While the next day and a half had pops of tension here or there, things had largely calmed at the Blackwell's. In fact, time proceeded without much notable to report. The women had a more mellow afternoon, each taking time to themselves as they had for the first half of the day. On her own, Elizabeth spent a good deal of time pondering the things that had been said between her, Mary, and Missus Blackwell, as well as revisiting the Gazette and her spiral of questions about it. With the onset of an early dusk came a pleasant dinner that ended with the sipping of saner amounts of wine, and moving to the parlor for a dozen heated rounds of cribbage. Before bed, talk of sex and romance was replaced with competitions over who could tell the best ghost story or the best-worst joke. Somehow, Mary won both, baffling everyone involved and sending them all to bed in good spirits.

That night, Elizabeth was struck with another impulse, which was followed by a realization: in Port Royal, writing even part of a letter to Will had accidentally become something of a nightly routine... and that was likely the reason why she had felt a need to write him the previous evening. She was not so drunk this night, though, and knew that any letter she wrote would likely not be delivered to him before she returned home. So instead she wrote across her mind and heart the things she most wished to say to him when she met him next, then closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

At last, throughout her star-cloaked hours of slumber, she lived slow but mystifying dreams of pulling colorful stones out of her pockets, and tossing them into any container or body of water she could find, over and over again.

While not taken up in a full storm, Thursday proved to be similarly overcast and gray. The women were not so inclined towards staying inside all over again, especially with their energy and health much recovered from Wednesday's lounging. They decided to dress for a walk together, during which Elizabeth and Violet both requested to make some stops in town as the shops were opening up. Violet simply wished to buy specific treats to have for tea. But in addition to picking out a gift for her father, Elizabeth had more peculiar things in mind: curiosities and vague beginnings of an idea or three about something she was keeping secret.

This was how she eventually found herself walking with Estrella to the print shop listed at the bottom of the Gazette, Dutton & Company. She came looking not for a book, pamphlet, or the newest issue of the newspaper, but something else entirely.

Opening the door chimed a bell overhead, and a friendly voice called from a room adjoining the main one through a simple archway, "Welcome, ladies!"

The room Elizabeth had entered was small–several rooms at the mansion were easily larger–but had spacious windows to better illuminate the spines of books laid out along the walls and display tables. A cheery seeming fellow in a simple wig shuffled in from under the archway, polishing a pair of spectacles with his handkerchief.

"Good morning," Elizabeth greeted with a courteous nod, with Estrella bobbing politely behind her. "Are you Mister Dutton?"

"I am not. I believe I am 'and Company,' but in this case I'm certain that should be more than sufficient." His grin wrinkled his eyes as he pocketed his spectacles in the breast of his waistcoat. "Is there something I might help you with?"

"Yes," Elizabeth's fingers twitched a little around the sheet in her hand, before she held it out for him. "I had some questions about this paper."

The shopkeeper took the copy of the Gazette from Elizabeth and gave it a quick glance, before turning his eyes back to her patiently. "What would those questions be, miss?"

She faltered for a beat, overwhelmed by the rush of musings she'd been mulling over since the day before, realizing she should have considered writing down a list. Ultimately she decided to start with a bigger picture, explaining, "Mostly I was wondering how the publishing of it works."

The man's face brightened, first in surprise and then in something close to delight over Elizabeth's curiosity.

"Ah! An interesting request from a lady such as yourself, but not unheard of," he chirruped and spun on his heel. He stepped back under the archway to the second room, which turned out to be the actual printers' space, then beckoned Elizabeth and Estrella both to follow him to the press. "It's really quite simple but ingenious. If you step over here, I can show you the press and how we layout the typeface—"

"No-no," Elizabeth interjected, although she found his excitement for the demonstration charming. "I apologize. I understand the mechanics of the press–I was more interested in the logistics of the matter."

The man pivoted to look back at Elizabeth with a demeanor that had shifted dramatically towards bewilderment.

"That is a bit more unheard of…" he responded, speaking carefully for some reason. "I'm afraid I'll need you to be a bit more specific."

Elizabeth sensed his turn to caution and resisted frowning externally. Hopefully his slower responses were indicative of uncertainty in having an answer for her questions and not a full reticence to answer at all.

"Well, I take it from the title that this is an official enterprise of the Crown?" she inquired with as light a tone she could manage.

"Yes," he responded, lifting his chin as if it were a matter of great pride.

"Who oversees its contents?"

He came to the near side of the press and leaned against it with one arm. "Currently, myself, Mister Dutton and one secondary editor."

"And who oversees you?"

This earned an openly suspicious narrowing of the man's eyes. She tried displaying a disarming smile in response, to appear to have innocent intentions–which she felt she did, mostly. What problem was there in finding out the business of running a press, anyway? It was just as innocent learning how a page was printed or how to run a bookshop, wasn't it? However, he seemed to be measuring her up or trying to discern her thoughts with the way he scrutinized her.

"… Members of the governor's council," was his extremely deliberate reply, sending a clear signal that Elizabeth was treading in waters the printer felt she didn't belong.

But she was learning what she wanted, and intentionally continued to push her boundaries. Being supervised by the council meant her father knew the people overseeing the paper–which also meant she likely knew them to some degree as well. If she could just find out a little more...

"A committee, then?"

"Perhaps." The man straightened himself again and stood, fixing the drape of his coat over his shoulders and now appearing altogether cold in his disposition. "Although I'm afraid that such information is not really your business."

Alright, so she'd tread out far enough into unwelcome waters. Time to come back to shore. She put on a carefully practiced smile of coquettish innocence, shrugging one shoulder in a way that she hoped appeared guileless, and flashing the newspaper once more.

"I was merely curious, because my husband-to-be would like to place an advertisement for his business, to better acquire funding for our future home. I'm here on his behalf."

The man's darkened disposition brightened as quickly as a beam of sunlight finding its way in between the cracks of a window or door frame. He sighed, appearing to feel enlightened and relieved, "Ah! So you're looking for the correct party to which you might bring his requested listing?"

"Yes, quite!" she responded in an act of relief for mutual understanding.

And Elizabeth smiled back at the old man as best as she could–she honestly felt like it was far too much with the way she was going on crinkling her eyes. But inside she felt a simmer begin to bubble in her belly, and while her smile was bright and toothy, her jaw was quite clenched. This wasn't the first time she'd had to use the name or apparent powers of a fiancé to smooth things over with reticent men. Clearly the man didn't know who she was, or he wouldn't be speaking to her in such a dismissive manner. And even if he did know, the part that would have mattered was that she was the governor's daughter–it was her father's power that would have changed his tune, not her own.

She had a nagging thought that she had just gotten a taste of her potential future with Will, as a woman with no title to call her own. She pushed the thought aside, but it left an unpleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach.

In the meantime, the man was shaking his head and tutting as if Elizabeth were a silly girl making silly mistakes–which she had admittedly attempted to pretend to be. He wandered over to a nearby writing desk as he fussed, "Oh, my dear, that is quite a different request altogether! I won't fault you for not understanding the process, though. Running a business can be a bit complicated to understand."

She grit her teeth at his conceit, as she followed him with tip-toed steps and hoped to god he didn't turn about and witness on her face the depths of the offense she felt.

"I apologize for the confusion," she responded quietly as she crept close enough to strain and read some of the notes atop the desk, without coming too close.

The man had taken a seat, slipped out a small sheet of scratch paper, ink and a quill, and had begun to jot something down, seeming to have not yet noticed her having approached closer to the desk. She didn't dare approach any closer to him, lest it became obvious in his peripheral vision that she was trying to see things she knew she ought not. As a result, there was little she could actually make out, even by squinting. But upon one single paper with particularly large and bold writing, she thought she could make out one… name–

The man suddenly tapped his quill.

'Shit, shit, shit…!' Elizabeth forced herself to take two quiet steps back and leaning "casually" against a second writing desk, trying to appear as though she had been staring through the archway at the rows of book spines in the shop the entire time and not obviously spying. Catching Estrella's eye, she saw her maid had at least a dozen questions written across with her face. With a small shake of her head and stern facial expression, Elizabeth tried to subtly signal not to look so concerned. Estrella just looked more flummoxed.

"If neither you nor your fiancé are capable of coming or sending someone in person, you'll want to submit your requests to our address…" the man called, believing Elizabeth to still be across the room. "And there is a fee, which I've written for him here."

Elizabeth restored her pretend smile in time to meet the man's eyes once he faced her and extended the paper for her to take. She approached him again, reaching for the paper until she was nearly within its reach. Then in pretence of changing her mind, she withdrew her hand and asked, "And if he were to take an interest in a longer or larger submission, to generate more interest in his trade?"

"The charge listed is based on the length of the submission," the man explained, and raised the paper a little higher, emphasizing she should take it.

"Would he have to enclose it a certain way?" Elizabeth improvised on the fly.

The man gave her an almost incredulous look, clearly wondering if she was stupid.

She shrugged, pretending naivete as she offered an excuse, "He's quite new to this."

"Yes… I'll add that to my instructions…" the printer responded, placing the paper back to the desk while sliding Elizabeth a lingering look of apprehension. He turned to jot down a few more instructions.

"Thank you," Elizabeth breathed as she stood on tiptoe and attempted to make out the signature she had been trying to read before: Emericke Dutton. She frowned. That must have been the name of the head printer—perhaps not as useful as she had hoped.

