A/N: A thousand thanks to my reviewers. You rock my world and I figure the least I can do is promote you!

If you wish to read something so sweet you'll just melt into a puddle, read Southampton Rose's Sail With Me Into the Horizon. Make sure you ask someone to mop you up and put you in the freezer so you re-form. Otherwise you'll vanish from the face of the earth, doomed to roam forever as a Rogue Puddle.

Disclaimer: I stood up to Donald Duck with help from Jennifer Lynn Weston, but that just made him go get his friends. So now POTC belongs to Disney and Mickey Mouse and Donald and all the angry animated characters lined up outside my room!

Chapter 3

"Jack, y'hugger-mugger! What did ye do t'yerself?"

Jack looked up into a pair of concerned feminine eyes. His gaze traveled downward. Red dress. Delightful décolletage. Who...?

He bit back a curse. His wrist was still on fire.

Then the wench smoothed his brow and he realized he was lying on a bed. And he didn't know where he was.

The cool hand on his brow made him want to mewl, suck his thumb, and go to sleep, but he sat up. Never let anyone say Jack Sparrow didn't throw comfort to the wind when his wellbeing depended on it. Besides, if he sucked his thumb, he'd probably come down with three incurable diseases and die in five seconds.

The wench fluttered around him, murmuring concerned nothings. "Aha," Jack said with utmost calm. Before him was the familiar decor of a delightful lady's lodgings. A small vanity, a gas lamp, dark walls, lacy things on a chair. Drafty, but tolerable. And behind him...

Oh. That was where the draft was coming from.

The back of the room had no wall. Also, the floor disappeared into blue sky and sea, except for a narrow walkway that led along a cliff to busy stables. If one chose to not take the walkway, one would step into midair and fall down the cliff. Then splash in the sea.

A gull flew past calling merrily. A horse whinnied in return.

Jack was deeply perturbed.

"Captain," the wench sat beside him and slid a hand onto his leg, "don't y'like it? The tropical storms bring th'best air...does wonders for the skin and molars."

"Molars?" Jack turned to her, brows wrinkled.

She smiled. Lordy, she had good teeth. "Oh, aye." One cool finger brushed his lower lip. "What's botherin' you, Captain?"

"Aah..." Jack glanced at the gaping wall. "The drop."

"Oh, that?" she gestured to the deadly precipice. "But, I thought ye were a wild one, Captain, one t'love livin' on the edge."

Jack gave a sickly laugh. "No pun intended, aye?"

She shrugged, and scratched her arm. Then she looked at him. "What's bothering you, Captain?"

Jack pursed his lips.

"You're in pain," she said, green eyes limpid with sympathy and concern.

The inner mewling, thumb-sucking baby was back. Jack lifted his wrist, grimacing dramatically. "Well, since y'asked..."

She gently took his hand and lowered her head over it. He was temporarily distracted by her beautiful hair. It reminded him of mousse au chocolat...mmm, France.

Then she lifted her head, delicate face confused. "There's nothin' there, Captain."

"Wot?" Jack snatched his wrist away and looked at it. It was screaming at him, but the skin was completely undamaged. Apparently the worst it had ever suffered was too much sun.

"It…ow…" Jack looked at the wench. She looked back, deadpan, brows raised. "Fumigating flamingos, ow!" Jack jumped up and lurched to the vanity. He shoved his wrist at the mirror and looked at the reflection.

Nothing.

The wench slouched languidly, shaking her head. "Jack, ye were always such a poofy palter-head."

"Poofy-wot?" Jack whirled, eyes huge.

She grinned, and then giggled.

Jack looked around him wildly then stumbled back to her. "Who are you?" he gasped. "Tell me why it hurts."

"Wot?" she stared at him, then lowered her head and howled mirth into the claret coverlet.

"Tell me why it hurts," Jack repeated softly, feeling sick. "Tell me why..."

The wench lifted her head. "It hurts because I branded you," she snapped. "Why I restrained myself to only branding I have no idea."

Jack's jaw dropped.

"Quit gaping like that," she continued in Beckett's voice. "You'll salivate all over the floor."

Bam. Horse, gull, cliff, stables, and wench snapped away, leaving a void that smelled of onions. Jack shut his mouth.

"Better. Now bloody sit up before I shove this carrot somewhere painful."

Jack opened his eyes and saw a bulging sack. Potatoes. There was yellow light coming from somewhere. Above the sack stretched endless shelves.

His wrist still hurt. He didn't hold back the curse this time.

"Indeed. Get up."

Jack slowly grabbed a shelf and pulled himself upright inch by inch. He'd never felt so weak. His head pounded as he turned toward the speaker, and saw it was Beckett perched high above on a barrel. He held a tin cup containing a candle in one hand, and a carrot in the other.

Beckett flipped the carrot he held and stonily met Jack's eyes. "Take a good look around, pirate."

Jack did. The weak candlelight revealed a space nine feet long. At one end were two huge barrels, one serving as Beckett's seat. At the other end was a closed door. On the left, three crude shelves held massive cauldrons, ladles, cups, plates, and other pans. On the right, crates and bags of carrots and potatoes and flour and onions were stacked four feet high. They spilled into the center of the space, shrinking its width to about three feet. Leaning against a shelf, Jack could stretch his legs out if he wanted to, but his toes would be poking a fat flour bag. Ugh.

"You should be proud, Jack," Beckett's icy voice brought Jack's gaze back. "You've gotten us locked into a pantry three stories underground."

AND THE PLOT THICKENS TO THE CONSISTENCY OF PEANUT BUTTER - THE CREAMY KIND. HOLD ONTO YOUR HATS AND EYE PATCHES FOR LO, I SEE "CRUNCHY" IN THE NEAR FUTURE.

Please tell me what you think!