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To Cicely's utter amazement she had woken up. Long shadows were being cast through the small window that was adjacent the cot in which Aubrey had offered for her use. He had left her hastily which, Cicely reflected, was probably just as well. She couldn't have stood a drawn out conversation and, as he had closed the door, explaining he would rest in his office that night and that he would send refreshment presently, she had crumpled under the weight of fatigue, grief and emotion next to the now-relieved screen of armoury, she noticed.

Everything Cicely had been through, all that she had done, had risked, had lived through, had loved, for Stephen, about Stephen, with Stephen…now stripped away, gone, final. Bang. As if she had been running as fast as possibly could have and hit an immovable object.

Now, as the light faded, she was lying here in Aubrey's room, where she had once been kept while he and Stephen had decided what to do with her. She had had little choice in the matter regardless of her will. Last time, she was to become a wife. This time, she was a widow. Would she be allowed her autonomy now?

Cicely looked around. She felt a gnawing in her stomach that she recognised as hunger but knew, vaguely, that if she offered sustenance she would only waste the effort gone to in its preparation. She could happily down some grog now, its comforting warmth would soothe her, she knew. Or the laudanum she had left with James Fillings – perhaps its bitter texture that gave a heady relaxation would have enveloped her in its soporific silkiness?

She got down from the spacious cot-hammock and rubbed her eyes. Having shed the confines of her army uniform Cicely stood on the planks as barely audible sounds from the deck emanated to her ears in her uniform-shirt and long under-breeches, acknowledging the freedom that the absence of stifling outer clothing had given to her as she had wept. Locating the uniform which was lying in a stiff cotton pile near Aubrey's cot, where she had left it, Cicely dressed in it again before lighting the oil lamps in the cabin which were now badly needed.

And now…? What happened now?

She looked around her. The room, an oblong was set out much as she remembered. Little in the way of possessions, only those which were of utility on the ship were around to see and at hand – Captain Aubrey's sextant, nautical books, theoretical trigonometric books which gave instruction on calculating set of sail from base and height of the sheets; glass, mariner's quadrant for triangulation and chronometer. She remembered Sophie Aubrey mentioning something of the like to her when she resided at Litten Hall, that anyone would think that Jack and the sea were one, the single-mindedness he paid it when carrying out his duties though her tone and candour were anything but put out by the fact.

And yet the room did seem contain some personal possessions: in the opposite corner below Nelson's portrait, books and papers, a pile of what seemed like rags and unmistakably a glass enlarger. Stephen's glass enlarger. So many times she had seen him use it making as he did his meticulous notes. Drowning her urge to investigate further Cicely's hand was stayed by an overriding feeling of propriety – they were Stephen's belongings. He would need them, he would want them. He wasn't gone, not really, not in her heart. She had no business with them.

Lost in a series of connective thought, beginning as her last thoughts had begun, in that abhorrent French prison, she relived again the events within, of Harris, of the soldiers bent on torture, of Fouche and his dealings. Of his deal. She had been mistaken on the part of Matthew Harris's death – had she been wrong about Fouche? Or should she continue to believe that Stephen was alive and that when she dealt with the Lord Admiral's assassin he would be hers again?

As she contemplated the array of possibilities an abrupt loud knock reverberated on the door and, before Cicely had time to issue a reply the door opened, banging into the writing bureau which was to the right of the door. Preserved Killick cursed under his breath, or so he thought as the door bounced back towards him. He kicked it again and held his foot against it whilst shrugging his way in.

The ship's cook and co-ordinator of all things prandial scanned the room, went to put the tray of 'scouse and jar of beer onto Captain Aubrey's bureau, lowered it, raised it, cursed at his error, looked around again before deciding that the horizontal screen resting on the two stools would be a far better choice. Under his other arm was a bundle of clothing which he allowed to fall to the planks as he lowered the food tray down. This comedic entrance struck Cicely and, despite herself, stifled down a chuckle.

"'ere, Miss," said Killick, gesturing unnecessarily towards the repast – it was quite obvious what it was and who it was for. "Yer supper."

"Thank you, sir," Cicely replied absently. Under her previous incarnation as Robert Young Preserved Killick was not a man with whom she had seen eye to eye – he had fallen foul of Captain Aubrey over the affair of stolen food which Nagel and Pizzy had devised and had had it in for her (or Young, rather) until her identity had been revealed. Cicely, as Young, had taken to calling Killick "sir" so as to allay the brunt of the man's grumpiness and, when it was finally revealed she was "she" this had made Preserved Killick even more bad-tempered and cantankerous, though not directly to her but, in his manner, to Aubrey and Stephen. Today, however, his irritability was directed square at her.