The man tapped his quill again, and Elizabeth moved her eyes to look at his face expectantly instead of his paperwork. This time, she accepted the note with a smile. He smiled back at her, but his grin was significantly more formal compared to what it had been before.

"I also noticed an advertisement for a new assortment of books? Might I take a look?" Elizabeth asked, to keep up some pretense of having come on someone else's business.

"Yes, you're welcome to peruse to your liking over there."

She nodded her thanks, and crossed back under the archway with Estrella at her heels. She walked to a small section holding sheet music for piano, and pretended to look over the titles and composers. In reality she was looking inward, having only answered a small number of her questions while making others all the more puzzling. Especially after having witnessed such a strangely defensive reaction at her apparent interest in the paper itself, she was gaining a stronger interest in figuring out some of the more back end details of this printing process…

"Would you like for me to have that delivered to Mister Turner, miss?" Estrella asked quietly in her ear, interrupting her thoughts.

Knowing she didn't mean the sheet music, Elizabeth looked to Estrella to confirm what she was talking about: the note with the printer's instructions, still clutched in her right hand.

"No, thank you," Elizabeth answered, and tucked the note away inside the safety of her pocket. To herself she muttered, "This is for me."

"The girl comin' today?"

Will glanced away from his work at the forge for only a moment, caught in the middle of twisting the bars of a lantern cage with pliers he held in each hand. "No. She's… away."

He looked back to his work before he could see the response from his master, and continued to twist the radiating iron into a decorative scroll. Although he was satisfied with the shape, he clenched his jaw for a moment. He wasn't in the mood for the usual salutations and pleasantries. He probably ought to feel more pleased at his master's appearance, grizzled and groggy as it was, seeing as he'd bounced back a bit faster than expected. Will mostly just felt relieved to finally see the man out of bed. But the feeling came with a large, tired taste of resentment over the way it had taken him long as it had.

The night before, Will had resorted once again to working late to make up for his distractions throughout the day, although not so late as to wear himself back down immediately. He had attempted to pace himself throughout Thursday. Still, some of the work to be done was meddlesome without a second pair of hands, and the process of hiking out to the mansion in order to leave his reply for Elizabeth with the porter had taken a lot more energy and production time than he would have liked. Now it was Friday, creeping past noon—only a day and a half was left in the work week for Will to make good on his promise to his love to knock out the smithy's backlog and open his schedule.

He was determined to keep that promise.

Mister Brown sighed audibly as he wandered to the back of the smithy, then set about donning his apron. "What do you have left?"

Will propped the last uncurled bar of the lantern cage over the firepot. After this final twist was done, all that would be needed was the handle attachment and waxing. Easy. "If you can take over this, I can start the Dodson order."

The Dodson order was large, involving a slew of fixings for the fireplaces, doors, walls and windows of a new home being built on the outskirts of town. It was a large house that would have a fully furnished cook house, three bedrooms, and even a cellar. There were nine doors alone, and while the main doors were being fitted with brass cast knobs and locks, much of the rest of the house would be built and fitted with iron.

Brown didn't seem to agree with Will's suggestion, pulling out the smithy's logbook to review their client's preferences and assess which item to start on first. "I'll start it."

Will's heart sank a bit. By now, the military was familiar with the quality of his blades, and the neighboring townsfolk trusted his kitchenware and other household essentials. But many people in town had yet to learn about his own artistic touch in wrought iron, and he had been looking for the opportunity to prove himself, to stand out from his master with more practical pieces in addition to his beautiful, steel blades. This order was one that had been placed well enough in advance that it was not yet late, and Will was hoping to make a good enough impression to win a chance at building the property gate-a huge endeavor that provided a chance to truly showcase both the integrity and artistry of his craftmanship.

He turned back to the forge and lifted the heating lantern basket to assess the color of the metal. Still too cold. Down it went, back atop the coke. "I'd planned on taking it on myself."

There was a clatter as Mister Brown began to dig out some billets of iron for his first task.

"I will start, you finish. If you finish your projects in time, you may either help with Dodson or start the Clarke order." Mister Brown met Will at the forge and laid his first rod over the fire alongside Will's lantern. "I'm the master, Turner. Not you."

'So now you want to bloody act like it…?'

Will used the tending of his piece in the fire as an excuse to avoid meeting Brown's eye. He new it was irrational to feel resentful—and perhaps he had awoken on the wrong side of the bed. He was admittedly a little cranky. His master's involvement really was what Will needed and wanted most, if he allowed himself to get over his own pride and think objectively. More hands meant more business for more satisfied customers. But of all the orders, the Dodson order had been the one Will had actually looked forward the most to as a promising opportunity, and he resented that it could be snatched away from him so easily-especially after working as hard as he had been for some years now.

"I, uh…" Brown cleared his throat, bent to pick up the poker and stoked the fire pot a little. "I received an interestin' request from the governor, regardin' the negotiation of an early salary."

Will tried and failed to keep a stoic expression, reflexively looking at his master in surprise before he could stop himself. He hadn't realized the governor had already managed to reach Mister Brown. When had that happened…?

"What was some of those plans you was talkin' about yesterday, if you don't mind my askin'?"

Will sighed to himself as he withdrew the lantern from the fire for another check—still a little longer to go—and set it back down once more.

As for Mister Brown's question... would it be alright to tell his master the whole truth? Despite the fact that the governor had never explicitly told him or Elizabeth that they needed to keep their intentions a secret, she and Will had agreed that it would be best to avoid ruffling her father's feathers, at least during their formal little fortnight of probation. It would certainly appear a little less inexpedient if they avoided launching into a courtship so soon after the commotion around commodore's departure, and good appearances would keep the governor a little happier. There was also the difficulty of Brown's situation, and how much it had begun to swallow their funds over the last few months. With his adventure, Will recently discovered more of the unfortunately deep depths people could plunge to when their lives were at the mercy of influences bigger than themselves—and how much more he needed to be cautious with his trust. Furthermore, as much as he wished to say that money was not something he had to trouble himself with in his match to Elizabeth, the truth had been made extremely clear: everything rested on his financial prospects. Especially because of how little time and flexibility he had, he needed to protect whatever meager funds he could earn-they were no longer for his future alone, but also Elizabeth's, possibly even...

No, that was still further ahead and not even certain. The facts that weighed the most right now were these: whatever the future brought, he was determined they were to have a home together. And with the way things were going with Brown's situation, it'd likely be best to avoid sharing the whole truth until a full announcement had been made public.

"I need to make my way on my own as soon as possible," Will attempted for a vague explanation. The heat off the forge was beginning to make his skin feel tight, and he reached for a cloth to blot the sweat that was collecting along the back of his neck. "I'd like to make enough for the cash payment on some land, to qualify for the bonds on the rest of it."

Brown nodded and began to run his fingers over his beard. "You're lookin' to marry, then."

Ah, fuck. Sometimes Will was taken aback by the way bouts of drinking made his master slower but not necessarily more dull. Looking back, there wasn't much other conclusion to be drawn from his explanation. Why else would he suddenly be determined to get out of his apprenticeship and own a house so quickly? Particularly with the governor's pressure?

Brown seemed to think of that as well, asking, "Why the rush? You get her in the family way?"

"No!" Will gasped with his heart jumped high in his throat. He knew he was indirectly confirming his master's deduction about their pending engagement, but the last thing he needed was speculation over a pregnancy of questionable timing making it around town—that for sure would push the governor to rescind his approval.

He withdrew the lantern from the fire, then stepped aside to make room for his master, as he twisted and curled his glowing iron into a scroll that precisely matched the ones at the five other corners, completing the main shaping of the cage.

"I can't say why just yet. We do have our reasons."

"Hm…" came Brown's meditative reply, as he continued to stroke the bushy curls across his chin. "Well, aside from finishing your time, you'll be needin' to prove yourself to the guild. Might be a good idea to stop by the guild house or tavern sometime, see what that'll take. It's a good amount of work, but nothin' you can't manage, I'd imagine. You've got clean hands, and I'll put a good word in for you…"

Will looked to Mister Brown, surprised both by his master's useful advice and the intensity of the gratitude he felt surging through him in response. "Thank you."

The older man nodded quietly and withdrew his heated billet from the forge.

For a few minutes, the two men worked on their separate projects, while the heat was right for each item. As Brown set to work at the anvil, Will rasped away at sharp edges and evened out the surface of his piece. Once satisfied with his work, he warmed the entire lantern for a few seconds, put on some gloves, and unloaded the lantern onto on a bare patch of the hearth while it was still black. Then turning the lantern about with pliers in one hand, he deftly rubbed the hot metal down with a block of beeswax, leaving a thin haze of smoke wafting about his head amongst the shafts of light cutting through the rafters. Throughout his work, his mind puzzled over the advice his master had given him. He could stop by the guildhall after the market opened on Monday… although stepping in on a tavern meeting didn't seem like such a bad idea either.

"As for the money…" Brown continued, shuffling back to the forge to reheat his piece again.

