A/N: This chapter is shorter than normal AND a week late! I'm so sorry! Writer's block tackled me weeks ago and it's been an ongoing battle to find inspiration, not to mention time in which to write. I know these are problems we all deal with, though, and I promise not to abandon this story. Stick with me, friends!

Thank you to reviewers who've chipped away at my writer's block with their wonderful reviews: LostWitch5, Pirate Trixi, Starling Rising, Jennifer Lynn Weston, jedipati, panzergal, TavyBeckettFan, kweenofmagic, and Eldonyx (merci!). This chapter is all yours because your encouragement brought it to life! Lots of chocolate to all!!

(To Panzergal: Hooray for your laptop surviving! I was SO grateful for your input about the first/third person thing. I'm not sure why I made Rachel first person, but I felt uneasy about it. Your input is just what I needed and I changed everything to third person. Beckett will be a main character until the very end, don't worry! It would get boring without him. I agree with the differences between Beckett and Javert that you pointed out. I guess the only parallel I wanted to draw between them is this: a revulsion for their pasts partially drives them. Does that make sense? And Les Mis is one of my most favorite musicals, too. It's absolutely timeless. Thank you!)

Disclaimer: Bambi's wandering around, looking for his mother! And I just saw her a little bit ago...I may have to venture out to help them find each other. I also want to scold whoever decided to have Bambi's mom die in the movie, since her death broke my little-kid heart! (Am I the only one?) I don't own POTC!

Chapter 11

As the sun heaved itself above the horizon, Cutler Beckett sank into warm bathwater and pondered irony.

While he'd been experiencing the worst night of his life, people had been wondering where he was. His personal servants (all two of them) had wondered. The guards that Sparrow had forced him to send away had also wondered. But none of them of them had said a word.

Beckett knew what they had thought. Why has he been gone so long? What could he possibly be doing? No, let's not ask. We don't want to know.

Ah, the price one paid for being able to terrify others by simply existing. No one had questioned taking Jack to the infirmary. No one questioned his order that Jack be tended to by Brimstone's best doctor. Everyone simply obeyed. Beckett dipped his mouth beneath the water, wetting his dry lips so he could smile to himself. Power was delicious.

Even better was this water, scented with expensive sandalwood. And his bathroom, a small, neat space with towels hanging over a chair and a high window letting the sun in. His skin was prickling with delight. When he dipped his head under and rose again, it felt cool and fresh.

The only sad thing was that he had had to add oil to the water that would get rid of fleas. If it didn't work, heads would roll. Beckett rested his own head on the side of the tub and closed his eyes.

Half an hour later, he stood behind a sun-warmed pane of glass and looked down on Brimstone Fortress's main courtyard. It usually swarmed with workers and sailors and marines, but the swarming had stilled. All attention was on two carriages harnessed to jet-black horses in the courtyard's center. "Admiral Rowe did not tell me he was coming," he snapped to himself, "least of all that his daughter'd be part of the baggage."

Beyond the east wall, the Caribbean had the gall to be a magnificent blue. Beckett thought mean thoughts at it. It only got bluer. Nothing in the world could thumb its nose at you better than the sea.

Below, the first carriage's door was opened by a white-wigged lackey. A large hand and a deep blue sleeve emerged and were followed by the rest of Admiral Rowe's formidable frame. The fifty-something widower was a lion-like man, his posture proud, his middle unsagging. His was a profile that could be put on a coin, noble, with far-seeing eyes and a firm mouth. He wore his heavily decorated uniform like he'd donned it at birth.

"This will get in the way of your plans for Sparrow," Mercer spoke up from a few feet behind Beckett.

"Do you think?" Beckett's voice dripped lofty sarcasm. "Oh, well," he murmured to himself, still gazing at the carriages, "Captain Charisma will keep them occupied with tours...I won't have to see them until supper."

Captain Charisma, better known as Captain Taylor, strode up and shook the Admiral's hand and flashed his famous smile. As the commander in charge of the fort, it would be Captain Taylor's job to entertain these unexpected guests. Lucky.

He and Admiral Rowe were exchanging friendly words, but Beckett's eyes were on the carriage. The wigged lackey lifted hand and the second passenger began to disembark. First came a slender, gloved hand and a neat lacy sleeve. Then came a white slipper, a filmy cream skirt, and a glorious head of brown curls.

Lady Rowe stepped down lightly, straightening her sleeves as she looked around her with a smile.

Beckett drew back from the window.

