The Best-Laid Plans

by etsfanfics

Pre-DMC courtship of Elizabeth and Will. After Will and Elizabeth free Jack from the gallows, the couple battles with class differences, political intrigue and an entire smithy of swords, as they set out together to explore the expanding boundaries of their relationship and build their dreams for a shared future of new adventures.

3. Unfair

For the second day in a row, Elizabeth stepped out of bed well-rested and with her mind trilling in anticipation. She had informed her father the afternoon prior of her intentions regarding her visit to Spanish Town, then spent the evening packing her things with the assistance of Estrella and Miss Roane. As such, there was very little to be done besides getting dressed and supervising the preparations of the coach. In hardly any time at all she found herself overlooking the mansion's courtyard, appearing quite the perfect companion to the sky's towering fluffy clouds in her pale blue robe a l'anglaise, clutching a matching parasol in her hands.

Though her father had been wrapped up in his work and had said little to her since their quarrel, he made sure to meet her as the coach was drawn up and her luggage loaded. His smiles were polite, as were hers. But Elizabeth found herself unable to find the words for the things she wished to say to him, smiling was all she did.

When it came time for her and Estrella to be loaded into the carriage, her father stepped in for the footman to personally assist her steps. As he shut the carriage door behind her, her father lingered at its window with a thoughtful expression. Elizabeth looked back at him expectantly, and eventually he met her eyes as he touched the carriage door.

"I know things have been somewhat difficult lately. I don't want to pretend that I'm not partially at fault for it," he spoke quietly.

"Nor I," Elizabeth confessed, happy for the opportunity to leave on slightly better terms. "I had only wanted to wait a little before saying as much, for each of us to have time to think."

He smiled at her for a moment before the thoughtful expression returned, and he moved his hand over her fingers almost gingerly. "I will say I do intend to hire new staff, to help ease your burdens and accommodate for recent changes. But…"

Elizabeth blinked. What was this? New staff? More changes? He was actually intending to accommodate her shifting desires?

"Well," he sighed and smiled once more in something that seemed a bit more akin to a wince, "perhaps we might talk a bit about it upon your return?"

"Of course," Elizabeth responded.

She laid her other hand atop her father's, sandwiching his fingers in between her palms. The feeling and sight suddenly reminded her of a game they used to play when she was much younger, often on longer carriage rides not unlike the one she was about to take. She and her father would stack their hands in such a manner, taking turns vying for the top position of the stack and attempting to pin the other's fingers down. They'd write and rewrite rules concerning permissible maneuvers and what counted as a "pin," before things devolved into a silly, pointless, frantic game of speed. Then he'd wrap an arm about her little shoulders and squeeze her to his side, affectionately.

Elizabeth found herself suddenly moved by the nostalgia. How strange and unexpected to remember such a thing right now…

Her father took her sudden falling into silence as the end of what she wished to say, so he gave her hand a gentle squeeze to say goodbye.

"Have a safe trip, my dove."

"Thank you, Father," Elizabeth replied quietly. But remembering her musings from the day before, she was not satisfied with thanking him for his well-wishes alone. And when he went to slip his hand out from between hers, she held it more tightly in place for a moment, drawing his attention as she emphasized one more time, "Thank you."

His eyes softened and creased with emotion as he regarded her, smiling an honest smile for the first time that day. Then he reached out and placed his other hand atop hers, finishing the stack.

All would be well, eventually.

---

While the carriage had left the governor's estate, Elizabeth was not quite ready to leave Port Royal without one last, little stop. So it was that within a scant number of minutes, she was already stepping out of the coach and once again marching up to the door to Brown's smithy. This time she found Will bent over his work bench, filing away at something she could not see. Mister Brown was nowhere in sight.

When Will heard the door open, he turned his head to glimpse at his visitor. Then after a small moment of turning back to clean up his bench, he did a double take as if he hadn't believed what he'd seen, and scrambled to his feet, knocking his rasp off the table and catching his apron on his stool in the process.

Elizabeth grinned at the spectacle at first, amused by his clumsiness that seemed to be induced by awestruck delight at her appearance. But as Will approached her, she was able to get a better look at the lines that had somehow become deeper on his face, and her smile began to slip away. Once he stood beside her on the landing, it was clear there was something slightly off in his eyes. It was enough that he didn't seem so concerned with soot today—while he was careful to keep a distance from her dress, he cupped her face in both his hands, sighing the shape of her name as he drew her lips to his in a slow and tender kiss. There they lingered together for a moment, content to tease each other with each sweet and careful touch of their mouths, until they eventually parted slightly, quietly.

"Are you alright?" Elizabeth asked, stroking his face with feather-like brushes of her fingers. "How can you be so tired again after yesterday? You seemed so lively after our outing."

Will pulled half a smile and shrug. "Late night. Early start. Lots of work."

He dipped his face towards hers again. She turned her head and placed a firm hand on his chest, forcing his kiss to miss her mouth and prompting him to remove his hands from her and take a step back. As much as she enjoyed the more amorous mood this version of her almost-fiancé was in, the weariness evident in him unsettled her. She studied him more carefully, his expression somewhat confused as she did so. Perhaps it was the angle where they stood or the unusual amount of ash on his cheeks, but it seemed to her that the skin about his eyes were darker today, his shoulders strangely drawn up.

"I know you meant to finish all the work ahead of you this weekend, Will, but I do wish you would take some time for yourself to rest," she tutted at him. "You look exhausted."

"I'll be fine," Will said in dismissal, taking her hand from his chest and lifting it to his lips to brush her knuckles to his lips. When she shot him a suspicious look instead of a placated or amorous one, he raised his eyebrows insistently, "I shall be."

She wanted to say he was lying. But she knew the reality was that Will wouldn't say it if he didn't believe it—the question was more whether or not he was overestimating himself. But her carriage was still waiting for her outside, and she really did intend for her visit to be brief, so she resisted argument.

"Alright…" Elizabeth conceded, reluctantly. "But if I return and find you any more drawn, I'll have your hide."

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied in a voice colored with the hints of a chuckle. Then confusion bloomed on his face in full as his eyes latched onto something over her shoulder. "What's this?"

Elizabeth turned, following his gaze to where Estrella had appeared, once again in an increasingly familiar pose of bearing a carefully laden basket.

As Estrella picked her way down the tall landing to lay the basket on the workbench, Elizabeth grinned, facing Will again and announcing with some pride, "Another 'shower' to remember me by."

Will's eyes were stunned for a moment, then flickered between gratitude and something akin to remorse. "Elizabeth…"

She stopped him before he could make any attempt at rejecting the gift, etiquette be damned. "If you insist on working yourself to the bone, I want you to be well while doing so. I may not be able to prevent you from going without proper sleep just yet, but you will have proper food, so help me."

Little movements in his mouth gave away his mental search for a reply, before he settled with simply closing his lips and shaking his head, smiling. She won, and she smiled back at him, satisfied by her triumph.

"You may kiss me again to help even the score."

This time Will cocked one eyebrow, making a little show of being taken aback by her audacity. But the act was marred by the twinkling humor in his eye, as he reached for her once more and joined her smile to his. Elizabeth could feel the wisps of her laughter rebound off his skin, and the curving of his grin against her upper lip. He smelt like the earth, made up of salty sweat, tangy iron, red coals and nutty linseed oils; the combination was strangely alluring. She searched his shoulders with her fingers until they found their way under the neck strap of his apron, pulling him just a little closer to her, although not closing the distance between their bodies. He answered by cupping her face once again, and slanting his mouth to deepen their kiss, now drawing her lower lip more fully in the embrace of his… but then he stopped just short of proceeding any further. Instead, Elizabeth found herself sighing as he parted from her once again, giving the tip of her nose a tiny playful bump with his own.

"Thank you."

She wanted more, wanted to forget the trip and stay with Will instead, wanted to see where this touch could take them and whether she could lure him to another instance of sleeping in her arms. The intensity of her shifted mood almost took her unawares. A tempting image wormed its way into her mind of inviting herself into the home he shared with Mister Brown, climbing into bed with him, settling into an embrace surrounded by softer, sweeter darkness in place of curious eyes... But she had made plans, some of which she was genuinely looking forward to. And she would not allow herself to be so rude as to make her hosts wait on her without warning. So Elizabeth satisfied herself for the moment with a final brush of her mouth against his cheek on its path to his ear, taunting, "Once you're freed from your backlog, I shall anticipate a thorough bathing in your affections as a return for my generosity."

Something shifted in Will's breathing, and he drew his face back just enough to be able to meet her gaze, his reply a warm tickle upon her skin, "I'm starting to get the impression your taste for tormenting me hasn't abated at all in adulthood."

"No, I am finding that there may be all sorts of delicious games I might play with you now," she rejoined with a wicked grin. "And you do know better than practically anyone my appetites for play. After all… you've always been my favorite playmate."

He gave her a look she'd never seen before, one that left her stomach all aflutter with a fresh sort of excitement.

"Pardon me, Miss Swann," Estrella's voice cut in, seeming to have climbed back up the landing and to have remembered her scruples, "but we ought to leave soon if we're to arrive on time."

Elizabeth's gaze felt so tangled up in Will's, the thought of releasing him was almost a labor. She gave into one last temptation and placed a final peck on his mouth, followed by stepping out of his reach and towards the door, stealing his chance to respond in kind.

"Don't forget me while I'm gone," she called over her shoulder.

