Isabelle was detained at Cutler's side for the remainder of the evening. She often looked across the room to find James Norrington engaged in bland conversation. His eyes would wander to hers and for a brief moment they shared a commiserating feeling of captivity. As the evening came to a close Cutler escorted Isabelle into the moonlight and thrust her into the carriage before rapping the silver handle of his cane against the roof of the coach to signal that the footman could drive.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What do you mean 'well what'?" Cutler hissed. "You know very well what."

Isabelle glared at Cutler from across the coach, but she did not say a word. "Answer me Isabelle." Cutler's tone was low, dark and forbidding.

"I don't think it prudent to discuss this in the open road. Someone might overhear."

"I don't care who overhears." Cutler rolled his eyes as the coach bounced into a deep pothole and tossed them about the interior. "Won't these provincials ever learn to properly pave and maintain a street?"

"It's been a hard winter. Most of the men who would stoop to such labor have either left the island or been incarcerated."

"I believe, Isabelle, that you are accusing me for the decline of this hovel of a town."

"Nothing of the sort My Lord. I'm merely making an observation. That is the reason I'm in your employ, is it not?"

"Touche, Isabelle." Cutler grinned. "Very well, I can see you're in a smart mood tonight. I only hope that you consider your words carefully when we get back to the manor and your tone improves." Isabelle shuddered in spite of herself and gazed at the dark countryside that they passed by. What was she to tell Cutler? She'd caught a few tidbits of information that might be of use to him, but she'd otherwise done her damndest to ignore everyone. The effort she'd put into the evening had left her physically and mentally exhausted and her entire body felt as an open wound…the very air made her soul prickle. She was quite exposed to the thoughts racing through Cutler's mind, and through Mr. Mercer's mind; he was up with the driver. Isabelle chanced a glance at Cutler and saw that he was staring intently at her. "You know what I'm thinking, don't you Isabelle?" She shook her head but he was not convinced. "You think you can lie to me, but you can't. Your eyes reveal much. You're afraid, you're as afraid as a hare caught between a snare and a rabid dog. You know every small thing I'm going to do to you if you don't give me what I want…can't you?"

Slowly, imperceptibly, Isabelle nodded.

"I can't hear your head rattle in the darkness Isabelle, answer me."

"Yes." She blurted out. She saw the menacing brand glow red in her mind's eye and she stared at a distant star.

"Tell me."

"The brand; you'd use it on me."

"Of course, I wouldn't dream of marking your arm or any place as visible as that. It wouldn't be right." She saw an expanse of skin in her mind, a shoulder blade, a thigh, a calf…. the curve of a woman's hip. "Perhaps all of them? We'll be able to count your lies in the years to come."

"You wouldn't dare." Isabelle flared. "You can't."

"I can and I will. Do you forget? My father bought you from that pit of an asylum. You work for me now, not my father, and I can do with you what I like." Isabelle clenched her jaw and sat in stony silence as the coach rattled to a stop outside the house. Mr. Mercer leapt from the drivers' box and opened the door for her and Cutler to exit. Cutler grasped her arm and escorted her into the library where he flung her into a chair roughly. He towered over her as Mr. Mercer strolled through the shadows. "Now, Isabelle. It's time you begin divulging all the lovely little secrets that you've got locked up in that beautiful little head of yours."

"Where to begin?"

"The beginning I should think." Cutler smiled as Mr. Mercer approached with a snifter of brandy.

"Everyone thought I was horridly dressed. If your aim was to embarrass me it succeeded."

"Very good."

"The people still hate the company. They do not like what this town has become since its arrival."

"That's too bad. They'll change their minds though…or move on."

"Yes, that's what many of them are planning." Isabelle continued. "Many of them are unhappy with the appointment of Mr. Norringotn to the position of Admiral. They think he shamed himself in his handling of the Black Pearl, Captain Sparrow, and the hurricane of Tripoli."

"That's not my concern."

"They think he's a rum pot and a rogue. He'll have little respect in Port Royal."

"Again, not my concern. He'll mostly be out and about commanding the flag ships, won't he?"