""Sir?" Ye address me as "sir"? Yer hoyden, ye! Here, yer supper, Miss," he added, throwing his hand towards the food again before looking at her up and down, as if disapproving of her attire. "And these are fer ye. The captain says that the thread is in the second drawer." His waving arm arced towards the bureau. Cicely, standing opposite the screen, walked slowly around, pausing before the bureau before looking on the floor to the fabric which Killick had dropped. She stooped before it, then took it in her hand. When she realised what it was she felt a flash of shame, then anger.

"The captain wishes to avail ye of any embroidery skills ye may have," continued Killick, clearly savouring her outrage. "Yer hands can hand and reef, but can yer sew?"

"I can!" retorted Cicely hotly, her face flushing red. "Sew, embroider, repair, turn up, decorate…"

"Then ye should find no difficulty in mendin' the hole there, on the shoulder seam, and the tear by the pocket. Look, 'e don't want ye here," Killick pressed on, determined for Cicely not to reply before he had had his say. "Do yer wonder why 'e give yer to 'is Mrs the last time? Only one type of woman resides adecks – " he gestured towards the main deck where, Cicely knew, merriment and frivolity would certainly be brewing, if it were not already. "And unless ye' are a-earnin' and yearnin with the hands," Killick turned the corners of his lips into a sneer, "then ye' shouldn't be 'ere."

"He shames me, sir," Cicely replied when she could, though the fire in her stomach had somewhat been doused. "I've mizzened for the captain; I've fought…"

"Aye, miss, yer have. But not ye'. That wretch of a Young young'n. Ye' are a woman now, and a married one," he added, " and the captain sails to battle tomorrow and needs his best coat repairin', and though I could do it fer him, I've food ter do fer the men." Cicely looked at the jacket again. The gold of the captain's stripe on both shoulders gleamed in the lamplight and she noticed that the right shoulder's epaulette was a little loose. She could stitch it right, and do the other repairs too.

"Eat ye' food, miss," concluded Killick as he turned to leave. "Ye' wouldn't've had nowt, 'cept the captain said he hadn't the stomach for it and suggested you would want it." Looking at the now-cooler lobscouse Cicely now felt more inclined to eat it now. She smiled at Killick, who narrowed his eyes doubtfully.

"And ye' should make a start on the stitchin'" he added, before stalking off, closing the door heavily behind him. She would do it, damn his eyes, Cicely thought as she looked towards the wake of Killick. And what a job she would make of it too.

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Will had grown, about six inches taller, but he was still the same rascally-featured boy she knew. Cicely, having stomached the food that Killick had brought for her, had repaired the epaulette and shoulder seam on Aubrey's uniform before, quite by surprise, and after a lot of shuffling and banging about, Blakeney climbed out from behind a wall panel and she was reminded of height and impishness that she had noticed almost twelve hours before as she stood on the quayside.

Outside the noise adecks had filtered through to Aubrey's cabin. Music, singing and dancing had begun; rum and grog would have certainly made an appearance by now. The men would be carousing, singing, telling stories, and later, as Killick inelegantly pointed out, women would come aboard (she did not include herself in the definition) making them forget about the horrors that they would face on the morrow, a night before a day that many might not come back from – oh to be Robert Young again! A part of Cicely wanted to burst forth from Aubrey's cabin and join them, to sing, carouse and recline.

Cicely should have guessed it was Blakeney – it had been he who had shown her the secret and though she had used the method herself two days ago to gain access to the office of Captain Hardy aboard the Victory, it was still unnerving.

"Cicely!" His voice was far lower than it had been, when they had parted company and she had left the Surprise, but Blakeney's keenness and enthusiasm was still very much in evidence. He smoothed down his clothing hastily and hurried over, hugging Cicely as if his life depended on it.

"Will, you shouldn't be here – you should be in the gun room partaking in the company of Captain Aubrey!"

"All done! I am off duty and can spend it with whoever I please!" Cicely knew Will would not have been shirking either duty or social responsibility (the two facets he knew conducive to both the practicalities of seamanship and professionalism). Then, for the next ten or fifteen minutes the two friends, sitting beside one another on the planks of the cabin with their backs to the wall from which Blakeney had just emerged, so different in background, rank and position, the pair reinforced their friendship by empathising, sympathising, generally discussing the past.

Cicely did not reveal much of her ordeal to Blakeney, only that she had had to leave England due to unfortunate circumstances and, through an extraordinary journey was come, via the army, to see Stephen. In turn, Will told her of his promotion and how, quite rightly, he was proud of his advancement, his fears that he was doing his job correctly and his hopes for captaincy once his six years were served.