"Don't make me laugh," came Will's attempt at a verbal riposte.

"I do as I like!" she shot back with an intentionally exaggerated accent of upper class haughtiness. Then as she hiked up her skirts roughly to step out onto the street, she shouted her final farewell, "And get some sleep, by god!"

---

Will waved and watched Elizabeth's carriage pull away until it was well down the street and out of sight. Once again he found himself comparing her presence to the chaos and beauty of a passing storm. For the second day in a row, she had caught him quite off guard and disrupted his plans, sweeping aside his work with the gusts of her desires, if only for a moment. Now that she was gone, the quiet behind her left him feeling simultaneously hotly invigorated and coldly wanting.

He wished she could have stayed in his arms a little longer, but…

Reluctantly, he turned back to the smithy's open door, and felt the weight of his work bearing back down upon him. Apparently, Mister Brown had taken Will's slightly prolonged dinner break the day before as a sign that he also deserved a longer break. However, unlike Will, he hadn't come back after his extra hour or so. In fact, he hadn't returned at all last night, signaling he'd made his first return to the ale house in many weeks. Exhausted after hours of work, Will had promised himself to go after his master come morning. But when the man hadn't turned up in his usual spots, Will had given up and returned to put his nose to the grindstone alone. He was sure he'd turn up again, eventually, sick as a dog and half as useful.

Just like not-that-old times.

Before he could step back into the building, taps and crunches announced the footsteps of a new visitor. Will turned to meet a grizzled but familiar face, his unlit pipe tucked behind his ear.

"Ah, Hezekiah. Afternoon!" Will offered a polite smile, gesturing for the old man to follow him into the smithy. "More nails?"

"Mm," he heard Hezekiah grunt.

'Shit,' Will thought privately, but tried to keep his distress off his face. They'd spent so much time on fulfilling larger orders that creating the smaller necessities had fallen down the list of priorities. He wandered to the table where they stacked their finished products and retrieved a satchel only partially filled with the iron nails Hezekiah was looking for.

"We don't have as much ready as usual, but maybe…"

The contractor was experienced enough to guess at the contents of the bag without touching it, and shook his head once. "That's maybe half as much as we need."

Will floundered for a moment. He did not like to disappoint customers, especially loyal ones, but this was becoming increasingly common lately. "We're wrapping up the last of our major orders. By the end of the week, I should be able—"

Hezekiah waved at him, cutting him off. "Don't waste your sweat on it. It's just nails. I can go down the way for more elsewhere this one time."

He held his hand out for the satchel, and Will sold it to him, feeling humbled as he tucked away the received coinage.

As Will did so, Hezekiah took a moment to lean against the forge, untucking his pipe from behind his ear and withdrawing his tobacco from his pocket. He silently loaded and tamped the tobacco, then used the low-burning coals to light a match, which lit the tobacco. Will shook his head to himself, but didn't mind it, taking his seat back at the work table to continue filing the handle of the poker he was making.

After a few minutes of Will rasping away the unwanted corners of his project, the older man took a long draw on his pipe and sighed out his smoke.

"He in his cups again?"

Will paused for only a moment before continuing his motions. "Seems like it."

The older man said nothing, simply setting the pipe's bit in between his teeth and standing with his purchase weighed in one hand. He took another draw at his pipe and left a cloud behind him as he walked to the smithy door.

"I'll be back in a few weeks' time," he announced. "Hopefully you have gotten back up to speed by then."

Will turned in his seat to shoot Hezekiah a grin. "End of the week. So if you'll be needing to hang some doors anytime soon…"

The pipe was taken from Hezekiah's mouth and raised in Will's direction in a 'cheers.' "Then yours is the back we'll ask to break."

Will smiled good-naturedly. But as Hezekiah exited and shut the door behind him, the smile quickly fell. Once again, Will was alone to face his work. The weight of the burden bore down upon him, drawing his spirits down as well. Still he squared his shoulders. He hadn't lied to Elizabeth: there had been worse weeks in the past, and light could be seen at the end of this tunnel. If he could press on until dinner, then he could make another attempt at hunting his master down while there was still light outside.

After that, it was only a few more days between this and normality.

'Normality made better,' came the thought. And that brought back a genuine smile to his face, remembering Elizabeth's deep, discerning eyes, teasing laugh, and the scent and taste of her warm embrace. He could do this. It would be worth it in the end.

"We're almost out of it," he muttered to himself, stroking the rasp along the dark iron in his hand. "We're almost out of it…"

---

Once on their way, the journey inland went by smoothly and without incident. Elizabeth had requested Estrella pack a book for her to read en route, anticipating a need to offset boredom after the first hour or so. But as they coasted along the shoreline closer to the mountains, her attention was captivated in turns by the alluring scenes out her window and inside her mind. Sometimes the shadows in the sun-kissed jungles drew her eyes, causing her to wonder how many secrets they secured under their canopies, whether they were as ancient as they seemed. Other times her mind drifted back to the shadows of the smithy instead, causing her to muse over how the warmth of Will's hands and mouth had stirred her so swiftly, and whether a caress, a kiss on this place or that might be as pleasurable as she presumed.

In the end, the book sat on her lap having never once been turned past its title page.

All the same, four hours of rocking on bumpy roads proved to be surprisingly tiresome, and eventually her daydreams melted into a quieter cloud of pleasant feelings. By the time the coach pulled into Spanish Town, Elizabeth found herself wrestling valiantly against a drowsy daze and already looking forward to retiring later in the evening.

That was quickly reversed as her feet touched ground in front of the Blackwell residence.

"Lily!" squealed a blur of lavender and lemon, fastening herself about Elizabeth's neck in a tight embrace before a face could be seen. But Elizabeth didn't need to see her affectionate assailant to know who it was–the nickname with which the young woman addressed her gave her away just as well.

"Hello, Violet!" Elizabeth grunted, shocked and amused at the unexpected onslaught of extreme familiarity. She could hear Estrella's muffled snort come from the carriage doorway. "I wasn't aware you would be here as well…"

The stout woman leaned her weight on Elizabeth, nearly causing her to buckle at her knees as Violet MacDonald wept melodramatically, "Oh, my god!"

What the hell was happening?

"Don't crush her, Violet!" came a lower, melodic voice that Elizabeth quickly recognized as another old friend, Amelia Roberds. She was a tall, dark-haired woman dressed in gray, commanding an unflappable demeanor Elizabeth rarely saw disrupted anyone... Besides Violet, that is. Evidently this visit was to be a bit of a party.

For her part, Violet did loosen her hold around Elizabeth enough to shift her vice-like grip to enfold her shoulders instead of her neck. She continued to sob, although by now Elizabeth noticed there were no actual tears in her theatrics, which was typical for her.

"When I heard what had happened to you I was beside myself–are you alright?"

"I really am quite alright, yes. Are you alright?" Elizabeth responded, beginning to wriggle out of Violet's clutches.

"She's never alright," a third voice replied, which Elizabeth recognized as the one finally belonging to her hostess, Mary Blackwell. Mary flounced in from the steps of the house, a noticeably smaller woman with hair the color of mahogany and wearing the palest of green.

"Shut it, Mary!" growled Violet.

"Ladies!" a fourth and final woman chided from the house's main landing. This was Mary's mother, Olivia, a cheery woman with copper hair and rosy cheeks. "I thought we left such rough manners in childhood."

Violet finally relinquished Elizabeth, though she shot Mary an upset look as she did so. Amelia rolled her eyes for a moment at the exchange but said nothing. And Elizabeth smiled to herself—apparently few things had changed since their days spent preparing for their debut season.

The women clustered together around Elizabeth, taking turns in exchanging more traditional salutations as their servants managed the unloading of the Swann's carriage. Amelia exchanged kisses near Elizabeth's cheeks, as was typical in her family. Mary and her mother each took her hand and curtseyed, one after the other, inquiring after the comfort of Elizabeth's journey. Elizabeth hadn't met with most of these women outside of regional balls and assemblies in several months or years. And with her having had such an "unconventional experience" since they'd last seen her, all three of the younger women seemed particularly interested in catch-up dialog. So the bombardment started, slowly at first but quickly building in fervor:

"You must be exhausted. Have you rested since you got back?"

"Oh, we don't have to talk about that. How are your horses? I heard your stables were raided in the attack—"

"How is your father? The poor man must be completely overwhelmed!"

"Have you heard about the Masson wedding? We were sorry to not see you there."

"Why has the commodore left so soon? Are you keeping contact with him?"

"Is it true you were getting married?"

"Have you been able to go dancing recently?"

"You look beautiful—may I see your robe?"

Elizabeth's head started to spin. Each question came before the other had enough time to finish, creating a veritable squall of interest where she could hardly get more than two words out in response. Just as she was about to lose patience and snap, Missus Blackwell seemed to take sympathy in her position.

"Ladies! Ladies!" she cried again, resorting this time to clapping her hands thrice to break their momentum and capture their attention. "Just because you're old friends doesn't give you the right to smother the poor woman. Let her rest!"

The three friends shared expressions that were different shades of sheepish. They also seemed to realize just how close they had clustered around Elizabeth and repositioned themselves to stand at a more discreet distance—except for Violet, who took the liberty of looping her arm through Elizabeth's. She allowed it. It was better than before, after all.

"Thank you all," Elizabeth sighed, a little staggered at how grateful she felt for the returned quiet. Perhaps she had begun to adjust to her isolation without realizing it. "I appreciate your… exuberance."

