A/N: I am hoping you all enjoy the new characters I'm bringing in! I know it can be hard to welcome strange characters when you're used to two men constantly arguing and nobody else distracting you. Don't worry, though, plenty of quality Beckett and Jack time is in the future! Jack's just a little out of it at the moment.

Thank you to LostWitch5, kweenofmagic, Starling Rising, Jennifer Lynn Weston, JaxLass, TavyBeckettFan, and Panzergal for you reviews!

((for Panzergal: ACK you are so sweet! Thank you very much for your incredible support!))

Disclaimer: Cruella de Ville and Ursula just had an argument. I really didn't need to see that. I don't own POTC!

Chapter 12

Noon!

...Had already gone by, thank all the minor gods nobody knows about! Otherwise, this day would stretch forever. Phew, let's stop wasting time thinking about how noon is gone, and how 'noon' is a palindrome, which means it looks the written forwards and backwards.

Rachel stepped out of tilting shadows and examined her hands. Ink stains made them look diseased. They always did when she'd just finished lessons with Reverend Tuppins.

Reverend Tuppins, (secretly known among the children as 'Tuppy') lived in Brimstone's built-in chapel. His job consisted of giving sermons, hearing last confessions, and reassuring sailors returning from bizarre lands that Christianity still reigned over witch doctors' potions and angry crones' curses. On top of all this, he taught morning and afternoon classes on reading and writing and mathematics. He felt all people should be educated, so Rachel got to attend lessons every day.

She knew learning was a privilege, but today her gratitude had deserted her. It was hard to focus on conjugations when the Rowes were loose in the fortress, Jack Sparrow was in the infirmary, and Beckett and Mercer were planning something insidious.

Now that Rachel was free, though, she wasn't sure what to do. The sun was starting to set and she knew she should check on her father, Henry Hanley, and his cat, Sir Furry. Because Henry's kitchen had been closed up, he hadn't anything to do.

But she'd thought about Jack Sparrow at least once every half hour...all right, every five minutes...no, every two minutes-

All right, she'd thought about him the entire morning.

Brimstone's main courtyard stretched before her, cobblestones dotted with horse droppings and straw. A wing of marines was practicing marching, yelled at by a commander with a parched throat. Workmen strode back and forth, shoulders hunched under the summer sun.

Rachel lifted her eyes and gasped. On the west battlements stood Captain Taylor with the Rowes, the Admiral so tall, so proud, and his daughter slender and reed-straight, her elegant skirts blowing lazily. She made a flickering gesture with her hand and Captain Taylor laughed. Rachel sighed longingly.

She knew Jack Sparrow was under guard. She had to get into the infirmary at least, and see if they were slowly bleeding him or something else rotten. Perhaps she could fake an injury. Or she could make a delivery of...of what? Bandages? She had never made bandages and the infirmary staff would be suspicious of a random girl walking in with bandages that looked like ripped up bed sheets, because bed sheets were Rachel would use.

She could talk to Reverend Tuppy. He was the closest thing she had to a friend. But...no. He was an adult on the payroll of the British Navy. Double badness.

Rachel decided to walk and think at the same time. All that happened was she dithered over the same problems over and over again (and almost stepped in a historically large horse pile). Nothing was definite enough. The risks were too great, or she had no clear method of carrying out her ideas.

She concluded her pacing with the decision that she was a coward. Then she dithered about that. She was almost wringing her hands as she slipped into an alleyway between the Fortress wall and the forge. She was so busy berating her lack of courage, it took her a full minute to realize there was a dark smudge in her peripheral vision whenever she turned her head. One glance revealed an unmistakable figure in black and gray.

Mercer.

A second, confused glance showed they were alone, their only company blue shadows, the call of a seagull, and the dim clang of a ferrier's hammer. Now she was breathing faster and realizing just how long this little alleyway was. It went behind the ferrier's and the stables, stretching about eighty yards before her.

Another glance back. Mercer had closed the gap to less than twenty yards, and there was no mistaking he was coming for her. Adrenaline whooshed through her from behind and before she realized it, she'd picked up her plain brown skirts and was lunging into a full-out sprint.

It felt wonderful for a moment to actually act, but she heard two heavy steps behind her and then she was being spun into the wall by a hand on her elbow. The back of her head smacked the stonework of the fortress wall and a dull, aching clang echoed through her skull. She blinked stars away and found herself pinned by her arms. The hands that locked her in place were cruelly tight.

