The books gifted to her by Captain Norrington ended up being a blessing in more ways than one. Yes, it was a relief to see that they were finally on good terms, and that she was at least somewhat sure now that she could talk to him without walking into any unknown bear traps set by his suspicious mind (a good thing, too, because her next course of action would've been to serenade him with that one Elvis song, and it would've never worked). But the books themselves offered her a way of getting out of the house without being doomed to wander and loiter under the scrutiny of every person who happened to pass by.

They still scrutinised, of course, but at least now she was much too absorbed in the words under her nose to notice them. It also meant she wasn't stuck with the dilemma of whether to return their stare with one arched eyebrow until they became embarrassed and looked away, or to suddenly pretend to find some aspect of the scenery very interesting until they removed their gaze of their own accord. The former solution was a fun little game to play if she was feeling combative, but it wouldn't win her any friends.

So, on a few mornings a week when Elizabeth was otherwise occupied with the convoluted minutiae that went into being one of Port Royal's leading ladies, she would slip out after breakfast – a packed lunch of her own making in hand, as well as Norrington's books. It was as close as she could get to the concept of simple pleasures, seeing as she sorely lacked the ability to go out and buy herself a mocha followed by a trip to a book shop, but it was much closer than she'd have been able to get without Norrington's help.

For that, she was grateful. She had much to be grateful for, of that she was fully aware – especially since the reality of her situation sank in, and she stopped feeling like she was wandering through a very strange, and alarmingly lucid dream. Luck had played a big factor in her circumstances. After all, she was not begging on the street, as she might've been stuck doing if none had found her. She hadn't been branded a pirate and hanged, as she might've been had Norrington found her. Her biggest worry was passing the hours and preparing, mentally, for Jack's arrival – and that was a rosy prospect when compared with fears of starvation or lack of shelter.

It wasn't so much that she doubted her ability to get by under duress, but it was nice not to have to. She'd certainly have no time to sit beneath palm trees by the sea reading books in that world – and it proved such a distraction that she didn't even notice Norrington's approach until his shadow fell over her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Byrne," he eyed her like he wasn't quite sure what he was up to.

Then again, that had long become his habit – and she was quickly growing used to it.

"Hello, Captain. Is it afternoon already? The books were more of a blessing than I could've guessed – I've been absorbed since morning," she said.

"I noticed," he said, his eyes flickering in the direction of where the Interceptor sat in the water a ways off.

"I'm not sitting right in the middle of another notoriously un-sound site, am I?" she asked, bemused by the admission.

"No – not at all, I…"

Then, though, he must've realised the implications of what's he'd said – like he'd been watching her, for he cleared his throat and continued.

"You've gotten through it remarkably quickly," he nodded to the copy of Meditations, now sitting amidst her many skirts.

Realising she was probably being rude, she made to rise but he stopped her with a gesture, considered her for a moment, and then slowly – reluctantly – lowered himself down to sit beside her. "Even for one who can read."

He made the joke watching her closely, like he was half-worried she wouldn't find it funny at all. But she did, not least because it surprised her, and she breathed a laugh.

"I'll probably read it a few times before I return it to you. Just to save me treating your house like a library I'm not actually banned from. I have to ask, though, am I robbing you of your lunch break again?"

"I seldom take it. Not to eat, in any case – I find it slows me down," he denied. "Although I see you brought yours with you."

"I won't be the idiot who tries to explain the importance of good nutrition to a military man," she snorted, glancing in the direction of the half of the sandwich she had not yet touched. "Did you like the one I made you? I didn't know if it was weird of me, but I wanted to do…something, and my resources are limited. Seemed to defeat the point if I was just having the Swanns do something in my name."

"It was confusing – the dish, not the gesture. That was unusual, perhaps, but the sentiment was appreciated all the same."

"It's quite clever actually," she replied. "The bread lets you eat without your hands ending up covered in food – so you can eat while you work. Or read, in my case. So I won't be returning your books with greasy little fingerprints all over them. A good on-the-go meal."

Although side-stepping the name – just in case the Earl of Sandwich was a good friend of the Swanns – felt a little awkward. As she explained it, though, an odd sort of change overcame Norrington's face, and then he cleared his throat and made a noise that was caught somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"That…makes more sense."

"Makes more sense than what?"

"It's no matter," he shook his head.

But Theo was like a dog with a bone by that point.

"Don't tell me you deconstructed it."

His lips thinned, and she had to remind herself that this was not the sort of man that she could joke around with like that. Groves, maybe, but not Norrington. Then, however, he surprised her by sighing and admitting drily.

"I'm unused to meals that are supposed to come with a set of instructions. A product of my time at sea, no doubt, where dining is altogether simpler."

Theo laughed, mostly because of his surprising willingness to talk nonsense with her.

"That's not true – I've seen the amount of lobster and crab served around here. That's an obstacle course disguised as a meal."

He smirked, bowing his head as he did so as if to hide his mirth. But it shone through in his words.

"Dangerous words, Miss Byrne. They'll see you uninvited from every dinner party in the port."

"Do me a favour and repeat the story, then. Loudly and for all to hear," Theo grinned, a twinkle in her eye.

Although with that said, she feared the topic was steering towards the less than fun time she'd had of it among Port Royal's best and brightest, so she picked up the half of the sandwich she had not yet touched.