"Oh!" Mary gasped all of the sudden. "What time is it? I had intended for us to go into town for a little while before supper!"

"Oh, please yes!" Violet chimed, almost jumping in her eager agreement. "Let's go quickly! I want to make a stop at the shops today before it becomes dark."

"You are welcome to stay and rest if you would prefer it, Elizabeth, of course," Mary added hastily, clearly trying to be more cognizant of her newest guest's comfort. "We shan't be long."

Elizabeth let out a small laugh in spite of herself. They were very energetic–perhaps they had been waiting for her arrival before leaving the house today. She was fairly hungry, having eaten very little on the ride in, and she still felt fatigued from the carriage. But now that she was standing and more fully awake, she realized how unappealing going straight back to sitting so soon would be.

"Actually," she replied, "A bit of a walk sounds lovely. And I wouldn't mind the chance to send something back home with the carriage."

Violet gasped, "We should eat at the tavern!"

"No," Missus Blackwell asserted firmly.

"It's too late for that," Amelia added. "You know the kitchen will already have things nearly prepared by now."

"But–"

"You said," Mary interjected, "you wanted to go to the shops. So we will go to the shops. I have other plans for us during the week, and you may visit the tavern then. If that is your inclination. Now let's get our hats and be on our way–the sun waits for no one!"

---

The perfumer was not the merchant Elizabeth had originally thought of when considering her souvenirs. Yet when her sights fell upon the sign she found herself thinking of her sunburn, and before long she was sampling the sweet scents of powders, ointments and other such toiletries.

"That one is rose," the elderly shopkeeper helpfully validated Elizabeth's guess while she sniffed at a tin with an almost waxy substance inside. "We also have honey, almond and a few other florals. The orange blossom is quite popular."

"Almond seems rather bold," Elizabeth mused, wondering whether it was normal for her to think of arsenic so immediately. "Could this be used as a salve?"

"It could. Although, if the skin is broken or irritated you might consider this one instead." He turned to his display shelf and presented a container that held a cream. "But I'm no physician, of course."

Elizabeth perched a pinky over the salve "May I?"

He held up a hand to indicate she should wait, then after disappearing behind his counter for a moment, produced a toothpick for Elizabeth's use instead. Having tested a tiny sample of the product on the back of her hand, and finding it to her satisfaction, she returned both the vessel and toothpick to the shopkeeper with her thanks as well as a request for one tin of honey-scented salve.

While the shopkeeper busied himself with packing her purchase, Elizabeth continued to browse the shop's goods, finding herself drawn to the more eclectic tools and knicknacks tucked into the back of the shop. Of course, there were gloves, napkins, puffs, deodorizing sponges and even fans, all infused with various pleasant perfumes to keep the stink of town from following inside. She also skimmed over combs, brushes, pins and picks of all functions, materials and sizes. There was even an elegantly carved hand mirror inlaid in polished mahogany and mother of pearl accents–so simple seeming compared to the one made of silver that she used to have, before Barbossa's men had stolen it.

As she arrived at the end of the display table, her eyes fell on some impressive dressing cases and necessaires de voyage. The larger sets were eye-catching, to be certain, but it was the smaller traveling boxes that truly caught Elizabeth's attention. While there were three carved from varnished wood, one was beautifully crafted with silver, while a second was enfolded in porcelain painted over in elegant, gold-accented chinoiserie design. Not only were these beautiful, they were very tempting. A lot of the smaller things that had been taken from the mansion had not yet been replaced. Strangely, she found she herself did not miss much of it. It mattered little to her if they had to downgrade from their old silverware. But she knew it disturbed her father's peace of mind to be reminded of their attack with persistent absences about the house.

And she also knew he missed his favorite traveling kit.

As such, she thought maybe selecting a new one as a gift could raise his spirits. However, his old case had been made of a tasteful combination of ivory and brass. It had also only been meant to help him pack a little nail kit, so was fairly small and narrow like his vinaigrette. These were bulkier–seemingly best intended for eating utensils or other larger personal tools–and were a rather different style than he usually preferred. It might not be as convenient a gift if it was so much bigger…

While Elizabeth debated, someone came to stand beside her—she at first assumed the shopkeeper or the clerk.

But it was Amelia, who revealed herself by teasing, "Taking advantage of the time out of your father's eye to sneak at some toys, are you?"

"Hm?" Elizabeth looked at her quizzically. Toys? These empty cases? That couldn't have been what she meant.

When she looked at Amelia for clarity, the taller woman indicated with a pointed look of her eyes to the small number of narrowly rectangular boxes that Elizabeth hadn't realized sat beside her right hand. They were packaged plainly—in fact, there could be little wonder at how Elizabeth hadn't noticed them beside the gaudy treasures she had been ogling, as they were so plain the only writing they had was in small indicators of material: glass, horn, leather... There almost was no way of knowing what the contents of the boxes were from the outside.

But it could be inferred. The way Amelia was raising her eyebrow in a cheeky laugh seemed to imply they held something some people might consider scandalous or naughty. And in recent years, Elizabeth had poked her nose in just enough places she thought she could figure out what the naughty, mystery packages could be. But a toy…?

It struck her at once, and the shock caused her to jerk her hand away, stammering, "Oh! No, I wasn't looking, I didn't even see—"

"Oh pish, it's alright. I was only teasing," Amelia waved dismissively, coming to stand beside Elizabeth right in front of the boxes. She lifted one up to check whether there was anything else labeled underneath. "Although, I don't know why you people make such a fuss—I have a pair, and I'd wager so does half of London."

The tiny, temporary startling of surprise began to give way to a bit of confusion. "You… What?"

"Have two. They come in all sorts of materials and styles in the cities. You can pick them from vendors off the street just as easy as the shops—it's practically effortless." Amelia set the dildo box back in its place, turning her back to the table and leaning against it with two hands. She smirked. "I once heard an amusing story about them being presented to guests in the place of fruit trays at masques in Venice. For 'dessert.'"

Elizabeth found unable to find anything to say in response for a moment, having been thrown off by Amelia's laissez-faire demeanor. The people who she was usually surrounded by were the types to treat these things as forbidden topics, especially in public. It wasn't that she agreed with them or felt opposed to Amelia—it was simply unexpected.

She realized Amelia was looking at her, seemingly anticipating a clever barb.

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth eventually replied, shaking her head as if to clear it, "I'm just a little surprised we're even talking about this."

Amelia's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise of her own.

"Are you?" she cackled. "That's funny, I feel like you were always the one surprising us with your talk when we were younger."

"Lord!" Elizabeth laughed back. "Do you remember the time I suggested we build our own gibbets to hang outside Eppie's window? No wonder she hated me…"

The two fell silent, Elizabeth falling into a reminiscence of those short months spent causing mischief in the midst of their taming and grooming. Of escaping into the gardens after dark and telling ghost stories by moonlight; of the silly secret codes they developed for 'accidental' taps against their tea cups and silverware; of their secret stash of contraband sweets and books hidden inside the wall behind Mary's dressing table.

Eventually Amelia let out a single laugh and shook her head. "Well. We aren't innocent maidens anymore. And I'm afraid you better get used to these sorts of topics with Violet around," she gestured back to the stack of 'toys.' "There's nothing shy about her these days."

Elizabeth scoffed loudly at that. "Was there ever?"

Amelia pulled an exaggerated face that implied Elizabeth had no idea the extent of that which she spoke. She leaned in conspiratorially, "Well, even less so since she lost her maidenhood. Just imagine how she was before, but now she also thinks everyone woman ought to have a good f—"

"Elizabeth! Amelia!" Mary shouted from the shop door in a deeply impatient tone. "What are you doing? We must go!"

"Coming! Let us pay, for chrissake!" Amelia barked back.

Mary rolled her eyes while shaking her head, then stepped out the door to meet her mother and Violet in the beginning of the day's sunset. Elizabeth felt a single laugh puff up from her belly like a hiccup.

"I'll meet you outside," Amelia sighed, then followed Mary's lead.

Elizabeth gave one last look at the pleasure boxes first, then the necessaires. While maybe these ones didn't suit her father exactly right, perhaps she could keep her eyes open in the meantime. She could present her souvenir gift in person when she returned home—maybe she could find something for Will as well while she was at it. And if not, Christmas would be coming in a season or so.

She retrieved her purse from her pocket and met the perfumer, waiting politely with her little wrapped pot of salve.

"Six pence, if you please."

She gave him a shilling. While the shopkeeper sorted out her change, her eyes caught sight of a stack of leaflets on the counter. She recognized the print as that pamphlet her father had been reading at the breakfast table, the one he said sometimes had stories about pirates buried in its postings: the Gazette. Curiosity rose up inside of her.

"Wait—one of these as well."

"That'll be four pence then, Miss."

---

The sigh that escaped Will felt like its own entity, flooding into his lungs of its own volition, pausing for a rest, then surging out in a tidal wave of exhaustion. He had just stepped out of the fifth tavern in a row with no sign of Mister Brown at all. The shadows of Queen's Street were getting long, and the fiery oranges of the sky were melting into the softer oranges of hearths, candles, and lanterns casting their flames upon the violets of twilight. But nearly the entire day had been painted in shades of weariness and toil.