In the process of setting aside his lantern cage and returning the beeswax to its proper place, Will glanced at his master repeatedly from over his shoulder. However, after Brown had laid his partially drawn billet atop the firepot, he said nothing else for a good while, staring long and deep into the orange heat before him instead. Deciding perhaps his master was still sorting things out to himself, Will redirected his full attention to fastening the lantern with its little door, followed by sifting through their existing cuts of wire for a good length to turn into a handle.

Several more minutes swept by in silence. While Mister Brown buzzed back and forth between forge and anvil two or three times. Will made quick work of twisting and curving his wire. Segment by segment he coiled it around a rod to fashion a grip, checking it for symmetry before attaching it to the lantern, waxing it, and polishing it all off. He tested the lamp's hang a few times on an S-hook he had handy, making adjustments to its balance until he was finally satisfied. Then he smiled to himself.

Despite the pressures of his work over the last few weeks, he had been determined to cut no corners that mattered. This lantern was not only composed of beautifully clean curves and lines, but Will was confident it was structurally sound, especially after his diligence proved it hung with no lean in any direction at all. Maybe it wasn't perfect, but it was a work he could be proud of.

If only he could etch his own name into it.

"The truth is, Turner, I can't afford to lose you," Brown's voice crackled from beside the forge, all of the sudden. "These past few weeks have been a right disaster, and it isn't all because of the way you left. I know my own failin's. I'm gettin' old, besides. And to be perfectly honest, I didn't see how much I'd left on you until I had to take it back up myself..."

There was a moment of hesitation, and Will forced himself to overlook the thoughts and feelings that began to churn and swirl tumultuously under his skin.

Mister Brown sighed wearily, then pledged in as clear and certain a voice he could manage, "I'm willing to help you as best I can, if you'll continue to do the same for me."

Will said nothing in response to this at first, setting down his work with as minimal a sound as he could, keeping one ear turned in his master's direction all the while. Certainly, this was a hopeful thing to hear—over the past few months in particular, Will had felt Mister Brown was sinking so deep into the bottle, it seemed the man could see nothing that wasn't directly connected to his drinks. He'd become distant most of the time, like he was trapped in an invisible world of dreaminess that followed him whether he was awake or asleep. Yet in spurts of increasing frequency Brown had demonstrated himself to have begun to grow insensitive, sometimes even lashing out in a manner that was downright callous or angry. Then he would become mild again, as though the tantrum had been driven by another spirit who had left his stocky body. It was the knowledge that his disposition improved and fell apart like waves beating against a cliff that made Will hesitant to immediately respond to his master's moment of apparent clarity with too much optimism—chances were it would be short lived.

A furrow developed along Will's brow as he considered his path forward. What could he do for this man that he hadn't tried already, that hadn't proven fruitless or counterproductive entirely? He had borne him on his back, quite literally, nearly a hundred times at this point, all for his master to almost immediately turn around and drink himself into a stupor again and again and again. He'd thought that to be the right thing, to give him space and time and patience. But instead of finding his feet, he continued to find his vice.

'The only rules that matter… are what a man can do, and what a man can't do.'

Will blinked to himself, surprised his mind would recall that casual, canting drawl in such an exacting way. It had been one thing to intentionally weigh such concepts when their speaker had been the person whose fate hung in the balance of life, death and Will's conscience. Now that Jack Sparrow had long disappeared over the horizon, Will hadn't thought much of him so specifically. But perhaps a recollection of his many little lectures shouldn't have been a surprise? Jack's unorthodox tutelage had made an impression on him, he had to admit, and probably made the biggest impact on many of his decisions over the last few weeks…

What a man can and can't do… What could he do or not do here? Right now, he was debating whether he could help Mister Brown or not. But that left him facing a decision that felt strange and wrong: to help or not to help? He wanted to help—to be a good man, the sort that Elizabeth would be proud to have on her arm and declare her own, the sort to be at peace with his choices. But in helping this whole time, he found helping was not actually helpful at all, to the one needing help nor the one doing the helping.

Ah! Now he was beginning to think too much like Jack, maybe, and overwhelming himself with circular sounding phrases. He shook his head to himself and looked to Mister Brown standing with his half-forged door handle in the forge, just now beginning to glow.

When stuck or overwhelmed on what to do with a complex project of iron or steel, the answer often was to break things down: make a mountain of a task into a series of smaller tasks, take one piece of iron and try cutting it into two… So maybe this wasn't the right way to look at his and Mister Brown's predicament: to help or not to help? Will could do either one really. It was simply a question of what consequence he wanted. Wasn't it? He wanted an effective master—to help his master in a way that would gain him help back in return, not to give help that would be for nothing. Was that self-serving? Maybe… And maybe not? A man who could help others was a man who could help himself.

Like tinder catching a spark, suddenly something lit up inside Will: maybe it wasn't just about helping or not helping. By this point, he had learned better than to think that world was built on such black and white, yes or no, either-or conditions. Maybe instead it was about where he was helping, and with what? And maybe it wasn't just about what he, Will Turner, could do, but what about Jonathan Brown could do as well?

So thinking of it that way: Will Turner could help Mister Brown at the forge. What he could not do…

Will turned to face his master with steady eyes, answering, "I cannot continue the way I have been, sir. It'll kill us both, for certain."

Brown cast his eyes down, by all means appearing small and ashamed under his quiet reply, "O' course."

Will pressed his lips together and swallowed. This felt right so far, even if it was harder for Brown—or because it was harder, asking something of him? Now there was a new question: if Will could not continue to carry his master as he'd had, who would do it in his stead?

It had to be Brown himself, at least for part of the way. Will nodded to himself.

"I will support whatever efforts you make on your own to avoid the bottle," he offered with some sympathy. "But in return, I request that after these two orders are fulfilled we no longer share labor on orders, with the exception of large pieces that require more hands. You will have your commissions and I will have mine. And I will not be required to finish work that you have started."

Now Brown's brow buckled in contemplation, as he reached up to scratch the side of his face. Eventually, he turned back to the forge to take out his iron, stating, "I'll consider it."

No. Rather than be frustrated at not having received a clean answer, Will decided to be determined to make it into a yes. Brown had just said he needed him, hadn't he? He could call him on it, threaten to walk right now—

'Wait… for the opportune moment…'

Ah, there he was again. Giving advice Will didn't ask for, but apparently needed to hear. The opportune moment, was it?

Was it?

Whether or not it was, Will didn't get a chance to decide. The moment passed as Brown took his work to the anvil, and began to pound, asking, "I take it you'd want to be able to keep a cut of your commissions, then?"

Of course. And Will wanted a reasonable cut too. But he had never been particularly good at negotiation—he had always considered being blunt to be efficient, which everyone else seemed to use it to their advantage. However, now that Jack had forced his way into his head twice over the past few minutes, it only seemed natural to call him to mind intentionally this third time. After all, Jack had been far more adept at going toe-to-toe with Barbossa than he ever had been. How'd he go about that again…? Jack asked for the impossible—no, the improbable first. Right? Shot high with the intention of a nice, clean landing a little lower.

He could try it.

"Half," Will demanded.

Brown clipped the edge of the anvil with his hammer in a harsh ring and gave Will an incredulous look.

"Half?!" he balked and stared openly, as if trying to figure out why Will would demand something so unreasonable. Eventually he narrowed his eyes. "Someone's been in your head teaching you things…"

Will kept his discomfort over his transparency to himself. This was new to him, but anything worth doing was worth doing poorly at first.

"A tenth," Brown counter-offered with eyes still studying Will, narrowed near suspicion.

"Two-fifths," Will retorted. He was starting to feel himself grow a little nervous-this was not his goal amount, but they were quickly approaching it.

"… I'll consider up to a third and not a penny more'n that," Brown stated firmly, laying his hammer down. "I'll still be needin' my fees from you, after all."

Will felt his face split into a grin at the surprising thrill of success rushing through him—that had been his thought process and goal exactly! He'd done it! The earnings would be small, but they would be much more than the nothing he'd been allowed to keep so far. And if he just worked and built up a smart slate of orders… well, he'd be cutting it very close with only a year's time, but it was something. Mister Brown shook his head, but Will could see a tiny sparkle of levity in the blacksmith's eyes as he extended his hand to seal the deal.

They shook on it. And although he immediately turned his body back to the grind, Will hardly could have felt lighter.

"Oddsteeth, Elizabeth, you're souring the mood with your brooding. Have a biscuit and cheer up, why don't you?"

Elizabeth shook her head to restore herself to her present reality, forcefully pulling her attention back to her unpainted parchment board and muttering, "Sorry."

In the morning, the weather had cleared at last. To that point, a much more chipper Mary led their group in packing up for a trip to a little garden where they could take tea, paint aquarelle landscapes and enjoy the recently refreshed air. Granted, this wasn't truly a proper tea garden—it was a beautiful clearing on the edge of town that had reportedly earned being called a garden from the specific cluster of flowering plants that made it feel like a garden almost year-round. The townsfolk enjoyed coming to the clearing when they could for a sojourn with friends, family or lovers, so there were a small handful of other groups scattered about them. It should be noted that few made such an event of it as Mary had, bringing wicker seating, a tea set and all.

"What are you thinking about, anyhow?" Amelia chided from her spot under the rain tree, sitting beside Violet in whitewashed wicker chairs, both of them cradling writing desks with partially painted aquarelles on their laps.

"I was just…" Elizabeth began, then paused.

