he thought, a bit had been his son's numerous gloomy glances that meant no sooner than Will had gained favor with the boy than he'd lost it again. But most of all, he thought as he tied the end of a grapple line to the boat, it had been staring out at the solitary man on the beach, the one whom Will felt was further away in sight than he'd ever been so far removed from his memory.

He tossed the grapple up to catch the railing of the Pearl. Ignoring what was surely Jack Sparrow's cry of alarm, and the subsequent fast patter of bootheels overhead, he began climbing hand over hand. When he cleared the rail, he found a beringed hand and took it. Up over the structure and feet on the deck he looked up to find the pirate's accusatory glare.

"There are better ways of boarding me ship, Will."

As if to illustrate what Will already knew he meant, Jack let go of his hand and wrenched the grapple from the rail. It had left a nice dent in one spindle and splintered the thick black handrail. The captain examined it with a worried eye and then gently hooked the grapple to a nearby crate full of rocks instead.

"So you keep telling me."

Jack straightened to fix him with a dirty look for the impertinence, but it faded fast for a pull of his mouth that was a feeble smile. Will ignored it and walked past him to lift a hooting crate from the deck. He held it up before his eyes and was surprised to see a black owl glaring back at him between the wooden slats.

"An owl? Aren't they winter birds?"

"Yes," said Jack, really smiling now, enough to allow the gold in his mouth to gleam under the moonlight, "except that one." He shrugged. "Unless it's been blown off course of course."

"But why do you have it aboard?"

"Because Will," said Jack in the patient tone Will had heard him use with children, "it is an owl that is not a winter bird."

"Ah."

Jack took the crate from his grasp, peered in at its angry inhabitant for a moment, and then set it down again. While he was bent over, Will picked up another crate, this one wrapped in iron net and hissing at him, and stared in at the coiling, orange snakes… no lizards, for they had scaly legs and feet! There were at least three heads, he counted, and one was marked with a reddish diamond.

"Firebreathers, be careful."

Whether Jack meant it literally or not, Will set that cage down of his own accord and abandoned the crates and cages to take a look about the ship. The Black Pearl was same as always otherwise, but its shrouds and shadows seemed darker than ever. Will frowned at Samson, who was hunched over the rail, and took a few steps toward the man but stopped short of it to turn back to Jack.

It seemed the pirate was waiting for it. His hands were politely behind his back and his gaze, though dark with kohl, was gentler than any time Will had met it before. "There is," he said quietly, "something else. An artifact. I've left it in my desk… if you would like to see it…?"

Will nodded. "I would."

He followed Jack into the captain's quarters and to the office therein. Last he'd seen Jack there had been when the pirate captain was musing over the meaning of the charts marked for Antolune. Indeed, he noted, the charts were still strewn about the desktop. Even the pince-nez that Jack had so strained to conceal lay there in plain sight.

As his friend went about finding what he'd locked away, Will traced the swirling path to the sunken island with a fingertip. He read the coordinates on the round, gilt device he supposed was a star map. Shuddering, he drew his hand away and hugged his sides for warmth. When Jack produced a long, dark object, however, his curiosity got the better of him and he reached out for it despite the chill in his bones.

It was a long, flat piece of smooth wood. Only at the corners was it rough at all and Will guessed that was only because it had been buried with rock. Oddly enough, the thing was marked with golden circles. Seven of them he counted, six within the biggest. When he turned it over, he caught sight of a dark line and followed it around the perimeter, only dragging his eyes away to look up in surprise at Jack.

"It's a box."

Jack's lips twitched. "Is that what it is?" He reached for it, and took it, and raised his brows at Will. "Well I never would have guessed. It's lucky, isn't it, that we have someone of your expertise aboard?" Ignoring the dark glare upon him, he slid the lid off and held it back out to Will. "Tell me, for I haven't quite figured, what are these?"

Will looked into it but did not take it. He frowned down into the box at the many tiny silver scrolls it contained. "Scrolls?" He looked up at Jack. "What are they?"

