A/N: Oh god oh god. I'm sorry. It's so hard to write in high school now. So much work to do… x~x; I don't promise quick updates anymore… I'm really sorry again. Homework is like ninety percent of my life now. :/

Thank you to all my reviewers who help me continue through tough times: lenokiie, Countcresent, Lady Elizabeth Beckett, Juliette L'etoile, Coyote Soupus, and nosicaa.

Big special thanks to Countcresent and Lady Elizabeth Beckett for sticking with this story from the start. I really appreciate it. c:

Disclaimer: I don't own Pirates of the Caribbean. Neither do I own the lovely characters presented herein. Except maybe any OFCs.

Warnings: Nothing.

Chapter Nineteen

Secrets.

"Ca... Captain Turner, sir. We've reached the surface." The shark man lowered his hammerhead as a familiar figure passed by, the newly-"elected" captain running his fingers over the rail of his ship.

Captain Will Turner observed his wreck of a ship. It'd been through a lot, that was for sure, especially following the fight of Davy Jones.

His eyes narrowed as he inhaled, taking in the now-comforting scent of seawater. Turning to his right-hand man—Bootstrap Bill, his father, no other—he said quickly, "How long until we reach Port Royal?"

Bootstrap took out a spyglass, looking out towards the horizon. "Not much longer, Cap'n. Just a few more hours."

Will's brows rose. "Good," he exhaled. "I can't wait."

"So this is the Lord Beckett's 'secret' journal, you say."

The judge was skeptical. That was understandable. But Bloodwoode was patient, ever-so-patient, even if it meant dealing with this idiot of a wigged man who couldn't quite understand what he was insinuating.

"Yes," he said as patiently as he could. "As you can see on the first page, his seal is on it. And if you flip through the pages there are many… ah… descriptions of rather questionable dealings done."

"For example?" The judge rose his brows.

"For example," Bloodwoode began as he stood, hands crossed behind his back, pacing across the room. "Please flip to the halfway mark page, Your Honour."

The judge complied.

Names. Dates. Years. Notes.

"Notice, Your Honour, the names listed. How they are mysteriously similar to the list of men that died at sea under his command?"

"Well, perhaps the Lord Beckett is respecting his subordinates' deaths by writing them down…?"

Bloodwoode shook his head, sighing. "Your Honour. Please. Think for a moment, if you would. The notes by the names. They are reasons. Reasons why it would be advantageous for him to kill them. Can you not see? He caused their deaths. He is a murderer, Your Honour. And I have significant testimony to prove that he killed Governor Swann, as well."

The judge blinked, now leaning forward in his seat. Now he was intrigued. "Do tell, Duke."

Bloodwoode turned to the door, gesturing the guardsman to open it. They swung open, and in shuffled a British sailor of spindly stature.

The judge raised his head. "So, sailor…. What do you know about the death of Governor Swann…?"

Knock, knock.

Elizabeth raised her head, dropping her pen. She abruptly shoved her notebook under the covers, then dashed over to the door, swinging it open.

Beckett was standing there, of course. Who else?

"What is it?" she asked.

"Erm," said Beckett, clearing his throat. He held up a book. "It occurred to me that you've had My Lyfe Amonge the Pyrates for quite some time now, so I had the thought to bring this along."

Elizabeth blinked, holding her hand out and gently taking the book. "Um… thank you," she said hesitantly at first, and then looked it over.

Romeo and Juliet.

She rose her brows. "Really, Lord Beckett? I didn't think that you were into romance."

He sighed. "It's Shakespeare, Ms. Swann," he asserted. "I've read all of his books."

"Really?" she smirked. "Prove it."

"If you insist," he snorted. A different expression suddenly took his face, oddly devoid of the constant stress.

"Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes."

Beckett finished.

Elizabeth was impressed. "Well," she said. "Not bad, I suppose. Better than thinking about business ledgers all day, isn't it?"

He rolled his eyes. "Please, Ms. Swann. Let's not get into that, shall we?" Beckett turned his attention back to the book. "Now, I hope you do enjoy it. It's quite a tragedy."

"Seems like your kind of story," Elizabeth responded, putting her hands by her side. "A tragedy where love fails."

