Elizabeth fled into the night, her shoes thumping on the wooden veranda as she almost ran down the stairs. Her mind raced, thoughts tumbling together like small rocks on the sea shore. She had to leave Port Royal and find Will... Tortuga, he said he would start his search in Tortuga...

She hurried through the sleeping town towards the docks. She could hear lively music from rowdy taverns but she kept away, skirting the main streets and slipping down smaller side alleys. Her stays were not laced very tightly, but stays were not made for running and it her breath came shallowly. She clutched the precious letters of marque as her vision swam, and she forced herself to slow down, panting and sinking against the wall.

Frustration rose inside her. Why did all this have to happen? Why couldn't life be simple for once? There was a time when she longed for excitement, for something thrilling to come along and stir up her mundane existence. Not that she wanted a boring life - but why did adventure have to come hand in hand with murderers, and curses, and evil pirates, and horrible lords who tried to take advantage of a girl...

She shut her eyes tightly at the thought. She hadn't lied when she told Cutler Beckett he'd left an impression on her - but it wasn't a pleasant one. He had appeared the very essence of cold, merciless detachment, and to come face to face with the fact that even such an aloof man possessed those desires... she did not wish to dwell on it.

She slowly steadied herself again, and rubbed her weary eyes with her palm. She looked up, and screamed.

"Why, hello," said Mr Mercer.

Elizabeth struck out blindly, dashing to the left and ducking under his arm, but the man snatched at her sleeve and the material ripped away at the seam. She pulled her arm through the torn sleeve and fled, tripping over the cobblestones. She darted down an even narrower alleyway, ducking beneath laundry strung between two buildings and knocking over a pail of slops. She heard Mercer slip on the mess and curse, but she didn't dare look back and continued running, panting and grabbing at a stitch in her side.

She sprinted to the end of the alley, her shoes clattering on the uneven paving, holding her skirts up so her legs were free to run. She came to a halt at the sight of a dead end. She gasped for air and whirled around frantically, and spotted a food vendor's cart. It was shut up tightly for the night but she fell to her knees, crawling beneath it and crouching behind the big wooden wheel.

She heard footsteps and, after a moment, saw boots come into view. They echoed slightly, ominously, in the empty alleyway. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to quell her labored breathing. Her lungs were burning and her stays were agonizing, and before she could stifle it, she let out an almost inaudible whimper of pain.

The boots walking past the vendors stopped. She froze as they approached, like a rabbit in the road when the carriage's lanterns shone on it. Her heart pounded so loud she was sure he'd hear.

Suddenly, a hand plunged behind the cart, and she shrieked and tried to scramble away out the other side. She cried out as Mercer grabbed a clump of her hair, winding it around his hand and pulling her to her feet.

"Let me go!" she screamed, both in anger and pain. She heard tramping feet behind her and angled her head to see four men in uniform.

"Get the irons," Mercer commanded, letting go of her hair. Elizabeth scrabbled to her feet but two of the soldiers caught her under the arms, dragging her hands in front of her and locking her wrists into the manacles. One of them pried the letters of marque from her grasp and handed it over to Mercer, who tucked them into his coat.

"You lead us on quite the merry chase," Mercer sneered, and Elizabeth just stared at him, breathing heavily and pulling against the heavy chains. The man smirked, and gestured to the soldiers. "Take her away."

Elizabeth struggled all the way to the prison, until she was too weary to fight anymore and she allowed them to shove her back into the rank, filthy cell. Nearby prisoners whispered obscene suggestions and leered, "Welcome back, luvvie," throwing pebbles to get her to look up. She sat on the hard bench, staring resolutely at the ceiling until her eyelids grew heavy - and finally, with her head resting against the cold stone wall, she slept.

xxx

The next morning, Elizabeth drove the jailer half mad, calling through the bars to him that she was innocent, and if he let her go she would see to it that he received a hefty reward. She would not to sit idly by while all manner of horrible things could be happening to Will or her father, and she did the best she could until the jailer threatened to slosh her with a bucket of water. She tried and failed to pick the lock with a stick.

She was on the verge of despair when two soldiers appeared, armed with muskets and manacles. Elizabeth shot to her feet.

"Miss Swann's presence is requested by Lord Beckett," one of them announced formally, while the other entered the cell and chained her wrists.

"No!" Elizabeth sat down again and refused to move until it was clear that if she didn't walk of her own accord, the soldiers would drag her. She left the prison with her head held high, despite her torn dress, messy hair, and the prisoners' fading jeers.

When Elizabeth was escorted into the room, Beckett was seated at his desk, blotting a piece of paper. An elderly mapmaker was painting Cape Horn on the massive wall map, and Beckett motioned for him to leave, which he did in a hurry. Beckett began to speak without looking at her.

"Miss Swann, I'd like your opinion on this draft." Beckett picked up the paper and began to read. "'Weatherby Swann, charged with conspiring to assist an individual convicted of crimes against the crown and empire, and condemned to death, for which the punishment is also death.'" Beckett glanced up. "Its simple, to the point. I like it."

Hatred blazed in Elizabeth's eyes. "You won't get away with this."

Beckett set the paper down, standing up and linking his hands together behind his back. "You'll find that I will. Your father is, in fact, now a criminal and I am free to treat him as such."

"I won't let you!" she exclaimed thoughtlessly, the words sounding silly the moment they came out of her mouth.

Beckett let out a short laugh. "You won't let me? Please, tell me..." he moved around the desk and regarded Elizabeth. "If there is any sort of leverage you possess to make me change my mind."

Their gazes locked as if in a child's staring contest. Elizabeth looked away first.

"Apparently not," he said, turning his back on her.

"You would never dare to do such a thing," Elizabeth burst out heatedly.

Beckett glanced back at her, his eyebrows raised. "Do you really want to try your luck?"

"No," Elizabeth said without thinking. She clamped her lips shut.

Beckett paused. He was silent for a moment as he watched her. "I know that you would do anything in your power to save your father - am I right?"

"Not anything," Elizabeth retorted.

Beckett shook his head almost imperceptibly. "What a shame. Could you live with yourself, knowing you didn't do all you could to help him?" He didn't wait for an answer, merely turned away and gestured to the guards. They stepped forward and took Elizabeth roughly by the arms.

"Wait!" Elizabeth cried. She noticed no change in Beckett's bearing as he strolled out the French doors to stand on the veranda and survey the busy harbor, like a feudal lord assessing his kingdom. She pulled herself free of the soldiers' grasps and followed him, her shackled wrists clanking and chafing as if to remind her of the prison cell that awaited her.

"Would you really do it?" she questioned, her voice angry, suspicious and tremulous at the same time. "Would you drop all charges against him and let us both go free?" She paused, the words sticking in her throat. " And return the letters of marque?"

Beckett turned to face her, and took several steps forward until they were eye level. His eyes were blue-green, she noticed, and as cold and unreadable as ice. "You have my word," he said indifferently.

"I don't trust your word," she spat.

Beckett's smile was complacent. "You don't really have a choice, do you?"

Elizabeth didn't answer. They stared at each other for a long, tense moment, before Beckett brushed past her. "You may remove the chains," she heard him order the soldiers. She stared out at the bay, oblivious to its vivid beauty and the glint of golden sunlight on the water. Tears marred the view.