"I don't know," Jack shrugged, taking the box and sliding the lid back in place and putting it back in its hiding place. "But," he said, standing back up and swaying across the room to take out two bottles of wine, "they're not why you're here. You care less about them than what else was found on that island. Sit." He pointed at a chair with one of the bottles and when Will sat handed it to him. "And if you don't drink that wine—"

But Will had already uncorked it and was taking a hearty drink from it. He paused and met Jack's startled gaze over the rim of the bottle. He swallowed. "Don't worry. I need it."

"I s'pose Elizabeth has locked the liquor cabinet and thrown away the key?"

Will glowered. "Hid it."

"Ah."

"You see," said Will darkly, "she is allowed to sot herself but me? No, I am not allowed to get soused when need be." He frowned and looked down at his hand. It was clenched about the neck of the bottle. "And I think I need to be."

"Well Will," said Jack, a smile curling his lip, "what you think, I know. Drink up."

They clinked bottles and drank wine. It was quiet for a time. Will listened to the sound of the sea washing the Black Pearl. Jack's ship was swaying, but barely, and so sweet was the sea to her that her timbers only gave the faintest of creaks. All was calm. And then Jack Sparrow sat his wine down with a thump on the desk.

"Curse your father!"

Startled, Will jumped. Wine sloshed his jaw. It dripped onto his shirt, staining it red.

"For all he's done, curse him!"


Antolune, William thought, was rather a quiet place at night. There was no one to disturb him, no one to quiet the loud jangle of thoughts in his head. Most might think such a blessing, but as for William Turner… he thought it a curse.

Daylight and dusk kept him busy. Before dawn he'd wake and go into the woods, keeping quiet himself so as to hear any sound of approach. Whenever Jack Sparrow's crew got too close he'd ease off silently in another direction, thinking not of the men—and woman—and their captain, but of what else there might be to avoid on the island. Snakes had slithered over his boots several times but after having been coiled in their biggest of brethren, William couldn't count them a preoccupation. More troubling had been the mudpits and the creeping vines. Though the plants weren't chasing him as they had when he'd first stepped foot on Antolune, he couldn't help but cast a wary eye upon the ground as he tread through the jungle.

But every eve, when night fell and the sounds of hunting and gathering faded from Antolune, William was left with less to do and more to worry about. Many thoughts he'd chased away but those deeper in his mind refused to leave him. And those thoughts were the worst kind, the kind that would have him believe that he was most worthless a human being.

They were probably right, he thought, staring glumly out at the Black Pearl. At first sight of the ship he'd nearly wept. Having kept away from her for so long, the last time he'd looked uponPearl was when her sails were in tatters. Her soul had been weeping for her lost captain, and she had been listing in the water. But when he'd stood on the beach gazing out at her, the Black Pearl had never looked so serene.

Her love had returned to her, he'd thought. And then he'd sat down with a thump in the sand and thought that Jack had been truer than he could ever hope to be. Captain Jack Sparrow had bested him.

On that third night it was the same thought in his head as he gazed out at that ship, at the Black Pearl resting so peacefully beside the smaller ship. Swans they both were—one light as gold and the other darkly beautiful—lazing on the silver sea.

A flurry of activity aboard the smaller ship grabbed his attention. William, having long ago lost the edge to his eyesight, squinted out at the dark shapes moving and determined that someone was once again taking down a rowboat. As had happened each time he saw that happen, his heart began to race. He clenched his fingers in the sand to steady himself.

But the shape of the boat was making its way toward the Pearl.

William breathed a sigh of relief, but too soon. For as soon as the boat cleared the bow of the Pearl, another boat was hurtling toward the water. There was a moment when William was sure that whomever was manning the thing would be dumped head over heels, but the shape soon slowed and straightened itself out. When it finally found the water, it appeared not to move.

Frowning, William watched for a long moment. He wondered why the boat wasn't moving but seemed to be growing larger. And then he'd realized, with a start, that it was headed right for him.