Time was passing quickly now—it was already Friday, leaving only a day and a half or so before Elizabeth would return home again. While thoughts of parting from her friends having done so little did make her a bit sad, she found her restlessness invigorated an eagerness she had fought to ignore. Her mind, when left idle, found itself constantly drifting to the exciting prospect of returning to Will's arms so soon. In only a few short days, she'd managed to collect a thousand little things that she wished to share with him, delightful and distressing, filling the pockets of her mind almost to bursting with tiny souvenirs that were altogether intangible but shaped with personal meaning.

As such, although it was an entire day later, Elizabeth had been stewing over the contents of the newspaper alongside her experience at the print shop, vacillating between coolly musing over several useful things she herself could publish if permitted and hotly fuming over the printer's prejudice.

But she didn't want to take time to explain all the things spinning about her head or why. Not this time. So she settled with a dismissive, "Someone was rude to me at the print shop yesterday. It's nothing worth dwelling on. What were you talking about?"

Mary and Amelia frowned for Elizabeth, but Violet gestured with her brush like she was painting her thoughts out in the air. "We're trying to devise a way to release Miss Alicia from Cicely's service, so she might be more available for Amelia's entourage."

"Oh?" Elizabeth asked in genuine interest.

"Mostly Violet is," Amelia drawled, bending over her lap somewhat to apply some careful strokes of paint to her parchment. "It's a moot point as it stands. I've already told you my family's practically desperate to see me matched with the Enlightened and Devoted Nephew Pembroke."

Mary snorted from her own chair on the edge of the tree's shade, seeming to have been reminded about the man's terrible poetry, thanks to Amelia's sarcastic honorifics.

Elizabeth smirked, deciding to fire a teasing shot into the group. "I thought Violet had made an offer to draw him away?"

"Not for marriage," Violet scoffed loudly. She placed a hand across her chest. "I would merely provide the 'happy' couple a periodic deviation while I'm able."

"Meaning you were joking," Amelia clarified, then began to blow across her paper to dry it.

"I was not!" Violet gasped as if offended, though by her following, sly grin it was made obvious she was playing. "I told you I'd be willing to take his—"

"I thought we agreed on no more men in our conversations?" Mary interjected before Violet could repeat her crude words in public.

"Yes," Elizabeth agreed with Mary, eyes slipping towards her third friend. "But admittedly a few of them might be useful in a plan for Amelia's happiness, so we'll make an exception for that topic only."

Violet rolled her eyes, but was smirked as she bent down to return to her own painting—she was taking pleasure ruffling feathers on purpose once again.

Elizabeth looked to her blank imitation of canvas, at a loss for what she might paint. There were beautiful flowers everywhere in the garden, not the least of which were the fantastic yellow blossoms blooming overhead in the rain tree. But not only did she consider herself a middling painter to begin with, she found herself wishing she could paint something from a perspective that wasn't quite so conventional as a garden.

Perhaps she could paint a perspective on the scene that captured the relatively untamed nature of the setting? She reached to wet her brush and choose her first color, trying to look at the palest hues around them, noticing the sunlight cutting through the fronds and leaves of trees surrounding them, bouncing off the shrubs and casting spotted rays over the girls and the servants picnicking near the carriage.

As she finally settled on trying to lay down pops of pale blue for the sky, her mind wandered back to the topic Violet had insisted she join: finding a way to bring Amelia closer to her secret lover, and possibly delaying her potential marriage as well. The main obstacle was her family's clutch over their traditions, especially her matriarch aunts. The more minor, unwitting obstacles were Amelia's sister, Cicely, as well as the man they had decided to informally dub Nephew Pembroke. Both blocked the path to Alicia for different reasons and needed to be cleared away, so to speak.

"Is there a reason you couldn't … orchestrate Pembroke taking an interest in your sister instead?" Mary wondered aloud, seemingly to have been thinking similar thoughts, but arriving at a different suggestion than Elizabeth would have.

There was a moment of silence while they all split their focus between thoughts regarding the suggestion and their paintings. Certainly, giving the marriage Amelia's family coveted to her sister seemed like a practical solution. But something about attempting such an arrangement with a man they all considered rather unfavorable made Elizabeth's stomach curl. Even if they negotiated an agreement with her sister and received her consent, it felt uncomfortably familiar.

Eventually, Amelia rinsed her brush in a glass sitting near her feet then sat up with a thoughtful expression.

"Besides the obvious issue of her age relative to mine, I would never wish such a fate for her," she sighed. "I envy her, but I also love her too much to chain her to that for my sake."

Elizabeth felt the knots in her stomach relax.

"How tragically compassionate, Mia," Violet swooned herself, but with an air of exaggerated drama.

Amelia's reply was a pair of narrowed eyes accompanied by a deadpan, "Ha ha."

"I also think no to Nephew Pembroke," Elizabeth chimed in, speaking her mind as it ran through different possibilities. "Does Cecily even want to be married?"

"She does," Amelia affirmed, placing her brush down on her lap desk for a moment, linking her fingers and stretching her arms to the sky. "Very much so, actually. I'm sometimes afraid she has unrealistic expectations for what it's like. Which is another reason I'm not necessarily in favor of a scheme of introducing her to someone for my sake."

"Well, what if it's not only for your sake, but a mutually beneficial endeavor? Consider the persons your family might assign to her later," Elizabeth mused, finding herself particularly sympathetic to the plight of the Roberds girls, remembering the flares of frustration she felt on Amelia's behalf. "If your aunts are responsible for her future match, she could end up with another Pembroke type or worse. But by looking now, she can be involved and have a little more control over her own future–the two of you could search for someone who you both feel is suitable for her as well as your family."

Amelia shrugged and waved a hand, as if to shoo away Elizabeth's suggestion. "Even if there were such a man, there's no guarantee the two would take an interest in one another."

"I suppose that is true…" Elizabeth conceded, while assessing her painting for the next swatch of color she'd like to lay down. "But there's no harm in trying to put a few people in her path, if she isn't opposed to it. Again, she would be free to accept or deny anyone this way–it's just offering her more choices."

"And she's bound to take a liking to someone eventually," Violet cut in. "Plus, she could learn some things about modern men, maybe have a little fun–I meant like playing cards, Mary, god!"

Mary kept a warning glare leveled at Violet as she picked her brush back up.

"The point is, there's no guarantee the two would NOT take an interest in one another either," Elizabeth sidled back in, trying to redirect away the two from another little tiff.

"Right," Mary agreed. "As Elizabeth's pointed out: there's no harm in simply trying, as long as everyone involved understands what's happening."

"Alright, I'll give all of you that point," Amelia retorted. "But there are other potential pitfalls, if you're trying to help me. For one thing, Sissy's not required to release her companion after marriage if she doesn't care to." She set her brush back down once again, and held up a single finger to emphasize her point, then added a second finger while she added, "And as I've said: I am the elder. Tradition would dictate that I must be married off before my sister might marry herself—and what tradition dictates is what my family follows."

Elizabeth felt her brow furrow as she weighed the two additional problems out. "Well, she'd have a new companion after marriage, wouldn't she? Why wouldn't she want to let Alicia go?"

"Oh, please, Elizabeth," Violet laughed. "You know husbands aren't real companions. Not for women like us, anyway."

Mary nodded somberly in agreement. "If anything she might feel she needs her companion more than ever—marriage can be so very lonely. Especially with these lords and would-be-lords on estates so far from everything else…"

Elizabeth resisted pulling a face that was too dismissive, though that was her initial reflex. While she may have found circumstances to be quite different for her, she remembered what Mary had hinted at the day before, regarding her own parents: their ugly sounding entanglement of animosity, suspicion and jealousy, how divorced they seemed from the need for any shade of fondness in matrimony. It was only business for the Blackwells. And, yes, Elizabeth knew that there were many people in their social class who treated it as such.

But she also knew that it was not so for everyone.

Carefully, she suggested, "Wouldn't that depend on the partners in question? My parents were very fond of each other…"

"Well. Lightning does strike every now and then, I suppose…" Violet said with a shrug. Setting aside her lap desk, standing, and walking to the little table that had been brought along and set with their tea, she added, "But I would never count on it. Not with such restrictive options to our pool of choices."

Mary was the one to retort, "But if we're to consider Amelia's final point, about her family's preferences, I'd wager tradition would take flight very swiftly if the potential prize were of a certain value to the Roberds family…"

"Which narrows the pool of prospects even further, instead of expanding it," Violet pushed back.

"And all but ensures he'd be far too important to pay her any proper attention that doesn't suit him first and best, which I shall not tolerate," Amelia concluded, seeming to have decided that the topic was now at a close.

But Elizabeth felt restless and vexed. How could she not, with the others being so willing to give up on something so influential on personal happiness as this? Was finding a better option only a dream or a joke to them? Was she a fanatic for believing they could find different paths to their own brighter futures too, or that they shouldn't at least try?

"We might not be able to solve all three problems at once, but if we don't try anything at all it solves nothing," she pronounced, looking to Amelia with determination. "So unless someone here has a better idea right now…"

'Then why not?' was the question that sparkled in the air, dancing with the sunlight in the yellow blossomed canopy above their heads. Elizabeth sat under it for a while, letting it sway with her thoughts in the occasional breezes passing through. Violet picked up a tray of biscuits and brought them around for each friend to select from.