Mercer's face was like folded stone. She couldn't picture him as a boy – had he been born this way? Wrinkles crisscrossed firm skin...or were they scars? He looked like a man who had walked into Hell for a meeting with the Devil, and then walked back out. He could kill her without blinking. Rachel couldn't breathe.

"I'm only going t'a say this once," he snapped. "What you saw this morning did not happen. You will take no action concerning what you saw. You will tell no one. You will not write about it in any sort of diary. You, Miss Hanley, and your father are loose ends. You cause one bit of trouble," his face came so close that his terrible eyes filled her world, "and I will not hesitate to snip you both away." He yanked her forward then slammed her into the wall. "Understand?"

Rachel nodded wildly, tears closing up her throat and burning in her eyes. Mercer released her and stalked away, wiping his hands.

Rachel's knees gave out and she slid into a huddle on the ground, hyperventilating and sobbing at the same time. In all her eighteen years she had never been so terrified. What had she and her father gotten themselves into?

She didn't know how long she huddled there, but soon her heart slowed down and she took a deep, shaky breath. And then to her alarm, she blew a snot bubble out of one nostril. Seconds later she had used her handkerchief and was feeling a bit less revolting. Her head ached. She felt the back of her skull and realized her hair was coming down and the entire area was sensitive to touch.

Bully. He's such a bully!

"Miss Hanley?"

Footsteps on the dirt made her look up quickly. Her eyes widened.

A grandly uniformed Lawrence stretched incredibly high above her for a moment. Then he removed his tricornered hat, bent his athletic legs, and folded himself down to her size. She watched his face, warmed by the wrinkle of concern between his dark eyebrows. "Can I help you?"

"I don't think so," she said, wishing her eyes weren't so puffy. "No. But thank you."

His eyelids lowered slightly over his gray eyes, revealing annoyance with her brush-off. "At least let me take you to your father. You live above the stables, yes?"

She nodded.

"Very well, then." He held out one hand. It was a lean hand with sculpted tendons and bones under tan skin. Calluses rimmed his palm. Rachel surreptitiously wiped her damp hand on her dusty skirt and then laid her hand in his. His fingers curled softly around, barely there. But then he stood and when he helped her up, his fingers tightened into a firm grip.

Rachel swayed back against the wall, taking back her hand. Lawrence frowned at her. "What happened to you?"

She watched him smash his hat back onto his dark hair and said, "I had a bad day."

"Hmm." Lawrence's reply was half growl.

Rachel wanted to growl herself. At least one good thing has come of this: I know what to do.

Beckett could handle devils. But the Rowes...they were a different matter. Sitting in the same room with them was a cowing experience. Even worse was being trapped at a candlelit table dripping with silver and glass, with little spots of food squashed into the leftover space.

Beckett reached for his wineglass. Damn, it was getting low again.

Lady Rowe had flawless posture and every move she made oozed refinement. Dressed in a silver satin gown that left her shoulders bare, a single strand of diamonds glittering with her sapphire eyes, she was the closest thing to an angel Beckett had ever seen.

This sentiment, he reflected, was cliché. Very cliché. Even worse was the fact that fondness he should have been applying to the price of those stunning diamonds was fastening itself instead to the woman who wore them. This was happening because, his mind told him, Lady Rowe was not unlike a diamond herself. A gleaming, flashing, pure-

So very cliché. Beckett took a deep gulp of his wine.

"And when we finally arrived, no one was expecting us, least of all Admiral Pearson. Caught him in the act of smuggling a fortune in slaves onto a ship headed back to Africa." Captain 'Charisma' Taylor shook his head with a wicked smile. "Ruined his day."

"I'm sure," Lady Rowe murmured around a smile.

'Ruined his day,' Beckett echoed snidely in his mind. The Rowes, Charisma, Beckett, and Captain Hemmings, master of the Extremely Formidable, were the only people around a table that easily could have fit twenty. Beckett was glad for the distance.

"I heard about Pearson," Admiral Rowe said. His voice was deep and slightly weathered by days of breathing salty air. "What a disgrace to the slave trade."

Charisma nodded, looking nobly regretful. "He faced court martial, though. And how is your own share in the trade faring, sir?"