"Are you staying here, in the Captain's cabin? For Hardy is in the doctor's, you see, and you can't very well stay there."

"Yes," replied Cicely plainly and frowned a little as Will had picked up her repairwork, a little embarrassed at such feminine a task that she was undertaking before her (previous) superior. Blakeney looked at her handiwork absently as he continued. "Perhaps after tomorrow's battle Dr. Hardy will return to the Victory, and the doctor, our doctor…your doctor…will be back."

He looked at Cicely solemnly, as if to convey proper meaning by in his glance rather than through his clumsy phrasing. "But of course, you don't know! Dr. Maturin and Dr. Hardy traded places! Dr. Hardy should be on the flagship, the Victory, and Dr. Maturin should be here." He put down the captain's tunic and Cicely felt her heart sink as Blakeney added, "I wonder when he will return."

So that was the plan then, Cicely surmised, her heart sinking. And that was the reason William Beatty was doctoring for the Victory's crew. Not Stephen. Her thoughts almost escaped her mouth but she clamped her lips closed with force until the urge waned. Jack had said that only he and Harris, and Cicely of course, knew about Stephen's passing. Cicely was determined that she was not going to be the one to enlighten William Blakeney and then emburden him with dark grief in one stroke.

"This is delightful embroidery, Cicely," he commented, handing her back Jack's clothing. "You seem to know as much about sewing as I do about the sea."

"I trust you know more in your discipline, Will," Cicely replied darkly. "And it is stitchwork, rather than embroidery. The latter is for genteel ladies to make pretty things in silks in their helio-rooms of an afternoon." She tried not to scoff; she knew Will Blakeney's mother was such a woman; he had had her handiwork, a prayer, above his hammock when last Cicely had seen it.

"This stitch here is a repair stitch for the shoulder seam; you see I've married it with the rest of the original line?" She held it out for Will to see and he nodded patiently. "I've another repair to do on the pocket, a darn. Some of the fabric has been torn through so with the thread I need to join this side – " she pointed, " – to this one without making a bunch of the rest of the fabric. Like a bridge out of the thread, a darn. Good darners won't show their edges, but I'm not such a good darner." Cicely moved the jacket around to the epaulette which was being half-held to the shoulder.

"If I use a neat blanket stitch, like the one which is already around this stripe, then it'll not fall off tomorrow." Will leaned in for a closer look.

"Perhaps I'll ask for blanket stitch on my arm if I'm ever in need of repair," Blakeney laughed. "I can ask Dr. Maturin to make the pattern! Won't that be a joyful day, when he returns," Will added, looking at Cicely, expecting his optimistic hope to be evident with her too. Cicely said nothing, but nodded, hoping that the boy would interpret her choked emotions favourably.

"Here, I have something for you." Out of his breast pocket Will pulled out a small book. "It's not much, intrinsically I mean," he added, describing its naivety. "Dr. Maturin gave it to me when I first took an interest in naturalism. He made it as a boy, a young man, in Ireland and in Spain." Without waiting for Cicely to reply Will held out the inch-thick journal, its covers dog-eared and spine barely holding the pages within together. "I have no use of it now, Cicely, I have my own notebook. I want you to have it, Cicely, and give it back to the doctor when you see him again."

"I can't – " she began, then sagged, replaying his conversation in her mind. He wasn't giving the book to her as a gift merely as an agent back to its original owner. She closed her hand around it and nodded. "Of course," Cicely corrected herself, hoping her expression was more convivial. "Stephen shall have it back."

After Will's outbreak of mirth following Cicely's use of Maturin's first name – "he has a first name, of course, but it seems odd you using it," Blakeney had chuckled – the discussion turned to the present, and the immediate future.

"He is to keep you here until time we depart, I expect," Will proffered his opinion sagely, "locked in here as you are." I am? thought Cicely. So I'm here for my safety, Captain Aubrey, she thought bitterly. Rather, as your inconvenience.

"Will, I am returning to the flagship," Cicely announced, taking in the stunned expression on her face. And, in order to qualify her statement she availed Will of her time aboard the Victory, and the possibility of an assassin aboard, of which (she lied) she had heard about through her time in the army. She had devised it as she had sewed, thinking of the possibilities and consequences. If she defeated this assassin, as she had planned, then perhaps Aubrey, and Harris too, would be proved wrong. It was a mere spark of a spark of hope, but it was hope nonetheless. "I have a plan," she summarised, her voice a little lighter than once it had been. "And I'm going to need your help. I need clothes, Will. I will depart the Surprise and go back to the Victory." Will turned to her, open mouthed in stunned awe.