"What other ideas are there?" Mary wondered, at length.

"Well, we obviously can't kidnap or murder your sister…" Violet said as she arrived to present her platter to Amelia.

"Lord, Violet…" Mary reproved in a disapproving grunt, while Amelia rolled her eyes for the thousandth time in the week... and selected a biscuit from the tray.

Violet turned towards Mary, having punched one hand to her hip. "I was obviously jesting. Relax!"

"You've already tried talking to her? Your sister?" Elizabeth asked Amelia. "I'm sure she'd be willing to part with Alicia and find a new companion, if she knew—"

"Oh, of course she doesn't get to choose!" Amelia cut off with a cheek full of biscuit. "At least not until she's wed. Alicia was assigned to her to be a good influence on her. And whether or not she gets more choice in her retinue could depend upon the husband she's granted…"

Elizabeth could feel her jaw practically grinding with her distaste for the situation. Assigned companions, granted spouses… God forbid the Roberds allow their daughter even a little freedom of association. How insipid it all was.

"Anyone else…?" Mary drawled blithely.

"Well, if Lily's to be believed, you could always become a pirate," Violet suggested, only a little more serious than she'd been before.

"And die young?" came Amelia's immediate counter. "Not I!"

"Well, is it better to die young and happy or old and miserable?" Elizabeth teased in return.

"I'd hardly count a death by hanging dying happy, to be perfectly frank."

"So just don't get caught," Violet responded with a relaxed wave of her hand. "And besides, you don't have to stay a pirate if you don't want to. It could just be to steal a part of the family fortune and fly to France. Disguised as a man. It could work!"

"Violet…" Mary began to give a warning.

Violet set her tray of biscuits down back on its table with a clatter, then skipped to the edge of the tree's shade , casting her arms out wide in a playful spin. "You could join a coven and cast a spell upon your parents and others, to let both you and Cecily to have whoever you wish for your companions. And to give you a part of the family fortune and fly to France!"

Now, Amelia was groaning and shaking her head. Mary had propped her chin on her hand, leaning upon her elbow and trying to look stern.

"What is it with you and France?" Elizabeth began to laugh.

"And what a genius plan, to send an English witch and her lesbian lover to the Catholics!" Mary remarked sarcastically. "That couldn't possibly go wrong!"

"Or!" Violet pushed on. "Just the opposite could do as well: admit yourself to a nunnery, then convince Alicia to join the same nunnery. No men required at all."

"I don't want to be a bloody nun either!" Amelia practically screeched, earning a few turned heads from other picnickers in the garden clearing for a moment.

Violet paid no mind to the scene they were causing, standing with both arms akimbo and speaking to them in a tone as if they were mad for not seeing the obvious rationale to her suggestion. "Why not? There's no need to worry about courtship or men of hardly any sort. And I've heard plenty of them are 'friends' of a very good order, if you catch my meaning."

A beat passed between them, as the women registered what Violet was saying.

"They're fucking frien—"

"WE KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN VIOLET," Mary cut in, triggering a flurry of arguing between Mary and Violet that lasted nearly a full minute, wherein neither one could or would hear what any other was saying.

Eventually, Elizabeth couldn't help herself, and she threw her head back in a long laugh. The entire situation was completely ridiculous, especially with Violet stomping her foot the way she was and Mary looking so distressed by their noise. Obviously, being cooped up with little to do for two days had infected them with a sort of cabin fever, and this was the way it had chosen to be rectified. Eventually the girls noticed her laughing, and quieted under moods that turned into a range of things from sheepish to irritated.

While Mary stood and began curtsying and gesturing her apologies to the other garden goers, Amelia shook her head to herself and shrugged.

"The point still is… there are no better, realistic options."

"Yes, there are!" Elizabeth insisted in return, her laughter finally quelled. "You deserve a chance at lasting affection as much as the rest of us. Just give us some time to consider it."

As they put their minds to a moment of sincere thought a new silence fell upon them, feeling extremely pronounced in its contrast to the noise of their recent chaos. Elizabeth became aware of the birds singing in the nearby jungle, the low chatter of neighbors, the jovial laughter coming from beyond their parked carriage. What could they actually do to help Amelia that didn't involve messing with another marriage? What would she have done, if her father had died early and she had been sent into the care and jurisdiction of stricter family in England? While Violet had been joking about it, a part of Elizabeth did like to think the desire to simply run away would probably have won out for her, even if it was later rather than sooner. However, another part of her wondered whether she could have pulled off leaving if she'd lived away from the sea, or if she instead wouldn't have ended up seeking riskier thrills closer to home like Violet—she had certainly speculated as much the day before. In any case, it seemed fleeing was a path that Amelia was not willing to take…

"This does not honestly have to be sorted by you three, especially right now," Amelia uttered with a little laugh, sounding somewhat resigned.

"Well, obviously we'd leave the implementation up to you," Violet replied with a wave of one hand. "But it just seems so sad not to at least try to think up a way…

Mary gave out an aggravated breath. "We've thought up one way. More might come later. But meanwhile, it couldn't hurt to put her in the paths of some well-reputed men or put a few of them in the way of hers and just… see what happens."

"So the only question currently remains for that scheme is, 'Whom?'" Elizabeth concluded.

More thoughts in more silence.

Elizabeth found, to her great frustration, that every name that came to mind was one she felt was not a good candidate—she had herself rejected the advances of a good number of them, interested as they were in her family's position of government. To make it worse, there was one specific name she knew could have been a perfect fit, to the point it kept returning to her mind over and over again. But he was not on the island at this time, for one thing, and who knew how long it would be before he was again. If Elizabeth had confirmed anything about the legend that was Captain Jack Sparrow, It was that he was both extremely wily and lucky, and would be a slippery catch at best. For another issue, after all she had put James' heart through recently, she couldn't help but feel that any attempt by her to match him with someone else, especially as soon as this, could only draw more attention to the way her feelings for him weren't what he'd wanted or been promised. And while she may not have loved him in a romantic sort of way in the end, she did truly care about him all the same...

But none of that was anything she cared to explain. So, no. There were no real options she could bring to mind.

"What would catch your family's interest, Amelia?" Mary asked on her way back to her seat and her painting.

"Land. Titles," Amelia droned dispassionately, with her arms crossed over her stomacher. "Possibly prestige, depending on what it entails for the future… They're extremely creative."

Violet let out a little squeak as a thought came to her. "Would it be worth it to try the Muddifords? They have two sons on the market right now…"

Elizabeth groaned by reflex.

Mary turned on her heel and looked at Elizabeth with a surprisingly irritated expression. "Yes, Elizabeth, they have plantations. Every man worth anything on this island has land, and that land is a plantation. When it practically grows a fortune out of raw earth, no sane man is willing to say no. The only place we'd have a chance of finding a man who doesn't is back in England, and that is obviously not an option."

Elizabeth grit her teeth, suddenly seething. Sane? Sane? This was exactly why this godforsaken colony was the way it was, why their ports and coasts were raided, why their tradesmen bent their backs sunrise to sunset while others lay as tho suffering from from mere boredom, why people ran into the jungles for their lives, why picking a marriage partner too often felt like shopping for a model of cage: greed. It was everywhere, not just the plantations. In fact, planters were assuredly not the only people relying on slave labor to support their properties or lifestyles. Her own father had attempted to use slaves to run the mansion's kitchens for a time, before his conscience had somehow gotten the better of him and he extended manumissions.

He was the only Englishman in the Caribbean she knew of to have ever done so without being on his deathbed. Too often, for too many people, money always won, with no collateral too great a price to pay for a private fortune. Why did the world treat money like it was all that mattered? It didn't matter, not really. All the gold and silver in the world could never feed a person's body or heart or soul on its own. In the end it was just… metal. Metal they pretended meant something more than it did.

How fitting and cunning had the curse of Isla de Muerta been for Barbossa's men, luring them in with that alluring treasure in order to attack those very appetites that drove them to slaughter. A part of her wished it was a curse that could be cast upon every greedy monster that deserved it. How many starving skeletons would it reveal, on this island alone?

Violet seemed to have noticed the heavy, real tension that had fallen upon them, and began to attempt to diffuse the situation, stammering through compromises, "He might not need to be a planter! There are also good … traders as well! Or…"

"Yes, the Roberds family will definitely be swayed by a traveling merchant. Brilliant," came Mary's sarcastic reply.

"That is actually what my father's done…" Amelia noted thoughtfully.

"And you never know: some sons could be more sympathetic than their fathers," Violet attempted to suggest.

Elizabeth shook her head. "How often have you heard of that? Enough that they'll actually do something meaningful?"

Mary rolled her eyes, and Amelia sighed loudly. It was clear they had reached an impasse on the matter of men like the Muddiford sons. Which, as unfortunate as it was, seemed to prove Mary right in one thing: ruling them out eliminated most of the island's options.

"Have we any cousins between us?" Mary inquired under a pinched brow.

Violet shook her head. "None readily accessible from my family."

"Nor mine," Elizabeth added, knowing she did have one cousin and an uncle who both were looking to marry, but whom her father had called cads on more than one occasion.

"If I did, it wouldn't fix anything," Amelia surmised.

"What about an officer?" Violet returned with a new suggestion.

Elizabeth felt her heart do a tiny jump of panic. She knew where this was headed, who would be suggested soon, and felt it had to be stopped.

