-The Madwoman in the Mirror-

It's too hot for corsets, I decide. I snap open my fan with smoothness born of years of practice. Shifting restlessly in the chair that I'm forced to sit upon, I fan dear Gracie who's asleep on my lap, her poor face flushed and hot.

Despite the sweltering heat, my dear husband thought it would be a good idea for us to dress up and play happy families in the midday sun.

"May we retire to the cabin, James dear? I fear little Grace is fatigued by our visit above deck." I say in a sickeningly sweet voice, as James rushes past. I ignore the strange looks from the little horde of followers that James always has, carrying maps and telescopes and such. He nods distractedly, barely noticing my insincere tone.

A faint smile pulls at my face as I lift my girl over my shoulder and carry her, brushing away the well-meaning helping hands. Once inside I toss my bonnet to the floor, wild with irrational fury. I place Gracie gently on the bed, my curls tumbling out of their pins. I'm about to turn away, when her eyelids flutter and a small warm hand clutches at my skirts.

"Daddy?" she murmurs sleepily and all I can see is those big brown eyes that so definitely aren't James's

"Daddy's not here, darling," I whisper, taking her hand in my hand. And there's more truth in that statement than she could ever possibly imagine.

I sit down on the bed, the whalebone in my corset cutting into my stomach. Gracie's eyes slowly close and I sigh with relief. I'm not the best of mothers and I wouldn't have a clue what to do if she had a temper tantrum.

The corset is still cutting into me and that sharp stabbing pain is reminding me of how impossibly angry I am.

In one reckless movement, I wrench the pins out of my hair. Golden brown wisps of hair come away with my fist. The tearing pain in my scalp informs me that I'm pulling out more hair than pins, but I don't care. I'm breathing so harshly that I can't tell whether I'm sobbing or not. I catch sight of a wild-eyed woman, with her hair in disarray in my looking glass and I stop and breathe.

Now I resemble Elizabeth Swann when I look into that looking glass. That strange proper woman has disappeared. Thank God. To my surprise, a sob bursts out of me.

Sometimes I worry that the freedom will go, as my husband so wishes. The fire in my eyes will go out, the spirit within me will be quenched. My heart will stop yearning for that life on the sea.

Tears drip off the end of my nose. I've never been able to cry gracefully. Hell, I rarely do anything graceful, except if it involves a sword. A red blotchy face peers mournfully at me through the looking glass. She looks like the saddest person I've ever seen.

Sinking onto the bed, I stretch up and reach for the bell, soon enough my maid comes in.

"Undress me," I sigh, lifting my arms and withdrawing behind my screen. She undoes my stays in silence. She's a pretty little thing whose name I can't quite remember.

"I'm sorry," I end up saying, "I can't seem to recall your name."

"I'm Carlie, miss," she sighs with that polite yet exasperated air of someone who has told you their name many times and probably will have to tell you again tomorrow.

"Thank you, Carlie," I smile as she slips the evening gown over my head.

The simple fact that she's given me the evening gown and not my nightdress makes me want to be sick. Dear James must have requested I come to dinner for once instead of pleading illness again. That sneaky Carlie finishes putting on my new dress, blue silk with a plain white trim and guides me to the chair.

She brushes my hair out and I wince as the ivory-handled brush goes over the tender place on my scalp. The tender place where about fifteen minutes ago I was wrenching my hair out like a madwoman.

When I finally sweep into the dining area, my husband and all the distinguished guests are halfway through their first glasses of wine and waiting upon my presence impatiently. I breeze up to James in a cloud of expensive perfume that he hates and brush a soft kiss on his tired cheek.

The faint stubble scratches against my lips and for a small moment I am overcome by a sense of something I've never felt with regard to him. He looks tired and his dark green eyes flutter shut as he leans his forehead against mine. His eyelashes brush softly over my skin and something stirs inside me.

"I'm ever so sorry," he whispers

"It'll be okay," I answer numbly, feeling entirely out of place. I'd never seen James so vulnerable and considering he was normally a rock in my life it was strange and rther unsettling for him to be so unsteady.

He pulls me into a warm hug and I snuggle into him, something I haven't done in years. I almost loved him once and sometimes I hated him and now I wasn't sure.

"Dinner is served,"

James pulls away from me and gestures to the chair beside him. I smile and for what is probably the first time in my entire marriage, I feel content to be beside my husband, although dinner as usual is tedious.

Not far from the Endeavour, a dark smudge appears on the horizon. Unseen by the partying folk on board the King's vessel, the dark ship approaches quickly.

James puts down his fork with a sigh. I glance with a raised eyebrow at the plate of food that he had simply poked at and shot him a disapproving look. The men are about to retire to the Captain's quarters for brandy and cigars. But sudden shouts above halt all progress.

James stands suddenly, knocking his plate to the floor with a resounding crash. Bits of chicken and potato fly everywhere, splattering my dress. I barely notice. I don't even hear the room fall silent, don't see the scandalised looks of the people on my right. My gaze is fixed in horror on the real fear in my husband's eyes.

Somebody clatters down the stairs. A young boy of only eighteen or so fixes panic-stricken eyes on the crowd of dressed up people and looks almost ready to faint. Everyone stands in silence for a moment before I am surprised to hear my own voice explode into the tense silence.

"What's going on?"

James looks at me, me splattered with potato and chicken with colour rising in my cheeks, and seems to gather himself.

"Nobody panic," he announces as if he'd always been calm and in control. "Wilkins report!" he barks at the boy as conversation begins to buzz in the room around us.

"Ship approaches without flying any colours."

"Pirates" James mutters as the boy keeps going on increasingly hysterical tones.

"Geordie said that too but I'm not entirely sure and other men have mentioned that it might be the Heart-Thief and of course that is rubbish, but, well I'malittletinybitscared…Sir." The boy stops blabbering when he sees the confusion on our faces.

"Never mind," replies James but I can almost see his thoughts moving double speed under that fine white wig. "Heart-Thief,"

The significance of this catches James and I in the same sudden moment and our eyes meet across the table.

"Will," I say, while not meaning to have said anything at all.

"Elizabeth, cabin, now," he says briskly. "Wilkins will escort you."

Then he breezes off as if I had nothing to worry about. But everyone knows what happens to women who meet the Captain of the Heart Thief.

They die.

And that's not the worst of it.