Please turn to page 14 of your Piratical Adventure Guide and read the second paragraph titled "Her Name is Lady Rowe: What Is Up With That?"

Yes, it's odd that Admiral Rowe's daughter isn't called 'Miss Rowe.' The title we've been using, 'Lady Rowe,' belongs to the wife of Admiral Rowe, not his daughter. This has caused rumors of a most distasteful sort to waddle around the local gossip. Your Character Guide was designed to keep rumors at a minimum (and also to reveal silly things about the characters like the fact that Beckett's middle name is probably Humphrey and that he likes five lumps of sugar in tiny cups of tea which is the equivalent of downing ten cups of coffee. And that Admiral Rowe once owned a parakeet named 'Parakeet.')

Just in case your Character guide doesn't make this clear: 'Lady Rowe' is a nickname for Miss Rowe among her friends. They call her Lady Rowe because calling her 'Miss' is like calling a thoroughbred racehorse 'Lumpy the Pony.' In public, her friends do refer to her as 'Miss,' but only when they have to. If you're still confused, I hope that further observation of the young woman will show you that she simply must be called 'lady' and not 'miss.'

While I was annoying you by using three paragraphs to explain something that could have been contained in one, Captain Taylor had kissed Lady Rowe's hand and given her his extra special smile.

Beckett's watching eyes narrowed.

"No, Tumamuma, I don't want bananas! Take that pygmy over there an' make sure th'pickles're safe in the rain barrel b'fore I take that precocious bit of fur off yer head!" a delirious Jack tried to roll onto his side, but his right wrist was cuffed to a bedpost. "The blame's being placed upon me poor person when I…" he trailed off into a groan.

Walters, one of Brimstone Fortress's main physicians, surveyed his patient with weary frustration. Sparrow had been going on like this for hours. The pirate was in a bad way and Walters had always had a physician's heart – he would help anyone suffering a bodily ailment. Sparrow's wrist had been especially atrocious. He wouldn't lose his arm, but it had been a close call.

Walters was trained to tend wounded sailors and soldiers, not flea-bitten scumbags destined for the gallows. Unfortunately, Culter Beckett had given the order and Walters was in no position to rebel. He had a cousin whose spice business depended on the East India Trading Company and Beckett's toady, Mercer, had made it clear that any rebellion on Walters's part would send his cousin into poverty faster than he could say "What's going on?"

So Walters dipped a cloth into a bowl of water and placed it on Jack Sparrow's forehead. The pirate shook it off. Walters put it back on.

"Aubergines n'auditory compl'cations…" Jack muttered. He didn't shake the cloth off again.

Walters smoothed his long apron and pushed up his spectacles. An awkward silence fell as he tried not to look around his airy infirmary. It was a long room with two rows of empty beds. High windows let the golden morning sunlight in. One patch of sunlight glared off the crimson arm of a soldier. Soldiers sat in each corner of the long room and two more flanked the door.

Walters had never had his infirmary under guard and from what he heard, this was unnecessary. The pirate was going to die; there was no reason to nurse him back to health! Walters pondered Beckett. Since the agent's arrival three months before, strange things had happened. People had become suspicious and utterly silent. He's the true infection in this place.

The infirmary door opened and the object of Walter's unhappy thoughts strode in. As always Cutler Beckett was impeccably dressed, this time in wine-red silk. Mercer followed him, dark as ever. As the two men approached, Walters braced himself with a deep breath and stood respectfully. Beckett motioned him to sit back down.

"How is he?" Beckett asked.

"He was extremely dehydrated," Walters said, "and if he had gone without water for a few more hours, his fever would be out of my reach. As it is, I don't know if he'll beat it."

Walters watched Beckett watch Jack. There was a very unwholesome gleam in Beckett's green-gold eyes as they traced the pirate's prone form. Walters noted several red spots on the agent's face. Clearly Beckett had run into a multitude of fleas.

Beckett scratched his elbow, lips tightening. "Can you give me an estimate of how long it will be before he's recovered?"

"He almost lost his arm and it will take him weeks to regain his strength. His fever could break at any time between now and the day after tomorrow...or the week after next. What sort of 'recovered' do you mean?"

"The kind of recovered where he'll stay awake," Beckett said coldly, lifting his eyes to Walters'.

"Two days...or two weeks." Walters was alarmed by the intensity of Beckett's gaze.

The agent blinked slowly, like a cat. "For your own good, you'd better make it two days."

Use the purple button, Luke! Oops - wrong movie... ;)