"Well, a lot of them are tail chases or have terrible tempers, like Colonel Gulley," Violet began to ponder. "But there are a few decent seeming fellows among them. What about Commodore Norri—?"

"What does it matter, if he's going to be gone for extended periods of time anyway?" Elizabeth blurted out. "Look at him now: he's been gone for nearly three weeks and who knows when he's coming back? If you're determined to give Cecily a reason to no longer need a companion, I hardly think an officer of rank would be the right fit."

It was a completely improvised counterargument, a shot in the dark, but somehow it seemed effective: while Mary appeared to be something akin to relieved, Amelia and Violet both appeared thoughtful.

Certainly, she didn't disapprove of a suggested coupling of Cecily with James… if it had happened to happen by happenstance. Or simply without her involvement or knowledge. In fact, under more natural circumstances, it would have been a very happy thing and something of a relief to see him married to a friend, knowing that the hurt she had likely caused him could probably be left in the past. It seemed a smart match—perhaps just as smart as theirs would have been, if only for the reason that Cecily might legitimately enjoy being a more traditional wife and mistress of an estate. However, if this scheme were to play out the way they were intending, it would not be a match by happenstance—it would be a match by design. And Elizabeth could not shake the feeling that her involvement in so personal an orchestration would only risk more hurt for multiple parties involved.

What's more, revealing her desire to keep away from further meddling with James' feelings would likely open the door to questions about the true nature of her relationship with him. And within those questions and answers lay a precariously hidden thread, leading to the things she had been so careful to keep from Missus Blackwell and the rest of the world. While she couldn't stop him from sharing the truth eventually, it would be prudent to avoid rushing into situations that would reveal it sooner instead of later—at least until she was certain her own marriage and security could not be compromised.

There had to be another option. Who… who? Was there a politician who didn't own acres of land—or at least not something that was a plantation? Unlikely, otherwise they couldn't be in politics. Maybe a doctor? Or a lawyer! There could be prestige in that, even if it was a little lower than usual. Elizabeth opened her mouth to suggest as much.

"It's alright to not have an exact answer right now. We're in no rush," Amelia spoke up in a gentle tone, helping to alleviate the pressure that had built up over the course of the conversation. "I doubt my marriage arrangements will begin to be made before next Spring, especially if I can prolong the courtship."

Violet pulled a slightly devilish smile, offering a new suggestion, "Perhaps we ought to be focusing our efforts in sabotaging Pembroke's eligibility instead?"

"And risk the wrath of that family?" Mary balked. "No, thank you."

The air was becoming warm and lazy, the fragrance of the flowers noticeable again, and Elizabeth let out a long breath of her own. With the group quietly pensive, the worst risk of her secret's exposure seemed to have passed. One by one they returned to their refreshments and paintings, working and pondering without another word for nearly half an hour. For herself, Elizabeth could not motivate herself to paint another stroke, leaving her paper half painted with a blissfully blue sky accompanied by a void of nothing underneath. Her mind was still reeling from the rush of relief over having avoided a potential disaster and the desire to have something of a plan in place for her friend. Vague ideas of fixing things "someday" never seemed to amount to much, hardly ever, in her experience…

Maybe it was better this way? Soon she would return to Port Royal, where it was likely she'd become wrapped up in preparations for her own wedding, putting both physical and mental distances between her and their matchmaking plot. In the meantime, the other three had obviously kept in closer touch and would continue to do so, living much closer together in the northern parts of the island. Together, they would continue attending the social events that Elizabeth would likely soon be leaving behind her. In fact, there were only a few times it seemed that people came together from across the island to meet, the soonest being…

An idea struck her.

"What if we all met and tried again at the festival in Port Royal, for opening the Christmas markets?" she asked slowly. "The festivities will last all day and night, and everyone who is able will be there at some point…"

The other three paused and registered the significance of her suggestion: the event was large, and while it was often dominated by country games and other lowlier forms of entertainment, it still included several events appealing to the higher social classes, including a grand banquet and dancing. If they wanted to find a chance for Cecily to find someone she might like, there would hardly be a better time or place than the weekend of the festival.

"That's true…" Amelia replied eventually. "And that's only about a month away…"

"The milling about would help disguise us going through our special 'shopping list' for the day," Violet agreed.

"And Cicely will be able to actually be there and decide things for herself," Elizabeth replied, pressing her most important point.

The group sat perfectly still as they digested the idea, before Mary nodded firmly to herself. "This seems to be a much better course of action."

Elizabeth grinned, happy to have come to some sort of realistic conclusion. "Then it's settled! We'll reunite at the opening of the Christmas markets. And if not then: Twelfth Night."

It was the height of afternoon by the time Will and Mister Brown settled down for their dinner break. While Brown took care of cooling the forge, Will disappeared into the house to serve them both some gallimaufry that had been left to simmer in the fireplace. It was an extremely simple stew this time, made from lightly spiced lentils instead of meat to help the two men pinch their pennies, and as Will spooned it into their wooden bowls, he began to consider whether he could soon use some of his returning free time to go fishing again. Perhaps he could convince Elizabeth to come along, for old times' sake.

Brown's stomping announced his ascent up the stairs, and the tired older man was soon through the open door and slumped heavily upon a chair at their old dining table.

While things had become somewhat dreary about the house ever since the tragedy of Missus Brown's passing, it was clear from the quality furnishings about the house that the smithy had one been a thriving business and the Browns had lived quite comfortably. The large and sturdy table was one example, of course, but even the fireplace alone featured a gorgeous expanse of hardwood for its mantelpiece within beautiful brickwork. And for his entire time he'd been kept in the Browns' care, Will had enjoyed the privilege of sleeping on a proper bedstead, which was much appreciated—even though the tick was filled with straw, it was a far cry from sleeping on the floor, as might have been more usual.

After serving himself, Will set two bottles of pale liquid atop the table, sat down, and reached for the remainder of their bread.

"What's to drink?" Brown asked, waving a finger at the bottles in a voice he probably thought sounded casual but Will knew to be hopeful.

"Small beer," Will answered as he broke a chunk of the staling bread from his cut and set it atop his stew to soak and steam.

Brown's face visibly fell, but he reached for his bottle all the same, muttering, "Lucky us…"

Will shook his head and offered his master the other half of his bread, which Mister Brown accepted begrudgingly, copying Will's earlier action. Even before his drinking had become a problem, Brown had vociferously rejected small beer as nothing more than 'piss water.' But it came with a higher guarantee of freedom from stomach illness compared to water, it was cheaper than coffee or tea, and would most assuredly not be getting either of them drunk anytime soon. The ailing man would simply have to accept his piss water for the time being.

They sat without speaking for several minutes, worn out from what had already been a very long day of demanding labor. Will was growing sore and stiff across his back and shoulders. Actually, nearly every part of his body felt heavy and slow today, contributing to the great distances he stared into as he finally dug into his meal. He hadn't even finished half of his stew yet when the sensation inevitably reached his eyelids and he could feel the familiar weight of sleepiness settling into his limbs. He would have to pass on his wash up at the fountain today—his bed was calling to him with a song so sweet it was practically a spell. He could just lie atop the quilt…

A child's shriek jolted him into a greater alertness for a moment, before he realized it was just the Hackleys and their friends at play in the streets outside. The noise wasn't a bother to Will, who was used to most of it—at least when little Ruthy had given up on singing that song. Which reminded him…

"I've been meaning to tell you: we'll be rotating our laundry a few times a week now, instead of the usual time. So if you could leave your things out for me to collect in the evenings, that would be helpful," he revealed to Mister Brown, blinking to try and wake himself back up for a little longer. At Brown's confused expression, he continued, "I struck a bargain with Missus Hackley in exchange for the work done on her door."

To that Mister Brown said nothing for several seconds, simply smacking his lips and chewing his bread while he stared at Will from under his bushy eyebrows. Then he looked down to his food, grumbling, "Could've used the coin…"

"It'll even out with the cut expenses, which we need," Will argued back in an even voice, having expected this exact rationale from his master. Spare coins were freely spendable, while bargains and barters were not. Although the man was currently handling his current spate of sobriety well enough, his thirst would begin to affect him in ways that made him irrational. And while Will was determined not to nanny his master, he was also determined to protect their finances—his finances.

They were interrupted by a small shadow of shape prancing in through the open door and leaping lightly onto the table, lured by the smell of their meal.

"Ah, Mister Majesty! It's been a while…" Will greeted the neighborhood's most familiar cat, who was in fact a female but kept her title proudly all the same. Though she was almost entirely black, most of the townsfolk left her in peace, as she'd proven useful for ratting.

While Brown made a face and cursed the feline under his breath, Will reached out a hand to touch her back. She deftly dodged him as she went about sniffing at their table. Eventually she began to approach the remains of their bread, and seeing as Will had already been extending a large tolerance for her presence on the table to begin with, he finally stood and picked her up with both hands cupped carefully about her ribs.

"Sorry, that's ours—and I'm not sure you'll like this very much, anyhow."

She mewled an unhappy protest as he carried her out of the house and down the steps, to drop her on her feet in the street. Mister Majesty gave Will a seemingly begrudging look from over her shoulder with amber-ringed emerald eyes, tail a-twitching.