He felt like lead in his body and soul, and found more than once that he was looking on his own past-self with jealousy for the luxurious rest with which Elizabeth had "showered" him only one day before. It was a sore contrast, quite literally. He had tried to be mindful of her advice and taken time for himself to eat peacefully and rest as well as he could, with his mind abuzz as it was. And as he was enjoying samples of her most recent cornucopia, he found itself besieged by intense rushes of gratitude that nearly overwhelmed him.

Perhaps it was because he was so tired, perhaps it was because he'd worked his first day alone in weeks... Whatever the reason, he was amazed to find himself once again longing for her company, to aching.

There was nothing to be done about that. As such, Will eventually conceded it would likely be best to try another search for his missing master. The longer he was out, the more money he'd likely already frittered away. Will couldn't think about it too long without feeling sick. That was what had led him to where he stood now, on his latest fruitless endeavor despite the protestations of his bones. Because the drinking holes nearest the smithy had turned up empty earlier, Will had cut across the fish market to pick his way through the taverns dotting the city's largest wharf.

He had hardly taken five steps into the frivolity at The Three Crowns before the proprietor, Mister Hanson, called to him over the din, "'e ain't 'ere, Turner!"

Will frowned as he wove a little closer to ask, "Did he come here at all?"

"Not that I seen. Sorry, laddie."

He shouldn't have bothered. He'd wasted far too much time on this search—for all he knew, the sorry man had tripped over the docks or keeled over in some alley, having at last succumbed to barrel fever. He nodded his thanks and quietly took his leave, trudging back to the smithy with head, hands and heart hanging down. His feet were throbbing and his shoulders ached terribly.

Maybe Elizabeth was right. How was he supposed to keep doing this?

Night fell on him completely, and he passed many dimly lit figures under the starlight. Approaching the smithy's corner, however, he saw two figures step out and seal the smithy's main door, and he walked all the more slower as he tried to make out who they might be. It was the red glow of the pipe that revealed Hezekiah to be one of them. Will sighed in relief, and approached them.

The second man nodded, revealing himself through his voice as he muttered, "Evening, Turner."

"And you, Mister Egbo…" Will responded, still somewhat astonished at their appearance.

"Found somethin' for you," Mister Egbo explained, tapping Will's shoulder as he passed him and disappeared into the night.

Hezekiah simply tipped his pipe at Will as he too walked by and slipped into shadow.

A tiny flare of hope spurred Will forward with quicker pace into the smithy. Sure enough: there was his master, slouched over the work table like a sorry, wet rag, barely alive to the world. How had they found him? Where? He'd have to buy Hezekiah and Akachi a round each, when he next got the chance. But that might be a while yet. Mister Brown was back in body, but in spirit he'd be gone a day or two still at best. He reeked of alcohol and many more sour things besides. The one good thing was that he seemed hardly worse than he'd ever been before. He hadn't died on him yet.

Will felt a sigh rise and fall deep inside chest once more. The exhaustion, again. After all, like those times before, relief at his master's re-appearance was barely a feeling worth registering anymore. Will was even past anger, possibly even sympathy. Registering any of these things would expose his fear and loathing, and he couldn't afford the time it would take buckling under such bitter pressures.

These days, all Will needed from this man was the hands that worked alongside him. So he hoisted Mister Brown onto his back and up the outer staircase without a single word.

---

"You'll never guess what I've brought for tonight!" Violet sang, her face a perfect picture of a cat who caught her canary before she skipped to her trunk.

Mary paused brushing out Elizabeth's hair and placed her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes. "Why do I have the feeling it's something you ought not to have…?"

Unable to resist the impulse, Elizabeth exchanged a silent laugh with Amelia through the mirror of the vanity at which she sat, poking through its drawers in open nosiness while Mary brushed.

Despite spurts of bickering between Violet and Amelia, Elizabeth's evening had played out very pleasantly. They'd returned to the Blackwell's home, where Elizabeth was shown to the room she would be sharing with Mary. She found her luggage already deposited by their servants, and her dinner dress laid ready by Estrella. Dinner itself was very late but lovely—more of a supper really. The Blackwells had planned a tastefully simple setting that felt both intimate and extravagant at the same time. The food itself was lovely, the talk was lively. Topics wandered from opinions over various books and plays recently consumed, to merits of various dog breeds, or raucously imagining what over-extravagant hair ornament would best represent each woman's personality at a fête in France. (The table was divided on whether a fully rigged pirate ship or swan complete with winged feathers suited Elizabeth more, and required a tie-breaking vote from Estrella. She chose the ship.)

After having been filled to the brim by the good food and company, Missus Blackwell had revealed that she had taken the liberty of arranging for a hot bath to be drawn for Elizabeth as they ate. As such, Elizabeth had been given the opportunity to quietly disappear upstairs and melt into soothing, fragrant waters, while the other ladies indulged themselves with card games in the parlor. With her body relaxed and her mind stilled, her thoughts had wandered for a little bit back to Port Royal, and she'd wondered for a moment about Will—whether he had ever experienced the pleasures of a proper bath and whether he would retire at a proper time tonight like she had insisted.

In the meantime, Mary's mother had retired to her own chamber for the night, the girls had gathered in the main guest room, comfortably settled into their nightwear and stringing along conversations started at the supper table—at least, until Violet's change of topic. And so, once refreshed and changed into a clean linen shift, Elizabeth had wandered down the hallway to join the girl's relocated party. She'd found them in the aforementioned room, which was richly decorated with elaborate rugs, dark-wooded furniture and a large fluffy four poster bed at its center.

Now, Violet hardly acknowledged Mary's accusation, having popped open her trunk to rifle through it for a moment. "Well, first, the expected bit:"

She lifted a hand in the air clutching a stack of opened letters, which for some reason made both Amelia and Mary cackle and squeal. For her part, Elizabeth didn't understand what the fuss was about, but assumed there was something else to be made of the letters. Amelia rose from her stomach to a kneeling position on the large bed, walking upon her knees towards the corner of the bed closest to Violet so that she might take the letter bundle from her hand. Violet immediately buried both hands back into her trunk.

"And for the jewel of the crown…"

She produced a dark bottle of wine from her trunk and laid it on the mattress. Then another.

Mary groaned, placing a hand to her forehead in some level of distress, "Oh, have mercy…!"

"Is thatMadeira…?" Elizabeth gawked as Violet withdrew a third bottle of wine, and stood to approach the hidden cache. Violet's father was a merchant who had worked hard to establish connections with well-regarded vineyards in Portugal, and likewise had earned a reputation for his exquisite personal collection. No doubt these had been pilfered from his cellars.

"Aye, lassie!" Violet grinned. "And what's more:" She withdrew one bottle more.

"Fourbottles?!" Amelia gasped, picking one up to examine herself.

"Exactly." Their resident vintner seemed quite pleased with herself and gave them all a self-satisfied smirk.

"Just how much do you expect us to be drinking?!" Mary squeaked.

"As much as we like, of course. There's one for each lady."

Violet handed the last bottle directly to Elizabeth to punctuate her point. Elizabeth swirled it around and watched the full-bodied liquid dance and churn about, sometimes glowing in the lamplight. Yes, this definitely had to have come from her father's pantry.

Mary was not nearly as enthused as Violet on the matter, placing her hands back on her hips and declaring sternly, "This is barbaric."

Amelia snorted at this, picking up a second bottle and tucking one of each under her arms. "If you don't want it, then I'll take yours."

Mary stuck out her tongue and wagged her head side to side mockingly, to emphasize she was not amused. Amelia shrugged nonchalantly in response and settled down against the bed's pillows, cradling her two bottles in her arms like newborn babes or a pair of comfort dogs. She looked quite delighted, regardless of Mary's opinion.

Elizabeth set her bottle down back upon the mattress carefully, and shot Violet a knowing smirk of her own. "Your butler is going to be extremely put-out when he sees these missing…"

"Oh, what's he going to do—fire me?" Violet waved back, then returned to sorting through her travel chest. After a few moments, she made a loud sound of frustration and slammed her trunk shut. "Ach, fuck—I forgot to pack the crystal. I suppose we'll just have to drink straight from the bottle."

Elizabeth shook her head and laughed while Violet made a grab for a bottle. But Mary leaped to intercept it, guarding it possessively behind her back.

"No! I'll not have a mess in my chambers. I'll fetch some glasses from downstairs, and we'll open ONE BOTTLE AT A TIME, so as not to waste. We're here for a few more days anyway, there's no rush to down it all now."

Feeling sorry for the position she'd been placed in, and wanting her to feel some semblance of order in the wake of Violet's impulses, Elizabeth placed a hand on Mary's arm. "I'll come with you—four hands seem better than two in this case."

---

So it was an hour later, Elizabeth found herself with her three female companions, who had strewn themselves in various positions across the floor and furniture of the Blackwell's main guest bedroom. They were red-faced from wine and laughter, as they read together through old, uncomfortable love letters from insincere suitors that would never be. Evidently, it was something of a game the other three had talked about playing over the years, as all three had brought their worst examples for their entertainment. Elizabeth had not been aware of the planned activity, and even if she had been, she had burned the letters from every uninvited man attempting to accost her since the age of sixteen. So what she lacked in her own materials she attempted to make up for in criticism.

Currently, Amelia stood tall on her knees atop the bed, holding her letter out and making a show of reading her admirer's poem with the flourish of a town crier:

"'It may be true that I've loved many,
Such maids abound who first loved me;
True truth reveals I don't love any
Save you. So marry me!'"

While Violet, Mary and Amelia threw heads back in peels of laughter, Elizabeth shook her head and took a drink.