"You're not serious, Cicely, you were joking about assassination, and all those other stupid things, weren't you? I mean, an assassination of the Lord Admiral?"

What stupid things do you mean, darling Will? Cicely cursed herself in anger as she flayed herself for her own asinine decisions. Stupid things like running away from home, like looking for Edward, her brother, like falling in love with Stephen, like marrying him?

"I am sure of this, Will," she qualified, though even to herself Cicely sounded insincere.

"You need to be off the ship, we go to battle tomorrow," Will emphasised urgently, his eyes shimmering, "a big one! We have over two-dozen ships of the line." When Cicely said nothing, barring looking at him solemnly the ship's Lieutenant Blakeney sagged. "What sort of clothes would you like?"

Cicely's mind turned over what would be suitable. What sort she would like would be something akin to the dress she had been given to wear for a short time by the French master spy Fouche.

"You know, what the mizzens wear…wide breeches…the shirt I have on will be fine, but these breeches are far too tight for climbing…stay, ties for the knees. Oh, and a cutlass. You've been in charge of the armoury this afternoon, haven't you?" Before Will had a chance to protest Cicely continued, "and I need you to bring Matthew Harris here, so I can speak to him." Just as Cicely expected Blakeney to protest again, he smiled.

"Can I ask you something in return? A promise?" Cicely nodded, after a pause.

"Promise that you'll depart the Victory once you get the assassin? Please?" he added piteously. Cicely sighed.

"I can't promise that," she replied, "there are so many things which could stop me from leaving." Especially with what I have in mind she added, but silently to herself. "But what I can promise is that I'll try; I won't stay if I can help it. That do you?" With a grin Will nodded and without another word he leapt to his feet, bounding towards the panel through which he had made his dramatic and surprising entrance. Bumping and banging through the space between the ceiling and the deck floor above, she heard his path.

She waited, wondering what Jack Aubrey would be thinking if he were in his office at the present time as she mulled over the future. She had an idea, one she needed to pursue, to end an uncertainty. Whatever, the weight of grief that was surely to follow, that had not swept like a torrent over her yet, had to be abated and she knew a challenge when she saw one and knew it would keep her mind occupied enough not to break down again until she was gone from the Surprise.

Half an hour later and the eight bells of the first watch, midnight, brought with it a door which, once the latch had been flicked open, was flung hastily against the bureau.

"…made such rare Flip…"

A full carousal of song soared through the door first and Cicely recognised it to be "Meg of Wapping" in fully unharmonised form. Behind the now far more professional-entering Blakeney, Matthew Harris stood, his round face beaming when he saw her.

"…pull away me hearties…"

"Matthew!" Cicely exclaimed and she grinned back, the thoughts over which she had been mulling these last thirty minutes assembling themselves as soldiers before their sergeant major in her mind. Blakeney strode in, his demeanour more hierarchical now and he held himself a little aloof in the presence of Harris, who closely followed him, closing the door behind him quickly.

On the pattern of the upturned screen Blakeney heaped a small pile of clothes which looked like they had been appropriated from the stores by their quality, naval issue and functional.

"Cicely," breathed Matthew, "I'm really so sorry to have to have been the one to tell you, he began and Cicely had the presence of mind to cut in quickly – after all, if he were about to talk about Stephen, her beloved, then Will Blakeney was still innocent to the fact.

" – that you're alive!" She hoped that her interruption was enough to prompt Harris not to elaborate further. "Look, Matthew, I need to ask you something, something important."

Blakeney stood near the bureau, glancing at the captain's papers upon, the roll book, pursers accounts and the like, trying to make it seem that he wasn't paying much attention.

"The Acheron, well, the Charlotte," she continued.

"The Acheron," corrected Matthew grimly. "Never ;'twas the Charlotte. Never got to Pompey, did she?"

"And you're sure about that? The ship did sink then, as you said?" Harris shot her a look, one which said – this is mockery, a jest, a jape.

"Yes, that's right," Blakeney chipped in. "On our way back from Yport, where we collected Harris here, we also repatriated Captain Pullings."

"Aye," agreed Harris, folding his arms in apparent triumph at her ludicrous talk.

"And the Captain mentioned to me that he was pleased to be availed of such a conundrum; the Acheron was to have been renamed the Charlotte," Blakeney continued solemnly. "Tom, Captain Pullings I mean, looked like a different man – "

"Who wouldn't 'ave, the shock 'e'd been through…first Captaincy, all that ill fortune." Cicely shot him a look; the mention of luck aboard a ship rankled with her.

"Thank you, Matthew," she continued, then fell unusually silent. Both men knew Cicely well enough to know what that meant.