"Don't give me that face. There are plenty of scraps for you at the fish market and the docks. Off you go."

While she looked away from him with her ears scanning about, she didn't move, and Will shook his head. Then a yawn came to him unbidden. That's right… He'd been planning on a nap.

He was about to turn heel and head back up the stairs when he realized there was someone standing at the smithy door—and this time it wasn't Hezekiah or Denys. In fact whoever the man was seemed quite lost, clutching a paper Will could only assume had an address or directions. Technically, they were closed for the day and he himself was extremely sleepy, so Will could have rounded about and gone straight to bed. But he thought there would be no harm in answering some questions first, at least letting the befuddled man know when they would be open tomorrow. So he stepped around the cat, who had now sat on her haunches, and called a greeting to the visitor.

Friday passed almost like the world was in a rush. Afternoon in the tea garden passed like a blink, with the women putting aside their paintings in favor of food, games and an outbreak of dancing, accompanied by a fiddle played by one of Mary's footmen. It created an atmosphere that felt like a piece of the ancient worlds, reveling under the watchful eyes of Artemis or some other beings in the trees. Even their neighbors were drawn into their celebration, until sunset was suddenly upon them.

Once home, Amelia was greeted by her family carriage and staff, recently arrived to help prepare for her journey home in the morning—after all, she had been there for much longer than Elizabeth or Violet, and all good things must end with time. While she guided efforts to gather her things, the women took turns bathing, shared one last small supper together and then retired early, worn out from their long and lovely outing.

Now it was morning, Elizabeth's final day with her friends. The four of them and Missus Blackwell had gathered after their breakfasts in front of the house to see Amelia off. One by one they took their turns with her, clasping hands, embracing and saying their farewells. Her embrace with Mary was tight and long. Violet shed a great deal of tears, and managed to restrain herself to one joke about needing a new bedmate from now on—at least it was tame enough Mary's mother didn't seem to notice or care.

When Amelia approached Elizabeth they kissed each other's cheeks, much as they had done when they had met on Tuesday evening. In the smiles they exchanged there was a new unspoken thread of closeness and understanding, and Elizabeth was surprised by the sharp tug she felt upon her heartstrings.

She tightened her fingers around her friend's. "Let's not go so long without speaking again."

"Oh, I believe meeting in a few weeks will help prevent that," Amelia replied with a sparkle of reassurance in her dark eyes.

"Well, assuming all goes to plan." One would hope. Elizabeth reached out for her friend one more time, and they shared a final embrace. "I hope I'll be kept au courant?"

"Évidemment," Amelia responded with a toothy grin.

Then she was in her carriage and waving them all goodbye, blowing kisses and laughing as she disappeared down the road.

With Amelia gone, Violet announced she was in need of rest, and the four remaining women retreated back into the house's parlor with slightly dampened spirits. However, although Elizabeth felt a little heaviness fall into her heart at their present partings, she began to feel an equally strong lift of eagerness for her own return home to her loved ones. For the hundredth time in a handful of days, she found herself already thinking about how she would tell Will about what she had seen and done and felt, or reviewing once again the words she might use to convey to her father all she wished for him to hear as well. The arrival of her own family's carriage a mere hour after Amelia's departure only heightened her anticipation.

Then came the letter, delivered by Mister Burley.

She had chosen not to concern herself overmuch with her illusive letter to Will, as there was little that could be done about it and she didn't wish for it to sour her sweet experiences. Now she was glad at her decision, because it was clear even from the cryptically addressed 'E. S.' on the outside who was responding, and that her message had found its mark. She would know his clean and unpretentious lettering from across a room.

Now she could only wonder whether that was entirely a good thing. She remembered even less of what she wrote today than she had the morning after, and wouldn't have been entirely surprised if she had written something rather incoherent.

However, Will's response was both reassuring and cryptic at once. Perhaps because he wasn't certain of their privacy, he had chosen many vague phrasings relying on her inference. He implied that he was making time to rest rather than work himself to the bone, which elicited a deep sigh of relief Elizabeth hadn't realized she had been holding throughout the week. But he also mentioned her "proposals…" and wasn't quite sure what that could have been. Had she asked him to marry her? That seemed like something a drunken version of herself might do: requesting an elopement or some other such thing.

Actually, for all she knew she could have also asked him to help commandeer a ship and run away with her on the high seas, like he had managed to do with Jack. Heaven knew she'd fantasized about it more than once.

Her warm feelings and guessing games were cut short, however, when she read his third paragraph, and found for one topic he had chosen not to be so vague. In fact, the emotional about-face that rocked through her must have been so drastic to have shown plainly upon her face, as Violet's voice called her name, inquiring whether she was alright.

But with the thunder that began to roll in her ears, she wasn't entirely sure.

Giving swift apologies to her hosts and Violet, Elizabeth announced there had been an unexpected misfortune that required her at her father's house, and plans would have to be changed—she would be leaving as soon as possible.

The Swann's horses and coachmen were fed, watered and allowed to rest. Mary and her mother rushed to instruct the kitchen staff on their changed plans, while Estrella and a loudly swearing Violet helped Elizabeth pack her things in a textiled tornado of haste. Her shifts were retrieved from the laundry and stuffed into her trunk still damp off the line. Her books and painting and other souvenirs were likewise shoved in without ceremony. After a light tuck-in for tea, it was time for another round of farewells, many hours before they all had originally expected.

Large tips were left for all the Blackwell staff, particularly for their rush in her unexpected departure. Violet cried again, though this time she seemed as much put out by the alacrity of their parting as she was brokenhearted.

"That letter wasn't from your father," she accused Elizabeth. "I saw the pen. You're leaving us for that flame you're keeping, I just know it."

Had she been in a more normal mood, Elizabeth would have enjoyed trading accusations back. However, now all she could focus on was the deep cuts she'd felt reading Will's letter, and her pressing need to speak to her father as soon as possible.

"If that's what you want to think, so be it."

Before she could step away, Violet caught her elbow and drew her into an embrace. "I'm going to give you a book. I want you to read it."

"I look forward to it. And I'll write to you, Violet. Thank you for everything."

Her goodbyes to the Blackwells were quick and cordial, with many apologies and promises of proper thank yous offered by Elizabeth. Missus Blackwell was gracious and forgiving. Mary seemed to struggle with what to say, but gave her own careful hug with well wishes in the end.

Elizabeth had just been loaded into her carriage with Estrella and her footmen, their horses just spurred into a trot, when she heard a shout come from the Blackwell house. Elizabeth turned then, and saw Mary running after them with surprising speed, Elizabeth's hat clutched in her hand. The carriage was stopped in time to allow her friend to catch up, and Elizabeth slid open the glass and leaned out the carriage to grab her hat.

"Thank you, Mary!" Elizabeth gasped, then made to withdraw back into the carriage, but Mary clutched her wrist and prevented her from doing so.

"I need to tell you something before you leave."

Now? Why didn't she say it earlier? They were risking darkness falling while on the road.

Elizabeth shook her head and tried again to pull back into the carriage. "Write it to me."

"No. It needs to be here," Mary replied with a firmness that contrasted sharply with her hesitance at the doorstep.

Almost by reflex, Elizabeth glanced back at the house, to see whether she could make out the demeanor of Missus Blackwell. While she couldn't, she had a feeling that Mary's mother played a role in whatever was about to be said, and why it hadn't been said before. She nodded her consent to Mary, who loosened her grip on Elizabeth's wrist.

Mary hissed lowly, obviously cognizant of the other surrounding the two of them, "You know what they're saying, don't you? Why we kept asking you about the commodore?"

This was not remotely what Elizabeth expected to come up, and she felt her brow furrow deeply. She guessed, "Because you wish to marry him?"

Mary hesitated for a moment, but then shook her head. "No."

Elizabeth glanced back at the house, and saw the figure of Mary's mother approaching them with a quick walk. "Then tell me quickly."

Mary took a breath. "They're saying that an engagement had already been arranged, the announcement was just waiting for the trials to pass and the dust to settle. But he found you to have become… involved with one of the other two, or both, and ended it with a broken heart to avoid disgrace."

So some of the truth had made it out—but of course, as usual, it had been twisted, likely to fit some other person's agenda. Elizabeth let out an angry breath.

"So what?" she snapped. "Am I to be a whore now, for simply being kidnapped and coming back alive and with some moral decency in the face of injustice. Is that it?"

Her tone was harsh, but Mary seemed to realize that the acid on her tongue was not meant for her personally, even appearing sympathetic although somewhat confused by her talk of justice.

Elizabeth shook her head. "Their pettiness never ceases to astound. I don't understand what gains they have to come after me in such a way."

"Yes, you do," Mary rebutted softly.

Elizabeth felt a cold feeling mingle with the heat of anger, burning and freezing side by side. Dread.

Mary's grip on her wrist tightened again, as she pulled a little closer to whisper with some urgency before her mother was finally with them, "It's your father, Elizabeth. His policies have long been considered unnecessarily restrictive to many in the planter class, and the time will soon come for a new appointment to governor. The island's been laid open to attack under his watch. And now his daughter has become involved, one way or another, with strange, criminal men. If the governor cannot control the behavior of his one and only daughter…"

"… then how is he to be expected to properly govern the colony?" Elizabeth concluded with a snarl. "Unbelievable."