"The governor isn't happy either. He's disappointed that he has been made a puppet of the company and a drunk like James Norrington should be elevated to Admiral." Isabelle hated voicing the opinions of the townspeople. They knew the old James Norrington, the one that had run away to Tortuga to drown himself in countless bottles of rum. They remembered the man who had prefer to flee them after losing many of the best sailors England had to offer to a hurricane in a foolish pursuit of a pirate; a pirate that had escaped his clutches twice and a hurricane that a first year lieutenant would have avoided. But Isabelle had come to know James Norrington. He had hardly touched rum since returning to Port Royal. She thought back to the previous summer when he had come by one afternoon. She had offered him rum or brandy and he had declined, instead asking for tea or lemon water.

"Isabelle?" Isabelle withdrew from her memory of the pleasant summer afternoon and looked up at Cutler. "What else?"

"Someone wished that you were dead." She abruptly stated. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she continued. "They want you dead Cutler."

"Who was it?" He hissed. Mr. Mercer came out of the shadows and stood just beyond the circle of firelight, listening intently, prepared to go out and apprehend the man who would assassinate his employer.

"I don't know, he closed his thoughts to me before I could find out who it was. The room was quite full."

"Someone threatens to assassinate me and you don't know who it was?"

"I'm not perfect Cutler." The back of his hand swung down and caught her across the mouth with lightening speed. She tried not to whimper but a pitiful moan escaped her.

"Leave now Isabelle before I do more harm to you." Cutler finally ground out. His breathing was hard and his voice was strained. "We will continue this discussion tomorrow."

Isabelle practically ran from the room. Her mouth was bleeding, she knew that much. She went directly to her vanity and saw where a small line of blood oozed from the corner of her mouth. The damage was not great, but it was painful. She pushed at her teeth with her tongue to ensure none had been knocked loose and then sat down to look at herself. The dark circles beneath her eyes were more pronounced than ever and she wondered if she'd ever be the care free beauty she'd been in India.

She closed her eyes and thought to the place she considered her home. She remembered the big open house she'd shared with Lord Beckett and his son in her early days and how happy she'd been learning the names of every brightly colored bird and flower in the gardens. She had been ecstatic when Kapil had taught her to use her gift and to block the consciousnesses of others from her mind. She'd been able to live a normal life, to have a child hood. And all Lord Beckett had ever asked of her was to sit in on a few meetings as an equal, perhaps hidden, and to listen to what the men had to say. She had a head for business and knew what was good, what was acceptable and what was not. But Cutler was not like his father. He was concerned with his own vision of what was good business and what was acceptable. No profit lost. That was what was acceptable to him. To hell with anyone who stood in his way. In Isabelle he saw a way to blackmail those who stood against him. She could root out the terrible dark secrets of his enemies—his competitors—the way a pig rooted out truffles, or a dog sought out a bone. He only understood her gift in the basest form and could not fathom the price she paid for each secret she was able to scrounge from the minds of the men of Port Royal. She rested her head against her arms on the vanity and let the tears come. Why had the floods come so soon after the droughts and why had the fever come? Why had Lord Beckett been carried off so suddenly, leaving everything in his possession to Cutler? Why had Cutler ignored the request of his father to care for Isabelle in the best possible way? She knew in her heart of hearts that Cutler's father never would have suffered her being struck or kept a spinster for Cutler's personal gain. She sobbed all the harder and eventually cried herself to sleep. It was here, seated at her mirror, that her maid found her the next morning.

At breakfast, Cutler commented on the dark circles beneath Isabelle's eyes, but she dismissed his comments as being part of her exhaustion from the night before.

"The ball was tiring and I did not sleep well last night."

"Dear Isabelle, then you should not be up and about! I can not have my favorite sister, and most esteemed colleague taking an ague and being bedridden throughout the beginning of the season. I need you. Go back to your room and sleep the rest of the day."

Cutler's forgiveness was a ruse and Isabelle knew it. He wanted her to feel lulled into a sense of comfort and security. She wasn't fooled. She had come to a conclusion the previous evening; she had to stand up to Cutler, use her head, and beat him at his own game. She wouldn't be able to beat him physically, but she could use her mind against him and find a way out of the dreadful situation she found herself in. She lay back in her bed and let a cool breeze lull her into a comfortable sleep.