"Here. My eyes were bigger than my stomach. Have it, or it'll go to waste."

"I could not rob you of yours."

"I'm not hungry – and considering how you thought the last one was supposed to be eaten, I'm amazed it wasn't taken as an act of Irish aggression."

He sighed, and then eyed it. "You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

Relenting – much to her surprise – he took up the sandwich from the cloth she'd wrapped it in, eyed it, and then took a bite. Theo picked up her book and opened it at the page she'd marked, pretending to read it more than actually eating it. Nobody liked to be creeped on while they ate.

"I'll admit, Miss Byrne, that I am glad I relented and gave it a second chance," he said after a few minutes.

She looked up with a little smile, finding a chunk of it gone as he considered the rest. When she next glanced to the Interceptor, she found a few of his men by the nearest rail, turning their gaze in their direction every now and then. Looking back to Norrington, she expected him to make an excuse to quickly leave, but instead he appeared unimpressed at worst, and then spoke again.

"What passage are you at?"

"What? Oh- erm," she picked the book up, suddenly feeling just the slightest bit nervous as she opened it.

So much had been made of her ability to read, it would be embarrassing now if she arsed up the words and proved herself to actually be illiterate, wouldn't it?

"If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment," she read.

At first he was silent, and she wondered if he was just busy eating, but when she next looked at him the sandwich was still in hand, and he was hesitating rather than chewing.

"Do you disagree?" she asked – although she didn't think he did.

"No," he admitted readily enough. "But it seems a poor consolation in your current circumstance."

"Not at all," she said, and then faltered.

Not because she didn't know what to say, but because there was a lot that she could say on that score. Her earlier thoughts on how lucky she'd been, on how much worse everything could be. And then there were the constant reminders she firmly gave herself over and over – that her wits had gotten her this far, not only in Port Royal, but in life. What point was there in not trusting them now? When she needed them most? As she dithered, he finished the sandwich, apparently content not to rush her.

"I've been lucky," she settled for. "The only distress that I'll find here is that which I'll unleash upon myself – if I decide to be all…fatalistic about everything. Speaking of, actually, there's another bit here. Accept the things to which fate binds you, but do so with all your heart."

There was a bit in the middle that she'd carefully omitted – and love the people with whom fate brings you to. The last thing she needed to do was read that out and have him think she was out here husband-hunting, of all things.

"It hasn't been a difficult thing to accept. Compared to the other, more likely scenarios that could've played out. Drowning, becoming shark food…washing up elsewhere."

"The latter is markedly less disastrous than the previous two."

"I washed up into the lap of kind folk," she snorted. "That's rare. I really beat the odds. I'll tell you what, though, I'll never take up gambling in my life – I think I've used up all my luck for life since coming here."

"I shan't argue with the logic if the end result is wise," he said drily. "But on that note, I must take my leave. And thank you once again for feeding me."

"You provide the food for thought," she brandished the book. "It's the least I can do."

He snorted as he stood and bowed his head in farewell – regarding her strangely, albeit with another one of those reluctant chuckles, when she saluted him in parting.


As James went about his duties for the rest of the day, Miss Byrne was never far from his mind. Even if he'd found her intolerable, he would have still gone to speak to her – for he saw no other course of action. If Miss Swann was right, and he was beginning to suspect her way of thinking was much more on the mark than his original line of thought, then Port Royal's newest resident, then he knew that Miss Byrne would only confide in him (as a role of authority here) if she saw that he truly was amicable. When he wished to be. Sometimes.

Admittedly, none could ever accuse him of being personable, but he was at least fair. He could be turned to in a matter such as this, to handle it with whatever delicacy was required. There were no delusions in his mind that they would become great friends, nor that she would more readily confide in him over Elizabeth thanks to something such as friendship, but she had to see that he was a trusted figure - one that would protect the good folk here. And it was looking more and more as if she was one of those good folk. Strange, perhaps, but good.

All of this was true, and all of it was sincere. It was just a somewhat surprising after-effect that he did not find her intolerable. Even as he'd been perfectly prepared to go to her and bite his tongue through all manner of inanities, solely in the name of building a rapport that would prove useful later. In fact, the more they spoke, the more he found himself strangely enjoying her company rather than merely tolerating it, or putting on a show of finding it entertaining.

Throughout the rest of the day, he attended to his work aboard the Interceptor, readying it for their next voyage – a short one, merely aimed at maintaining peace and safety on the surrounding waters rather than rooting out any ill-folk. As he did, though, he found himself repeatedly glancing in the direction where she sat beneath her tree, never once looking up from the book.

Towards the end of the day – when a warm, glowing afternoon was beginning to fade to a cool evening – he looked back to that same patch, deciding that if she was still there, then the gentlemanly thing to do would be presenting an offer to walk her back to the mansion, as a matter of safety…and found himself feeling oddly disappointed when she was no longer there. And that ran the risk of becoming rather dangerous indeed.


A/N: I feel like half of my A/Ns are me going "I don't know if I've mentioned this before", and then saying something I've mentioned ten times – buuuut, if you're into The Lord of the Rings, I have a Boromir/OC fic that's a fair few chapters in right now, and folk really seem to be liking it! It's called Here, Where Fire Grows - check it out if you want to read me write about yet another fictional dead lad who deserved better x