"Oh, good lord..."

It was astounding how many piss-poor poets with elevated egos there were in the world. If certain men were so addicted to wenching, why couldn't they and their families be content to leave them untethered? Could it be any more obvious he was being compelled by his family to accost Amelia? That or he legitimately believed bragging in the middle of an attempted refutation of his exploits was a bright idea. Either way: who in their right mind would try to leverage their almost-certain infidelity to their advantage in a marriage proposal? Idiots! So many idiots…

"Who was that again?" Mary asked once she'd regained her breath.

Amelia wobbled a little trying to regain balance on the squishy mattress, and held the letter up to reconsider its signature. "Lord Pembroke's nephew... Nephew? I'm calling him a nephew. What does it matter?"

She tossed the letter aside and flopped back heavily into the pillows, where she could reach for her wineglass on the nightstand.

Elizabeth took advantage of her vacancy to hop onto the bed and stand in Amelia's old place. She tossed her hair and raised both her nose and pinky in the air, prompting giggles from Violet and Mary. Then with an affected accent reminiscent of a certain drunken pirate captain she had recently met, she waved her arm around theatrically and began her translation:

"'Perhaps I fuck around some beds,
Maids throw themselves at me, you know;
Forget what I just barely saids,
Let's fuck atop your dowry XOXO or what have you..."

The responding laughter was uproarious, and Elizabeth snickered into her crystal cup extremely pleased with her improvisation. Oh, she was giddy and drunk, she could tell. In spite of that, she felt certain that she had been truly, terribly clever. Maybe she ought to write a letter to Will before the evening was done, and take advantage of her creative... masterpiece-ery.

"No, no!" Amelia choked. "He fucks so much he fucked the meter too."

"Hold, hold!" Violet called, clamoring up onto the bed beside Elizabeth with such suddenness she almost tipped Elizabeth—and Elizabeth's wine—all over the white coverlets. "I have you all beat with this one, I do. For once it's a piece that doesn't mention florals even once."

Violet cleared her throat and mimicked Amelia's former town crier pose, trying her best to resist laughing and put on a serious mien. She failed for a moment, letting slip a laugh from her nose, but getting control again before she riled up the rest of the room.

She took a breath.

"'Beauteous bearer of bounteous buttery breasts-'"

The howling was instantaneous and intense. Elizabeth had to cling to the bedpost, almost in tears from her laughter. Amelia had curled into a fetal position and buried her face into a pillow as deep as she could. Mary's face had turned almost as red as plums. And Violet herself had doubled over, pushed over the edge by the wine and hysterics of her friends.

Eventually, Elizabeth found her breath enough to lean over Violet's shoulder, reaching for a proper grip on the letter so she could review it herself, "Let me see. That can't... Oh god, it's real. 'Buxom bushel bubby beyond ballyhoo-'"

She choked on her own spit, and got caught between laughing and trying not to expire from her coughing.

By now Violet was crying, only just managing to pause her gasps long enough to squeak out, "I think he fancies me tits!"

"Or he's molly and thinks that's what he's supposed to sound like," Mary suggested.

Elizabeth continued to cough and waved her hand in front of her face, tears now leaking from her eyes as well. She seized the opportunity to grasp the bedpost and slide gracelessly back to the floor. She was lucky her glass' contents were as low as they were, since she only just managed to avoid a spill in the process. She took another drink to try and calm her paroxysm. She was starting to feel hot and disoriented. This entire night had become absolutely ridiculous.

"Lord, I have to take a piss," Amelia whinged. She quickly hopped off the bed herself and slipped behind the room divider to the chamberpot.

Elizabeth finally had recovered from her near-death experience, and stood to the side of the bed, dabbing her tears from her face with the collar of her smock. "I want to believe this is a terrible joke."

Violet had also largely recovered from her fit of laughter, and similarly was wiping her face dry, although she had produced a handkerchief to manage the job instead. She shook her head as she folded her napkin in preparation of blowing her nose. "No, I know this one. He's... he means it."

Elizabeth sighed, "At least it's not another, 'I die, I die...' I hate … so very much… when they write that."

"What makes them believe this would be remotely affecting?" Mary asks, more than half serious. "Are there women out there who would be taken in by this twaddle?"

"Please. You knowhow it is, Mary," Amelia cut in, having returned from relieving herself. "The letter arriving matters more than what it says. Most families would marry their daughters to a goat if its family were 'right.'"

"Rich," Violet expounded.

"Right," Amelia agreed, but paused for a moment to mentally review whether what they were saying actually made sense or went in circles. She shrugged, then she placed a hand to her chest and continued, "I'll be lucky to persuade my aunts against this one, even as insincere as he sounds. Although, to be fair: if he's occupied chasing tails, I suppose he'd be too busy to mind my chasing my own. Could be nice in its own way..."

The mood of the room shifted at Amelia's assertion, the laughter fading away as Elizabeth and the other two women weighed what their friend was implying. While much was made of the rituals of courtship for women of their standing, whether or not the choice was actually theirs still stood on shaky ground quite dependent on the attitudes and culture of their families and community. Amelia's family's estate had centuries-deep roots, and deep roots often came with deeply entrenched beliefs. The notion that she would have no final say in her ultimate marriage was something she had never once addressed before.

'Reality is back,' Elizabeth thought to herself sardonically. Aloud, she quietly offered, "That's quite a plan to joke about..."

"I'm completely sincere," Amelia responded firmly, returning to the bed and settling back into its pillows. "I couldn't care less what sort of prick they decide to bind me to in the end. As long as I am able to have Als nearby, I will be satisfied."

Elizabeth's only responding thought was on how close her feelings had been to Amelia's just a few short weeks ago. Granted, there had been much about their situations that were different. While James Norrington had not been her first choice, her engagement to him had been her choice all the same. And she often struggled with her disappointment and misery in the match, before and after it was made. After all, he was a kind man with a reputation built upon his virtues, and she knew he would have been a faithful husband without a wandering eye. She also now knew for certain that he'd truly loved her and would have tried to make her happy. As such, a part of her would chastise herself for not being happy, for not considering how much more miserable other women were compared to her, fortunate to have both a betrothed and father truly, earnestly concerned with her comfort and contentment.

She considered herself, regardless of her rebellious spirit and distaste for the restrictions of her class, a mostly upright woman—at least where it mattered. She'd fully intended to give her marriage to James a fair chance, or at least to try. She knew how to play the role of a dutiful daughter, and had always known that the role of dutiful wife and mother was expected of her to follow, treated like destiny. Yet the more Elizabeth had chastised her heart, the more fiercely it had protested: she wanted more for herself than just that. And she loved Will. She had loved him for years, in ways she could never fully understand or put aside. There had been times she'd earnestly wished she could have done. But she could not, and if truth were to be told, she didn't want to. With that, the fortunate prospects of a union to a man as good as James had been small consolation in the presence of her yearning. Enough so, that she'd found a stray, wicked little thought had crept into her mind twice: that if she could not have Will wholly as a husband, perhaps she could have him in part as a lover.

Each time she'd pushed the idea aside, convinced she couldn't stoop so low. And she'd placated herself with words not unlike Amelia's, knowing Will would always love her and offer his devotion as a friend, if nothing else. If she could continue to have Will's friendship, she'd told herself, she could be satisfied.

It was a lie—one of many she'd been telling herself and those around her to avoid the way her heart was breaking.

Knowing this, Elizabeth looked upon Amelia with pity and sat on the edge of the bed to place a consoling hand on her shoulder, feeling she fully understood what the depths of Amelia's pain and longing for this man, Als, could be.

She did not.

Violet's face sobered at Amelia's confession, and she knelt on the coverlet with surprising grace and sobriety as she asked, "'Als', as in Alicia? Your sister's companion...?"

Amelia froze. In fact, the whole room became still save for the quiet quivering of their shadows on the bedroom walls, and Elizabeth felt her breath stop within her for a moment. She kept her hand on Amelia's shoulder, uncertain of what to say or do—uncertain of whether it was a misunderstanding or not.

But eventually Amelia sighed, pain pulling at her brow, "Ah. There goes my dearest secret."

She sat up slowly under their eyes, possibly to prolong her chance to think, possibly because the alcohol was still strong within them all. At length she drew her braid from over her shoulder, and took a turn looking each one of her friends in their eyes.

"Yes, my sister's companion. The truth is I treasure her above all else in the world. In her company I am content as I continually hope she feels she is in mine. To ever lose her would be as it were to lose my own life..."

Elizabeth's breath loosed itself. Now she knew: while their circumstances weren't exactly the same, she did understand. Had it not been her belief for a time that loving Will openly was something that could never be? She knew that longing, that pain. But she had had the fortune for it to turn around, almost entirely thanks to a father who cared for the feelings living in her heart. And if she hadn't, there had always been the truth that she could have left her fortunes behind and run away with Will to some other colony, wrapped in his arms and the assurance that whatever village or port they found would be content to let them be. She had hope. Meanwhile, Amelia's family, Amelia…

It wasn't fair.

She felt her throat close up, the feelings inside her overtaking her thoughts. Before she could stop herself, she'd set her wine glass down, climbed onto the bed, and placed her arms around Amelia in a firm embrace. Amelia stiffened at first, clearly caught off-balance, but eventually her arms found their way about Elizabeth's back and she buried her face into Elizabeth's shoulder and held onto her, tightly. Elizabeth felt the bed shift, felt another pair of arms join them in a huddle—likely Violet. She felt wetness touch the skin of her shoulder. Then she sensed the presence of Mary at her back, felt the shifting of Amelia's hair at her cheek as it was stroked gently.