When she awoke, the smell of rain was heavy on the air and she could see that the pale blue sky had changed to a steadily darkening gray. The light curtains at her windows billowed like sails into the room and she sighed as the dampness permeated everything in the room. A bead of sweat slid down the side of her face and she wondered if she wasn't catching an ill vapor. Then it struck her that she was lying in bed fully clothed and it was merely the humidity of the day that was causing her discomfort. She undressed herself and washed quickly with a sponge and the basin of water the maid had left. By the time she felt refreshed, a light rain had soaked everything outside and turned everything beyond her world into a soggy, miserable expanse of dense jungle and mud.

Dinner was quiet and lit only by the large candelabra that sat in the middle of the mahogany table. The sky outside had turned the color of charcoal and the rain had intensified with the setting of the invisible sun. Cutler escorted Isabelle back into the library and sat her in a chair beside the fire. He wanted to pick up right where she'd left off.

"I do hope your nap has left you refreshed that we might continue our discussion of yester eve."

"As you wish."

"I do." Cutler said with a grin. "Tell me, are there any business dealings going on that I should know about?"

"Several actually." Isabelle was hoping he'd forget about the assassination attempt, but knew it would come up sooner or later. She instead outlined in great detail the business dealings that were happening that would most concern Cutler. She told him of the black market traders who would meet the ships of disgruntled captains far to sea to unload goods and take them to free ports. The captains would sail in with half cargoes to be taxed and sold in the Company ports. She told him of the plans to smuggle goods out in crates marked other than what they contained so that they'd be taxed differently, and she told him about the plan of merchants to blockade the port until Cutler lowered the tariffs. "They're hoping you'll buckle under the pressure."

"They don't know me well, do they?"

"Hardly. Their blockade will do the exact opposite of what they truly desire. You'll merely raise taxes to pay for an army, shell their ships until they either sail away or are sunk, and use them as an example to show how large, powerful and strong the company is."

"You read my mind." Cutler's grin was like a snarl.

"It isn't hard to figure out, it's only good business to eliminate those that would stand in your way."

"Indeed, now, tell me who it is that wants me dead?"

"Who doesn't?" Isabelle said shortly. "You've made many enemies and few friends here my Lord."

"That's not helpful."

"I'm sorry I can't be of more use on the front of your assassination. I'm afraid it's difficult to find such information in a room of two hundred people."

"I think you're lying to me."

"Why on earth would I lie to you? What good does your death do me?" Cutler towered over her, just as he had done the night before. She stared up defiantly at him.

He had nothing to say to her immediately. Cutler had to admit, she had a point. If he died, he would be replaced as Lord executor of the East India Trading Company's Caribbean branch. Not by her, but by some Englishman sent from the continent. Possibly even Percival Reynolds, the second son of a second son. He was little threat to Cutler at the moment, but the boy had shown promise in school and had risen through the ranks and now operated within the company as a trade agent. They'd no doubt lay a title upon him and send him to the Caribbean. But what would become of Isabelle? She'd be nothing—an adopted daughter to a dead lord and a spinster. She'd be cast out of the house and have to find her own home. No one would marry her. What would she have to offer?

"Percival Reynolds as your replacement? You really think they'd give him a title?" Cutler turned cold eyes to her and backed away. He faced the fire and watched as the flames danced upon the log. "Regardless, you're right about me. I'm sure they'd give me a small pension on which to live, but otherwise, I'd be forgotten…a faceless memory and the subject of much ball gossip: 'Whatever happened to Isabelle Beckett?' 'Why, I heard she purchased a house in Surrey and stays locked up. Hardly ventures from the house these days.' 'Oh no, I heard she lives in France now.' 'My dears you are so far behind! Isabelle Beckett lies cold and dead in a potters field in Dorchester. Hadn't you heard?'" Isabelle saw the corners of Cutler's mouth twitch. Perhaps she'd diffused his anger by mocking herself.

"What do you think I should do Isabelle?" Cutler turned and she saw that his face was like a marble statue. There was no longer any emotion on his face or in his eyes. She could smell a slight fear clinging to him and she now realized his own mortality frightened him. "Shall I be like the woman you'd become if I were to die? Should I remain shuttered up here?"

"I can't answer that."