Beckett's brows rose. "Now that is where you are wrong, Ms. Swann. Their love did not fail. It simply got them killed."

She laughed. "Even better."

He smirked. Paused. Then spoke again. "Well, we will be having supper in a few moments, so please anticipate it."

She nodded, then inquired, "Do you… know when we will get there? To London, I mean."

He hesitated, then knead his fingers together behind his back in the usual familiar motion. "I presume a few more days, Ms. Swann. I'm afraid you'll have to tolerate my company for a bit longer."

She let out a smile. "I get by," she said smoothly. "It's not so bad."

Beckett blinked.

"…Right," he said, restraining a stammer. "I'll see you at supper, then."

Jack always strode through the alleyways alone as though someone was watching him, even when no one was there. He had a pronounced step that seemed to brag with every movement, even if not a single soul would take note of him. This did not deter him, however, because Jack Sparrow believed that no matter where one is, they must act as thought the world were watching them.

In this case, however, someone was watching him. Just one person. Not a world.

He whistled as he raised a bottle of rum, taking a brief swig from it. He had a characteristic sea-legged walk, with nigh inebriated sway in his rhythm. He was—

"Sparrow?"

Jack paused, then slowly turned on one heel, arms raised as if caught in the act of… something. He blinked, regarding the woman in front of him.

Maiara—or shall we say, Circe—smiled.

Jack immediately raised his brows, striding over. "Well, well, missy," he said smoothly, prepared to 'frolic' at sight. "What brings a pretty lil thing like you to ol' Jack Sparrow?"

She chuckled lightly, eyes narrowing a bit. Jack couldn't help but notice the sheer paleness of her skin… it was unnatural. Alien, almost, but not quite. It would almost be pretty if it weren't so ghastly, in a way.

Circe stepped closer, her hand sliding onto his chest. She circled around his shoulder. "Jack Sparrow," she murmured, then dropped her voice to a whisper. "The guardian of souls passed at sea would still like to collect his debt."

Sparrow's eyes widened. He inhaled sharply, then turned to Circe, almost shoving her off. "I have no idea what you are talking about," he said, wagging a finger at her as he leaned backwards to regard her in a different angle. "But I'm sure that you might find the man you're looking for ov—"

She snatched him by the wrist, then turned his hand over, pulling up his sleeve. The tattoo of the sparrow showed clearly against his flesh. Circe ran a nail over it, then cooed, "You cannot run away, Jack. This time it is someone you know."

He stared, squinting. "Someone I know? Well, I do know an awful lot of people…."

Circe glanced at him. "His name is William Turner, Sparrow. And you owe him your soul on the Dutchman."

"This is preposterous," Count Ingleby exclaimed as he put down the sheet of parchment onto the desk. "It's absolute nonsense."

"I'm afraid it's true," said the judge who had, earlier, been with the Duke Bloodwoode.

"But this is Cutler Beckett we are talking of, here, Your Honour. I beg to differ. How are we to persecute the Chairman of the East India Trading Company? That would be like persecuting the Company itself. We need the Company!" Ingleby objected.

"Ingleby!" the judge exclaimed, exasperated. "Are you insinuating that we should turn a blind eye to political atrocities in favour of England's finances? I'm sure that someone else will be there to step up and take the chairman's place."

Ingleby sighed, rubbing his forehead. He considered for a moment, then exhaled loudly. "So what you are saying is that we ought to… to capture Cutler Beckett. And hang him. Is this correct?"

"Yes," said the judge, nodded profusely. "That is exactly what we should do. He deserves to be hanged, no less."

"Where is he right now?" Ingleby inquired reluctantly.

"Why, he's going on a brief trip to London, so I hear," the judge responded, perking up. "Send word to Earl Paxton immediately."

Ingleby nodded, in no place to resist. He stood. "Yes, I'll organize that as soon as possible, Your Honour. It won't be long before we see Cutler Beckett hanging at the gallows."

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter, however brief. I hope it shows to you that I'm still alive, even though it is entirely my fault that this story updates rock bottom slow. Please read and review, if you care to anymore. Thank you everyone for your continued commitment.