The women sat together in such a manner for several minutes, saying nothing at all. When Amelia finally loosened her hold on Elizabeth, Elizabeth released her as well, and the others withdrew likewise. Amelia tossed her head and wiped at her eyes.

"And now you know," she stated in a businesslike tone. Then she laughed a sardonic laugh and shrugged. "If only I'd been born with the rights of a man."

Elizabeth frowned at her statement, disturbed by the truths it held. But before her mind could start wandering Violet held her handkerchief out to Amelia—the same one she'd recently cleaned her nose upon—and Amelia paused to stare at it, then look up to Violet with a face of such deep disgust, the lines on her face aged her a full century.

And it couldn't be helped: they all began laughing again.

All four ready to move on from sadness for now, Mary retrieved Amelia a clean handkerchief, and they began to refill their cups once more.

"Well," said Amelia, back in her pillow-throne. "Seeing as you all know my secret, I daresay we ought to play a game of revelations to even the score. What ruinous affairs have you three hidden from the wolves outside?"

Several images came to Elizabeth's mind in a frightening rush, from her adventure and the days that had followed since.

"Amelia—" Mary began in a scolding tone, wanting to protect her other guests from having to make other painful revelations unwillingly.

But Violet cut in, her carefree and flippant demeanor returning as she drew her skirts up to kneel at the foot of the bed once again on bare knees, "Oh, I'll go. You already know it, though."

She sent a pointed look to Amelia, who responded with a smug grin that she covered with her wine glass. The pale-haired woman lifted her chest and raised her arms, making a show of finding the pose for a perfect performance to accompany her grave revelation.

Then she stated simply, "I've been fucking two separate men about once a month for nearly half a year now."

Elizabeth choked on her wine. Amelia began to grin with her nose crinkled in a morbid delight.

"What?!" screeched Mary.

Amelia raised her glass in a loud salute to Violet, "Misters Hilliard and Colbeck, if I'm not mistaken."

"Thank you," Violet responded in a hiss, apparently annoyed that the identities of her liaisons had been revealed.

"You are most dearly welcome," Amelia simpered sweetly.

Perhaps it was a mild form of revenge and somewhat deserved, Elizabeth mused with her mind still reeling. While things had sobered for a moment, she was still definitely pickled and the night was growing late. Her thinking was growing slower and dull.

Violet tossed her hair over her shoulder, and settled her bum down to the mattress so she could sit with her legs folded under her.

"Yes, Mister Hilliard and Captain Colbeck, thank you very much. Each knows I have an interest in the other, but not how involved we've become. Keeps them competitive and makes things more pleasurable for me while waiting for my father to finalize who I'm going to be married off to."

By this point, Elizabeth was balking with Mary while Amelia began to cackle.

But Violet was defensive and rose back onto her knees with her free hand on one hip, shouting rather loudly, "I like a good fuck! And I don't plan on stopping even after I wed, so don't even bother with your lectures, Mary . Damn me to hell or what have you. I do not care one whit." She noticed she'd managed to re-pin her shift under one knee, and took a moment to yank it free, before pointing at Amelia almost accusatorially. "In fact, if you have no real interest in Nephew Pembroke, Amelia, I'll be glad to occupy him for you. Leave you free for your Alicia. I hear he has a good, swinging tarse and wouldn't mind trying it out, meself..."

Elizabeth felt her face grow hot at the image painted, while Mary squeaked and Amelia openly gagged.

"You can have it and him!" Amelia croaked.

By now, Elizabeth had thrown her head back and was laughing loudly again. "Lord, when my father was hoping you lot would provide a 'feminine influence' over me, I daresay he didn't mean this."

"I'm so sorry, Elizabeth," Mary fussed, clearly distressed by Violet's vulgarity.

But Elizabeth waved her hand, thinking of all the dinner parties she'd attended that had lost control or of the cursed pirates guarding her aboard the Black Pearl.

"Believe me, I have heard far worse."

---

A few more minutes passed, filled with gasps and raucous laughter as they drained their cups under Violet's insistent recountings of humorous tales about her trysts. While she tried her best to avoid becoming too explicit, eventually, her tales began to creep in that direction and Amelia joined Mary in asserting they were growing uncomfortably familiar with all three parties involved in the affair. After asserting they would prefer to change the subject, the women also agreed that they had had enough wine for the evening, stopped the open bottles and returned them all to Violet for safekeeping.

It was under these circumstances that Mary suddenly turned in Elizabeth's direction with a question of her own.

"I've heard some… interesting rumors, Elizabeth."

Ah, so it seemed to finally be her turn to be revealed. She had a feeling that, late-night wine or no, more pointed questions about the past few months of her life would arise at some point on this visit. As much as she trusted there was some genuinely pure desire on Mary's part to reacquaint themselves as friends, the timing of her letter could not be wholly overlooked. In the end, Elizabeth was the daughter of the leader of their colony, an extension of the King's right hand. And she had been taught from a young age that trust could only carry a person so far when affiliated with such far-reaching powers.

Well. She was up to the challenge, convinced that she was quite a capable master of half-truths and not so far gone as to lose full control of her tongue's wit.

"Which ones?" she asked coolly, for there were in fact many at any given moment. "If it's the one about my being found naked, it's a crude exaggeration you ought not believe."

Violet piped, "But you were really found alone with that pirate–?"

"The ones that say you agreed to marry Commodore Norrington," Mary reinserted herself into the conversation, cutting Violet off entirely.

Violet didn't seem the least put out, jumping to her feet and shrieking, "WHAT?!"

Elizabeth felt her stomach clench a little bit and turned her head to the side. Yes, this would be what people like the Blackwells would find most interesting—the one thing she most would like to leave behind her now. But she didn't blame Mary for taking an interest. She was largely a mild and easily swayed sort of woman, and Elizabeth had a feeling there were parties putting the interest in her head for her.

Mary pressed on, "Someone was saying there was to be an announcement, but it was postponed by that pirate's escape… "

"And where did these 'rumors' happen to come from, I wonder?" Elizabeth wondered aloud, hoping as much to stir up some doubt around the matter as she did to receive a real answer.

But Mary didn't seem to know, suddenly appearing a bit sheepish. "You'd have to ask my mother."

Elizabeth pressed her lips together firmly. While Mary was a largely innocent-spirited girl and well regarded as a kind woman, Olivia Blackwell was well known to be a skilled politician in her own right. And now that she thought of it, Mary had implied that her family had been discussing her situation and had decided together to invite her on this outing. She doubted the entire Blackwell family cared that much about her well-being purely as an individual—especially not Mary's father.

"Well I heard something quite different," Amelia cut in. "I heard someone say they heard their chambermaid say they heard a marine say–"

"A completely reliable chain of information," Elizabeth panned, again hoping to create some ambiguity.

"That you helped Sparrow make his getaway from the gallows… along with that runaway craftsman."

Elizabeth tried to keep her face a picture of disinterest as she weighed whether this sort of information was harmful, harmless or somewhere in between. While Will's part in enabling Jack's escape could not be denied, few outside of Norrington's immediate regiment—nearly all of whom had followed him on theDauntless—had managed to witness what had happened on the parapet. The truth was likely to come out eventually, but in the meantime her father had tried to protect their family image by keeping Elizabeth's part in the scandal quiet. As such as far as Jamaican society was currently concerned, and indeed the greater whole of British aristocracy, blame for the escape of Jack Sparrow could only be placed on Will and Jack's shoulders.

Apparently, the marines in attendance had begun talking as quickly as she'd suspected they would. But their names held little weight in the circles of upper society, so perhaps she could leverage the uncertainty to her advantage for a while longer. Revealing herself to be an accomplice to such a crime, and indeed confirming Will's involvement, could only lead to misfortune…

"The wild one that that pirate persuaded to run off with the Interceptor in the first place?" Mary asked, pushing the conversation along without Elizabeth. Evidently she had strong opinions on the matter, as in a moment, she was ranting, "Why was he allowed to go free instead of being hanged with the rest of the pirates, anyway? He's as much pirate now as the rest of them, after all he did. Clearly he has no respect for the law, and he has obvious connections with the worst of them. He sounds violent. I heard he had a proper outburst towards the commodore before running off with that ship. Threw an hand axe at him, he did! Out of his mind! My father isn't doing business with his master anymore after all this."

Anger surged through Elizabeth's body, and sprang to her feet with her fists clenched, in spite of herself. "What? That's completely ridiculous–"

"Don't change the subject, Mary!" Violet interjected again, seeming to have not noticed Elizabeth's tense demeanor. "I want to know about the commodore."

Elizabeth took the shift in conversation as a chance to breathe and force herself to regain composure, but she saw Mary looking at her with a stunned and curious expression.

Amelia also seemed unobservant, chiding Violet as if nothing else had happened, "Oh hush, not everything has to be about people's romantic entanglements, Violet. And you're too obsessed with men lately."

Now it was Violet's to appear enraged, pointing at Amelia much as she had done before. "You shush–I'll do as I please! Besides, Mary's the one who brought it up to begin with. Why don't you bother her about it?" Suddenly her demeanor shifted, and looked to Elizabeth with eager eyes. " Are you engaged, Lily?"

"Did you set that pirate free?" Amelia pressed.