"Whatever you mean to do Mrs Maturin, it won't be anything…you won't do anything stupid, will you?" he asked patiently.

"You mean like fighting Sergeant Major Harker, and all the other stupid things I've done?" She watched the cannon rake Harris's sides as what she had said sank in – he widened his eyes in both shock and awe.

"You never – "

"I survived," she laughed, and to herself added, if I can live after fighting with the giant of a man who fights dirty like that Irishman I can certainly allay the assassin. She had long decided that she would not be killing the Frenchman, for the information Harris had provided to her had been more insightful than either he or Blakeney could imagine.

"Good luck then," Harris wished her. Blakeney nodded officer-like and both of them quickly left. Just as she went to survey what Will Blakeney had brought for her the door was flung open again and the lieutenant threw his arms around her neck.

"Bye, Cicely. Don't get killed tomorrow."

"Nor you, either, Llieutenant Blakeney," she added and kissed him on the cheek.

Moments later Cicely was back to Jack's tunic and the frayed epaulette on the shoulder. Would there be an extra stripe there the next day, making him post-captain? Cicely doubted it – he had been dishonoured the day before for something indetermined. Darkness filled her mind again and she fought against it. Tomorrow. Just think of tomorrow she urged herself and fixed her mind on her former pair, James Fillings.

Why was James Fllings aboard Victory as a deckhand? He told me Pullings's ship had docked at Portsmouth? And why did he say he had had a pleasant and uneventful service on the Acheron? She had left out the detail about James and his offering to carry out her burdensome task in her stead when she had told Jack Aubrey about her life since he had last seen her, though not on purpose. Taking up the needle Cicely dug into the navy blue fabric.

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Through the gap between the boards that was the Captain's office and the mizzendeck and, having concealed himself prior to its occupation, an eavesdropper, literally so if he were to move where he shouldn't sought to remain silently hidden. Though he should be sleeping now, this being the second half of the middle watch, Lieutenant William Blakeney, who really should know, for his age and station, far better, had in fact had his ear pressed to the wood.

The conversation below seemed to be between Aubrey and himself, although it was being spoken aloud and as if someone else was there. He was speaking, Will recalled, as if he was speaking to Stephen Maturin, when they were post-dinner and relaxing in each others' company.

Will shuffled backwards a little – his growth over the last few months had made being pressed between the ceiling and floor and he screwed up his eyes as he cringed at the creaking that his body was making as someone above was walking directly above his back.

There was a pause, but presently, the conversation was taken up again. This dual-sided monologue was one which Blakeney was used from the Captain. Since Vlissingen Blakeney had listened in. Rather than being nefarious Blakeney found comfort in hearing Aubrey discuss issues, problems, personal matters with Dr. Maturin, later with Dr. Hardy and most recently with himself.

He should really have grown out of such things – he was nearly fifteen and far too large for such a space. But he had witnessed so much life of the ship, where decisions were being conceived; problems discussed and secrets shared. And besides, it was a comfort to him when he was feeling low.

By this means he had heard about Cicely's fate, that she was missing in England, and had worried about her in absentia; he had heard Stephen announce when he was to leave the ship and was to be replaced by Hardy and was understandably saddened to lose his guide through the wonders of the natural world; when the captain had discussed (with himself) the most suitable prize for the competition he had set when they were docked in Holland. When he was a captain, Blakeney thought, he would make sure he was slightly more careful with the information he divulged.

"...but she can't stay here…and she can't return to the flagship…"

Cicely again. Will had three sisters who lived in Bathclere with his parents, none of whom he knew for he had been at sea before the first had been born and he had long imagined what having a sibling would be like. Not dissimilar to how he felt about Mrs Maturin, he had concluded happily.

"…she must depart…leave Spain, dammit…go to England…go to her uncle – yes, that's the ticket…"

Cicely to leave? Of course she must. She could fight nonetheless, Blakeney knew that better than most – she had said as much that evening. But were he to be in the captain's position, knowing what he knew, having orders to follow.

"…she can put dear Stephen behind her…" Will Blakeney's ears pricked up sharply, "…I did tell you, my dead doctor, that you shouldn't have married her…but you did…and the better for both of you I do believe…

"…dear Stephen…I always said that spying would be the end of you…"

What…?

Had he really heard what he thought he had heard?

Will pressed his ear closer to the oak; it blazed under the pressure of his head as he challenged himself not to breathe for missing Jack Aubrey's words.

"…a toast…" A bang of presumably the rum bottle. Will imagined the captain with his feet on the desk, supping his spirit, perhaps even toasting the Queen Anne chair. An un-lieutenant-like tear welled in an eye, shortly followed by several more.