"What can you answer!?!?!?" He roared at her. He grasped her arm in a tight grasp and pulled her from the chair. Thunder rumbled in the distance and wind shook the doors that lead out to the walkway. Isabelle wondered what was worse: the storm within, or the storm without. "You did this on purpose. You were at that ball for hours! You could have figured him out!" He flung Isabelle to the carpet and stared down at her as she looked back at him. The fire was to his back and he was outlined by the dancing orange flames. Lightening split the sky outside and cast an eerie blue green light across Cutler's already glacial features. The effect was startling; it made him look insane, like a devil. Cutler did not stop. "Instead you went about with that fool Norrington. Oh yes, I saw the two of you staring at one another. I've seen that look on men's faces before. I've seen it in their eyes when they come to court you, but I soon dissuade them. You're not to leave my side Isabelle." Isabelle stared up at him in shock. Someone had come to court her? But she did not dwell on that thought long. She rose to her feet and stood against him.

"You have no right to do that!"

"Don't tell me what I can and can not do!" He raged. Spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted at her and in Isabelle's mind she saw the fire behind him roar with a life of its own and come towards her, licking at her; waiting to do Cutler's bidding. She took a tentative step back. "Perhaps it is Norrington…perhaps he wishes to take over the shipping and to have you for himself, is that it? Do you pretend to love him Isabelle? Do you think you're infatuated with him?" Another lightening bolt whipped through the sky and the rain pushed against the windows in waves before the room was plunged back into darkness, the only light coming from the fireplace. "Are you plotting my demise Isabelle? Do you think you'll gain freedom that way?" Isabelle wouldn't stand for it anymore, she had to explain. If only she could make Cutler understand…..

"Cutler I—" In the darkness that had enveloped the room Isabelle never saw Cutler swing at her. The back of his hand caught her across the face and she felt skin tear and blood begin to flow, the metallic taste thick on her lip. She opened her eyes and found herself in a heap upon the floor and wondered how she had gotten there. Cutler's boots rang loud and she quickly rolled onto her hip to see his approach. She felt like a wounded animal; hesitant to turn her back to her enemy lest they take advantage of her. Cutler grasped her arm and hauled her to her feet.

"What have I told you about that, hmm?" She turned her face away from him and closed her eyes, wishing the world would go away, or that the maelstrom outside would crash inward and carry her away. "Look at me!" When she did not immediately react, he grasped her jaw roughly in his hand and forced her to look at him. "Your familiarity is loathsome. That someone as low born as you should be able to even think my name is unflattering. My father was a fool to bring you to our home." He pushed her away from him and she crumpled to the floor and into one of the heavy wooden tables covered in books. The table toppled beneath her and the books skittered across the carpet. She lay for a moment amongst the battered table legs and scattered books as she tried to catch her breath. In a flash of lightening she looked down and saw blood dripping onto the back of her hand and onto the open pages of the book beneath her fingers. She tried to take a deep breath, but could barely breathe, the air having been knocked from her when Cutler had thrown her into the table. In a secondary flash of lightening she saw the large doors that lead out to the walkway that led out into the gardens.

The Gardens? I can lose him there.

Isabelle turned to look over her shoulder and saw Cutler wiping his hand on his kerchief. He must have gotten blood on his fingers when he had touched her face. When he was done he went to the side board and poured himself a snifter of brandy. Slowly, he turned back to see where she was cowering in the debris of their fight.

"I told you once Isabelle, that if you turned against me, I'd do such harm to you as you would never imagine. Did you not think I would do it?" He drank deeply of the brandy and laughed. "I suppose you didn't. Perhaps you're not as gifted as father thought you were. Was everything you did for him an act? Are you an incredible actress to have been pulling the wool over our eyes for so long?" He was coming closer. She saw the brand in her mind again and knew that he was thinking of using it on her. Her mind raced and she looked again to the book beneath her fingertips. It was dappled with the blood that was dripping from her nose and suddenly she had an idea of what to do. Grasping the book she flung it at him with all her might and leapt to her feet. She heard Cutler curse as the book hit him in the chest and he sloshed the brandy against his fine white waist coat. She did not turn to look but ran for the glass doors and flung them open to the storm. She felt Cutler coming after her and with one sideward glance back she saw him stagger at the force of the wind coming through the doors. She did not let it stop her and rushed into the wind and rain and the storm that raged outside, which was far milder than the one that was raging within Cutler Beckett.