'God, what have I gotten myself into…?' Elizabeth thought, caught firmly between two questions she did not want to answer.

It was Mary that opened the way out, speaking once again back in her more admonishing tones, "You two leave her alone and finish your drinks–I meant to start a conversation, not an interrogation."

As Mary turned to face Elizabeth, Elizabeth considered her carefully rather than thank her.

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I know you probably wanted to get away from this all."

"Mm…" Elizabeth said, halfway to herself.

Whether or not Mary was sincerely on Elizabeth's side could be put aside for the moment. Instead, she would take advantage of the opening that had been provided to her, and steer the topic in a different direction. Perhaps she could lure them away from more dangerous truths they might not understand with other, safer truths she knew they would. She sat upon the bed and threw herself backwards to lie on it with her feet dangling over its edge.

She continued, "To be honest, I was more interested in getting away from the mansion for a moment. I love my father dearly, but he's been breathing down my neck about getting back to keeping the house and…" She hesitated. The only other person she'd confessed this to was Will, whom she trusted beyond any shadow of doubts. Sharing with persons other than him, even old friends, made her feel a little vulnerable. But she pushed on, "… I don't know, I just can't find myself in it at all, anymore."

Mary nodded in understanding but also shrugged. "Who really does, though? It's just a duty, a job. You may care for it or not, it doesn't matter as long as it gets done. That's just the way of the world."

That flash of anger returned, and Elizabeth propped herself back up on her elbows to pin Mary—demure Mary, who of the four of them had always been most likely to simply do as she was told, if only to avoid a fuss—directly in the eyes.

"But it does matter—that's the problem."

Now a new silence fell on the group, this one quite different from the one before. But now thoughts were running through Elizabeth's head. And she had downed plenty of wine and had opened her mouth, and her thoughts would come out one way or another:

"The real rub is that I don't hate doing those things, really. Not when I want to. I actually quite like putting together dinner parties with good food and company I enjoy. I just don't want it to be my entire calling in life…" She sat herself back up and waved her hand in a vague gesture towards the entire world. "Everyday, choosing between the same tablecloths and party games and men, to serve even causes I despise…"

"Oh, Elizabeth…" Mary sighed, evidentially starting to regret having brought the topic that led to this drunken tirade altogether.

But Elizabeth wouldn't let her back away. This wasn't idle dinner chatter, this was something that mattered, and which had sat festering inside her heart unspoken for years too raw and real to be something she felt alone. She shook her head and lifted her chin.

"No! I'm expected to arrange the entire engagement that will supposedly facilitate the security of the island following the attack, and yet I am not permitted to officially participate in negotiations. Why ?" Now she was on her feet, pacing tensely, and the words were pouring out of her faster than she could manage them, tumbling with the frustration of the past few weeks—the past few years—that ran amok inside her head. "Why should we only pleasure, never challenge? God forbid I question anything like our reliance on a prosperity that comes from the slavery running your fathers' plantations."

Mary scowled, and Violet turned her head away, clearly uncomfortable. Still, Elizabeth tiraded, scarcely drawing breath.

"It's, 'Feed my guests, Elizabeth; ease them with your charms and wit, impress them with your impeccable taste, but don't you dare offend them with your own political sensibilities…'"

She felt tears pricking her eyes once again and for a moment she choked, remembering the hurt that had driven her from her father's roof to this one, recalling all the words that she wished to say to him on her return. She swallowed.

"It's the way I am to have no say in almost any matter that… matters. It's the way that keeping their money is more important than keeping their principles or others' dignity. The way it's the same job picked out for every one of us, if we're expected to live in any comfort at all. Meanwhile, men are permitted to go out and seek their callings, to speak and live freely according to their hearts' desires…"

And soon the images of her father were mingled with others, overtaking her words and carrying her away in her own reflections. She remembered watching the speculator rise of Norrington's career, and every look of pride upon his face with each adulated milestone and achievement; admiring the sparks of bonfire in Jack Sparrow's skin as he rhapsodized about the ship that could carry him on every one of his wild whims around the world; marveling at the rebellious heart-fire burning in Will's eyes when he stood his ground before Barbossa, Norrington, her father, insisting on being seen without fear or guile.

She could have it too, if she wanted to. She would have it. Freedom.

Elizabeth felt her thoughts growing fuzzy and the room tip a little, out of the blue. She steadied heard with one hand and shook her head, reminding herself she was not currently alone. All at one cognizant how much time she had just spent speaking, she looked at her companions. Mary and Violet had nothing to say, but a small smile had begun to crack on Amelia's lips.

"Well, Mary may not like it, but I think you're absolutely correct," Amelia commented lightly, and downed the final dregs of her wine. "Although, here I was thinking that getting kidnapped by pirates would shake you from your romanticizing of their knavery…"

Elizabeth laughed a little, grateful for Amelia's support and levity, and the chance to change the topic once more.

"You sound like my father," she mused, recalling some of his words from the now-infamous breakfast argument. Then her memories shifted to reflect on her adventure, and the many strange people she encountered on it. "Don't misunderstand me: there are plenty of cads and vipers among them, that much is true. But not all of them are completely without morals or reason–it's why I'm alive."

Amelia didn't look like she believed her.

So Elizabeth felt the need to explain, "They have their Code that most follow, and some have their own personal codes besides. Some are cruel and some are kind. Some are stupid and others brilliant. Some can even be heroes…"

Her face began to soften as she thought of specific faces. She thought of Barbossa and Jack, of course; but also Mister Gibbs, Anamaria, Mister Cotton and the rest of the Interceptor 's crew; the snarling faces of the Black Pearl's crew… And how could she not think of Will? No matter how different, they were all pirates, each and every one.

She stammered thoughtfully, "But that's just people, isn't it? We all know the officers and politicians around us. Weren't we just laughing about just as much? They all may act like gentlemen, but we know how many are truly rakes and drunkards and cons and villains. The truth is many of them are not that different from the pirates who took me–they just hide under their powders and behind their money, pretending they are."

Mary rolled her eyes at this suggestion, clearly in disagreement and unwilling to hear much more. Violet appeared thoughtful, while Amelia simply nodded.

Elizabeth could have easily gone on even longer—evidently drunkenness opened her mouth quite widely. But ah, how low the mood had sunk! And she and her friends had gathered here to enjoy themselves and forget their problems, not sink deeper into thoughts about them. That could be done later. They were growing tired, but she was determined not to be responsible for ending the evening on a down note.

So this time she pivoted the subject of her own accord: "You know, they weren't all men either, the pirates."

This caused them all to perk up with curiosity, both at Elizabeth's signal that she was willing to talk about her kidnapping and at the fascinating tidbit she dangled before them in doing so.

"What? Really?" Violet asked.

Mary took a seat at the vanity, calling out with a joke, "Of course not! They have parrots and cats and dogs too, Violet."

Elizabeth smiled a bit, relieved that they took her bait. "Very funny. But no! Some of them were different. For one example, there was another woman there helping my rescue, and she was bold and brilliant. No one could order her about with what to do and what not to do–she only did what she agreed to or what had to be conceded by vote. And she was there to take command of her own ship, all her own…"

She thought of the faces of Anamaria and all the pirates once again, growing a little sentimental or nostalgic.

"In the end, they all were there because they chose to be, for one reason or another… I would have felt jealous, if we'd had the time for it."

"You make it sound as though it were quite the adventure rather than a terror," Violet remarked wistfully.

This time Elizabeth grinned widely, joining Violet and Amelia on the bed again. "It was a terror and it was an adventure. It was both! I'd do certain parts of it over again in a heartbeat."

"Would you tell us what happened?" Amelia asked, pulling a pillow into her arms to embrace and lie more comfortably.

"What, like a bedtime story?" Elizabeth laughed.

"Oh, yes!" Violet agreed, climbing to the top of the bed and taking her spot beside Amelia with an energy not unlike a young child. She was fully aware that this was how she appeared, and intentionally raised her voice in a childlike tone as she requested, "Tell us a bedtime story, Lily!"

Amelia gave her an annoyed nudge with her knee as the two settled their bedding's boundaries. Elizabeth chewed her lip, glancing Mary's way. She didn't protest, and while she didn't seem enthused she did seem interested.

Perhaps she could tell the tale. Besides, leaving aside her report to her father and Norrington or her testimony at Will's trial, Elizabeth had never properly told the story to anyone yet. And as she had claimed… it really was a grand adventure—one she kept reliving in her head when she was alone and bored. Furthermore, people were already making up their own versions of the story all around the island. What harm would there be in telling her version? Certainly, there were parts she'd probably want to leave out…

But where would she even begin?

"Well," she began to mull over. "I suppose the story begins that morning, when my father presented me with a beautiful dress with a bodice that was cut just a bit too small…"

She stopped herself, remembering that fateful day and how it had all begun, how it had really begun: with a fateful dream that had pushed her to tuck away a secret, significant coin in the security beside her heart.

"No… No, it really begins before that, when I saw a boy floating near death in the middle of a fogbound sea…"

---

Another two hours had passed by the time Elizabeth had finished her tale, enhanced by the flourish of her inebriated tongue. She shifted some details about, sometimes to conceal things she felt should best remain hidden, and other times to embellish the tale with even more drama and romance than there had already been. Sometimes she waxed poetic about things that hadn't mattered much in the larger course of things, while other times she skipped about things she had forgotten. Her sober self would probably be mortified by the state of the story. Still, she managed to weave a believable tale within those adjustments, and her companions were enthralled.