"Excellently," Rowe said. "The development in America has exploded and they can't get enough slaves. I've never seen such demand."

Charisma raised a glass. "To the trade of the century."

"The trade of the century," Rowe agreed, following suit. Beckett, Captain Hemmings, and Lady Rowe also lifted their glasses before drinking.

The wine was bitter on Beckett's tongue. He hated being a peripheral admirer, left to copy those who with true prestige. Someday, he thought, people would echo his toasts and inquire about his business.

"Speaking of mischief in the slave trade," Lady Rowe said suddenly, "we've heard that you have an offender locked up in this very fortress."

"Jack Sparrow?" Charisma said. "Yes, he's here. But his fate is in the hands of the East India Trading Company."

All attention turned to Beckett. Suddenly, he had a terrible itch on the sole of his foot. Another flared on his derriere. Rage closed his throat. He squirmed minutely. Heads were going to roll!

If we could please stop the snickering in the peanut gallery. Thank you.

"And how does the Trading Company handle such usurpers of procedure?" Lady Rowe asked Beckett, eyes gleaming.

"By disregarding the law on the high seas, Sparrow labeled himself a pirate," Beckett said. "He has been branded accordingly. I await orders as to his final fate."

"He was branded?" Lady Rowe said, porcelain face unreadable.

Admiral Rowe snorted. "Treated no better than a slave himself."

Lady Rowe's soft lips curled into a smile. "My thoughts exactly, Father." She took a sip of her wine. "Marvelous."

Beckett studied her for the fifth time that evening. The slow smile she had flashed had had a dangerous cast. My thoughts exactly. A phrase that could indicate any emotion from glee to dismay. And what did Marvelous belong to - the EITC's methods or the wine?

"And how does one draw a connection between releasing slaves and piracy?" Lady Rowe asked him.

One can't. The brand was meant to ruin Sparrow's life and had been a result of terrible anger. "It's a common punishment," Beckett lied. And then took another sip of wine.

"He deserved it anyway," Charisma cut in. "Shall we retire to the parlor?"

They shall-ed, standing and moving away from the table. Charisma was ready to escort Lady Rowe, but she hung back, turning toward Beckett. Charisma shot Beckett a black look as Beckett moved to the woman's side.

While this little soap-opera drama lingers, please turn to page 5 of your Piratical Adventure Guide and read the second paragraph.

Miss 'Lady' Elissa Rowe had a proper coming-out at age sixteen but she disappeared shortly afterward, voyaging with her father and finally living in India for three years. Disappearing like that was unforgivable. Aghast mothers and sons had abounded, for she had been quite an eligible package, attractive, too. But everyone forgave her upon her return (which was reputedly forced by her father when he came home for two days and realized she was getting old) because she had brought a doubled fortune. Now, barely twenty, she was again one of the most eligible women on the market. If eBay had existed back then, it would have been overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of voters. The servers would start on fire and then no one would be able to find chunks of movie stars' hair and little piggy banks painted like turtles-

That's far enough.

Lady Rowe and Beckett met as the others exited the room. Beckett held up one arm, and with a soft wave of lilac scent, Lady Rowe slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

"You look quite dashing," she said as they slowly walked forward. "Being away from Society agrees with you."

Beckett's mouth was cotton-dry. "I do find it refreshing, Miss Rowe. Do you?"

"Very much so," she agreed. "Cutler," the use of his Christian name made him stiffen,"have you noticed the increasingly brutal face the Trading Company is giving itself?"

He'd expected something like an invitation to meet her somewhere later. "Business is brutal, Miss Rowe."

"Just so. You are a shrewd man, Cutler. They're lucky to have you."

Beckett wondered if he'd ever be able to think productively again.

The day was dying. Jack Sparrow seemed to by following suit. Walters, physician, worried that death would be his own punishment if Jack lost this fight with a fever. The pirate couldn't keep liquids down, his lips were cracking, and his skin was dry and rough. He was being burned alive from the inside and there was nothing Walters could do but keep trying to give him water and moistening his skin with a cloth.

Jack groaned and feebly tried to push off his blankets. He had stopped shouting, crying, and laughing his way through his hallucinations hours ago. The guards seemed relieved, talking to each other in low voices while Walters, in a haze of weariness, pulled the pirate's dreadlocks away from his neck before they could strangle him.

It was going to be a long night.

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