It had grown late, and once their exclamations and gaiety had begun to die down, Amelia announced that she was far past ready for sleep. So together, Elizabeth and Mary stumbled through the dark passageway to their room with their lamps, ready to tuck into bed and sleep what remained of the night away.

But Elizabeth's mind was still reeling from reliving the excitement of her journey to Isla de Muerta and back, and her sleep did not come easily. With where the story ended, she had become wrapped up once again in thoughts of her beloved Will. While Mary bid her goodnight, she was lost in imaginings of all the ways and places she loved him best, and they were many: the way he spoke, the way he laughed, the way he frowned, the way he battled, the way he'd kissed her last…. As restless as she was, her tired, drunken mind caused her thoughts to grow increasingly fuzzy and muddled, mixing all her experiences and reflections over the course of the day into an oddly woven tapestry of intensely amorous feelings. She vaguely recalled their parting earlier that day, and that when she had said farewell to him she hadn't told him she loved him. And in the spur of a moment, she found herself lamenting ruefully how she could not hold him in her arms and tell him so now… How she wanted… he…

She sat bolt upright, spurred by an inexplicable desperation to tell Will exactly how she felt right away. She plucked her lantern from her bedside table, and found her way to Mary's private writing desk. There Elizabeth sat and, after some rifling, she located paper, pen and ink, she began to compose the letter that would put all other letters of love to shame, so filled with inspiration was she.

She wrote with particularly grand ornamentation:

My most handsomest of pirates~ When I return I shall shower you with this wine I've had, and which you've never had. You've also never had a proper bath, and you need one. Very soon. I wish to make love to you at your earliest convenience. Truly truly, Eliabeth P.S.—

For reasons that could not be wholly explained, other than it seemed right in the moment, she stopped there and folded her letter up tightly. She sealed it with one of Mary's seals before addressing it to Will, then she returned herself to bed. After that, at long last, she finally fell and drifted into a heavy sleep, wandering through a handful of dreams she would not remember come morning.

---

In spite of his better judgement, hours of more labor had fallen heavily on Will's shoulders while he ground, polished and pounded products for two more clients. Now it was after midnight, his latest candle had burned low, Brown had long since gone to bed, and the unpleasant twinge he felt between his shoulder blades cried on his body's behalf that it was high time he did the same. He unhitched the donkey, and made quick work tending to the fire, spreading out the top layer of fuel. Then filling his dousing cup, he set about lightly sprinkling water across the hearth. As the splashes hit the coals, a low boom rose up, deeper and more resonant than normal.

With a frown to himself, Will paused. The last thing he needed was for their firepot to crack, especially when he was confident he'd been careful with his dispersal. After using a poker to examine below the fire and verify the main chamber appeared sound, he tossed another spray of water on the hearth.

Boom.

Will froze, a cold sheet of horror running down his back. This time there could be no mistaking: that sound wasn't the forge at all, it was cannonfire. And soon after, the screaming began.

The pain and fatigue in his body forgotten, Will took a sword and hatchet in hand and stepped onto the moonlit streets of Port Royal, where waves of chaos had already begun to surge for the second time in a month. Again, he saw Missus Woolsey running in her nightcap from a pirate, tears of terror on her face. As he shifted his grip on his hatchet and drew his hand back for a throw, Will began to realize something about this wasn't right.

Was that the Pearl in the harbor or another ship entirely?

He trudged through fight after fight, slashing at one man, parrying and dodging as best he could with another, spinning, ducking, lunging, becoming more and more absorbed in the need to survive, the need to defend. Every now and then he'd blink and see a grinning, rotted skull, only for it to be gone in another instant. In one moment he thought he knew the men he fought, in another they were only shadows and strangers. His arms became heavy, his legs sluggish and ungainly. He barely missed becoming cut across the stomach by a rusty cutlass. This would go badly very soon if Norrington didn't wake up and–

Norrington.

Will felt the world tip about him like a ship at sea, and he stumbled as he tried to steady his mind. How could he have forgotten? Norrington was gone–the harbor wasn't defended as it should have been! And if they were under attack again with no cannons returning fire, that meant the mansion was vulnerable too. The governor… Elizabeth!

This couldn't happen again!

Suddenly he was in a dead sprint down Lime Street, ripping past fire, smoke and rubble, his legs carrying him beyond feeling to the edge of town. He reached the long hill and took to it without hesitation, bolting as far as his body would take him up the shadowed corridor beneath the stars. Then the mud grew thick, sticking to the soles of his shoes and drawing his feet to the ground. Why now?!

His heart began to pound with a panicked rage flaring in his gut as he kept fighting to climb, harder and harder, slower and slower. What if they were already at the mansion and had captured the governor? Somehow the mud was growing more deep the higher he went, the dark canopies of the trees growing thicker and closing over him into a tunnel.

No. Not a tunnel, a cavern… with water climbing up his shins, to his knees, past his thighs. No wonder it was so hard to run, he realized–he'd be much better off swimming. He kicked off and dove forward, cutting through the water without anything to help him see beyond occasional beams of light burrowing down through breaks in the cavern's ceiling. But it didn't matter–he knew the way.

Down he dove to kick and crawl beneath the salty surface, a bed of gold glowing mystically beneath him. Up he surfaced for air and bearings. The caves seemed to go on forever without the benefit of a boat to row. For many minutes his labored breathing mingled with the lapping of the water off the cavern walls.

Until her screams rang out across water and stone.

Now the panic was real. He knew Elizabeth was strong, but he also knew they were many, unfeeling and out for blood. How had they gotten to her before he had? How could he have failed her a second time? He had to get to Jack, had to break the curse–now! The water was not so deep that he couldn't stand. So Will stood and ripped his father's coin from around his neck. He drew a knife from his belt, and cut his palm below where the coin was pressed, grimacing at him with a mad glint. He clenched his fist tightly around the stinging cut, pressing into the wound with might and main, as if willing the blood to bind with the coin, to break them free.

It didn't work. Not without the chest. The water around him began to froth and churn as though it were boiling, and then skeletal fingers and hands burst out and clawed at his chest and shoulders and head. He batted at them, but the water was so high he had little room for movement or power, and soon he was overcome by the bones clutching his clothes and dragging him down into the water by his hair. Barbossa was laughing in the depths of the island's caverns. Will barely had time to take a breath.

Silence enfolded him. The arms pulled him through the belly of a broken, burning ship, past bulwark and keel, through the hull and into the vastness of open water, lower, lower, lower. He tried to kick, but his legs were clenched in tightly closed fingers. And when he looked down to find a target to strike, Captain Barbossa's undead face sneered up at him, as if daring him to try and escape the clutches with which he held Will's ankle. Below, in the pirate captain's other hand, Will saw the dim shape of a 24-pound cannon swaying in the water.

'No! You can't have us both!' Will roared in his mind, snarling and kicking out anew and stretching for the fading sunlight over head.

But Barbossa's grip was unbreakable, like an iron shackle, and Will watched the surface fall farther and farther away, with no part of him but the blood seeping upward from his hand in eerie wisps able to truly reach it. His heart was beating furiously inside his chest and ears, his lungs beginning to strain and sting.

This was his very last chance.

He threw his arms wide, getting ready to twist and strike out.

But there was no Barbossa dragging him to Davy Jones' Locker any longer. Instead, the face he found clinging to him, strapped soundly to the 24-pounder by his boots, was the rotted and enraged skull of his father.

Will gasped, flooding his lungs with caustic seawater.

---

All of the sudden, Will shot to his feet and stumbled backwards, barely catching himself from tripping over the stool on which he'd been seated. For a moment all he could see was deep browns and black, until his eyes began to settle and pick out familiar sights: strips of moonlight bouncing through the windows and rafters, the outlines of whetstones and the grinding wheel, the barely-there glow of the cooling forge. His mind began to find clarity, realizing how little sense so many things had made in the moment. There was no new attack on the town, no danger to Elizabeth's father, no unbroken curses, no secret caves or burning shipwrecks-Elizabeth wasn't even in Port Royal to be retaken. The only dampness to be felt was that of the sweat lathered across his skin. The ground was solid beneath his feet, and the world was calm and quiet. He sighed, hanging his head in relief.

He had fallen asleep at the workbench.

He reached in an attempt to rub the last of the nightmare from his eyes. As he allowed the security of real life to begin to settle back into him, he realized he was trembling and his arms felt like straw. He couldn't remember the last time he had dreamed something so vivid or intense–like he could taste and touch everything that had been around him.

While he knew he needed more sleep, after that experience Will doubted he would be able to find it again for several for well over an hour. And while he had no idea what time it was, the silence and coolness around him made him guess it wouldn't be much longer before dawn would creep in. A part of him was tempted to re-awaken the forge and draw out just one trammel–just enough work to clear his head of the emotions still pumping through his body.

Elizabeth would probably chew his ears off if she knew he was even considering it. Especially since there was bread near a pot of lentils that had been in the house, and his empty cot besides… She would probably be right to do so. Working under exhaustion could lead to mistakes, sometimes dangerous as well as costly.

Will nodded to himself, as the trembling and fatigue began to fade from his limbs a little. He was overtired, that was all. With a little midnight meal, perhaps he could lull himself into a sleep with dreams of her to chase away the specters that spooked him so suddenly. Even if it was just for one more hour, his body would thank him come morning.

All would be well, eventually.