Mary nodded solemnly, releasing Elizabeth's arm at last and giving a final warning of, "Be careful."

Elizabeth returned Mary's gesture in thanks. "I will not be their pawn."

Then she slammed her window shut.

By the time Elizabeth stormed through the mansion's doors and into the dining room, it was well past sundown, but her ire had not cooled. As she'd expected, her father was entertaining a group of officers for dinner, and all their heads had turned towards her, gilded by the candlelight, ornamented in various degrees of powder and astonishment.

"Elizabeth!" her father exclaimed, standing quickly—and prompting the entire table to stand as well. "Welcome back, my dear. I wasn't expecting you so early."

"Father, I must speak with you."

The table of wigs turned in unison to her father's direction. His expression faltered ever so slightly, but in the end his practice propriety won out with a smile. He dropped his head in a nod, and Mister Paterson sprang from his waiting place to draw his chair for him.

"Of course," he responded. Then with polished grace he bowed his head to his guests. "Excuse me, gentlemen."

Elizabeth spun about without waiting, marching to wait in the middle of the foyer, near the landing of the staircase. She could hear mutters of sufferance and coughs and grunts as her father crossed the dining room and stepped into the foyer, allowing them to take their seats again. With quick, tall strides he was soon at her side, and gentle hand cautiously reached for her elbow.

"Elizabeth—"

She jerked her arm away from, staring at him with the searing fire of betrayal that had burned inside her for the entire afternoon and evening.

"What is happening?! You said—you said that we would talk about this—" she blustered and choked.

"Yes," her father conceded in a calm voice. "Yes, I did. But listen to me, Elizabeth:"

She tried to interrupt him, but he grabbed her shoulder lightly, and she let him speak his part.

"They are not staying the night. I promise."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but once they had it was as if they were a magic spell. Elizabeth felt her pain-filled rage begin to melt away, leaving in its place a relief so deep she almost felt she'd lost the ground beneath her. She reached for the stair rail to steady herself as her father continued his explanation.

"Their ships arrived much sooner than I anticipated, otherwise I would have told you before."

Her fury had been so intense, it felt almost like the emotions rushing in to replace it were competing in similar intensities. Her relief remained, but contended with her exhaustion, as she now realized she had tensed her entire body for the duration of her four hour journey, compounding with the typical fatigue of said journey. Misgivings began to arise, over whether or not she had assumed too much, over questions concerning why her father knew the regiment was coming and hadn't bothered to tell her or why Will had been the one to warn her, over weakness in her limbs. And finally embarrassment, shame and regret…

Her father seemed to recognize some of what she was feeling, taking his hand from her shoulder and placing it lightly on her back.

"If you wish to retire to your room early, I shall explain about your journey and arrange to have something sent up to you. That will be the end of it," he said to her quietly.

Relief. Exhaustion. Confusion. Shame. Relief…

Gratitude.

Elizabeth looked up to meet her father's understanding eyes, blinking rapidly and barely able to think properly enough to form words. "Thank you."

He merely put one arm around her shoulders, and waved for Estrella's approach from the doors.

"It will be alright."

It took a moment after her knock at the door before Elizabeth's father answered, already dressed down for bed. Through the crack in the narrowly opened door, a twisted expression of uncertainty brightened into a milder look of bewildered surprise, as he opened the door wider and exclaimed his daughter's name, asking, "Are you alright? I'd thought you'd gone to bed."

She too was dressed as much, and the hour was admittedly rather late after her father had entertained his guests as long as he had. But Elizabeth offered a small smile as proof contrary to his beliefs. She came in peace, and hoped it was clear.

"Yes, I'm alright. I was only wondering…" She raised her hands to draw attention to the lovely folded chess board she'd carried along with her. "… if you might fancy a game?"

The perplexity on her father's face did not disappear, but the surprise that had mingled with it grew more obvious and mixed with clear delight. He opened his door completely to admit her into his chambers. "Of course!"

As he propped the door ajar and set about turning up a few lamps, Elizabeth looked about for a place to set the board—generally speaking, when they did play they played in the rooms downstairs, where there were tables and good lights for it. Like many other rooms befitting their station, he had a writing desk and a vanity, but no useful tables for such a task as this.

Her father seemed to notice this at about the same time as she was, as he shuffled to his bedside muttering, "Allow me to…" and folding his covers back down, attempting to press the blanket flat. It was far from the job that would be expected from their paid staff, but once he found it smooth enough for his work, he gestured for Elizabeth in its direction. "Please, sit."

She smiled and climbed onto the bed's foot, where she knelt with her nightgown tucked underneath her knees and set the board between herself and her father.

It was a beautiful box—one other rare thing they were very lucky the pirates had missed in their hasty raid—set within an ornately carved frame and made from polished walnut, bone, and mother of pearl, all beautifully contrasting against each other in the iconic checkered pattern on one side. The most fantastic thing about this box was that it was not a chess or draughts board alone. Flipping it to the other side revealed the cagey inlays designed for Fox and Geese, allowing them to choose between more than one game. In fact, in addition to the beautiful woodwork, along one side there were elegant brass hinges, and on the opposite side a matching fastener that held the board together.

It was this little latch that Elizabeth unfastened, allowing her to fold the board open like a very large book, revealing a hollow inside. From there she withdrew some drawstring pouches holding the various pieces used to play their games, gradually revealing a third, triangular board design on the inside that was useful for playing backgammon or doublets. They were not playing either of these tonight, so after she identified the pouch with the pieces they needed, she shut the board up and turned it to the side intended for chess.

She withdrew from her chosen pouch one pawn of each color. After jumbling and passing them blindly behind her back for a moment, she wrapped her fingers fully around each piece, and held her closed fists out for her father to pick. He pointed to her left fist, and she revealed a white piece. Now knowing their assigned teams, they each set about claiming their pieces and placing them in their appropriate starting pieces atop the board.

"You know, I can't remember the last time we've played anything just you and I?" her father commented lightly, clearly happy to have her company even at this late hour.

"Neither can I," Elizabeth confessed in return, feeling her own happy spark of nostalgia as she was nudging the last of her pieces into position. "But being around the right people has reminded me of the importance of play."

Her father looked at her with a little twinkle in his eye. Whether or not this was a revelation, he agreed with the notion with a clear, "Indeed!"

Elizabeth felt a smile in her heart and let it find its way to her father. Both at the ready, he made his first move with one of his central pawns. Elizabeth mirrored him, and for a brief moment they danced about, Elizabeth placing her focus on the game and emptying her mind of other thoughts. Launching the first attack, she captured a pawn, then placed her father's king into an early check with her queen. Without a fuss, he slipped it into a position that was now guarded by one of his bishops, freeing his precious piece from immediate danger for the moment.

"How was your trip?" he asked lightly, as she attempted to lure her bishop away with a pawn's sacrifice. "It's been a while since we've parted for so long. Well, besides…"

Besides the obvious, the incident, the ordeal, of course. She resisted shaking her—he was doing it again, holding his words inside. As she pondered her next move she allowed the fresh recollections of her visit to pass over the back of her mind once again, feeling somewhat like warm sunshine passing through a window and bathing her skin.

"It was lovely—I feel quite refreshed," Elizabeth answered, granting her father another genuine smile. She released her first knight, but now her father was the one that mirrored, placing pressure on her queen and making her frown about being placed on the defensive so quickly. She retreated, answering quietly as she studied the board carefully, "I had meant to write to you once I'd arrived, but there ended up being something of a party awaiting me. In the end, it slipped my mind."

"Oh?" he asked, obviously as surprised by her friends as she had been when she'd arrived at the Blackwells. "I take it there were others present, then?"

He placed a reinforcement behind his first pawn, while she advanced her knight, not quite in range of a target yet, but clearly plotting to put her father's king at risk once again, even without having a larger strategy laid out yet, ever bold and aggressive. But once more her father mirrored, and her queen was placed into another jeopardy.

"Yes," Elizabeth eventually responded, settling her chin into the palm of her hand as she thought, "Mary had invited two other friends from our debut season. So there were four of us altogether for most of the week, besides her mother."

She hovered her hand above the board for a moment, then withdrew it as she reconsidered her play.

"I hope that was a good thing?"

"It was, mostly," she assured her father, but fell silent as she retreated her queen one space, and her mind split its thoughts between the board and her feelings.

On the outside, they quietly crossed their pieces for a moment, her father continuing to place pressure on her attacking pieces with carefully deployed pawns, unleashing his queen and forcing her knight to retreat. But he lost to her a bishop in the process, having to add one of his own knights to the battle to make up for the loss, and Elizabeth's attacks continued to drum down in carefully placed waves.

Inside, things felt much less steady or methodical as she considered again why she had chosen to extend her olive branch now rather than waiting until morning. She recalled the various waves of emotion she'd been feeling over the past few days, the resonance of a forgotten camaraderie punctuated by moments of sobering sadness. She thought of her and her friends' laughter, of their joint effort covering Violet's face with pillows for her latest smutty pun, of Amelia waltzing with a shadow down the upstairs corridor, and of the feeling of Mary's friendly brush strokes through her freshly washed hair. She remembered the surprises, the misunderstandings and understandings exchanged between them, refreshing a perspective that sharpened her convictions like a dagger she'd come back wielding for an attack she somehow hadn't needed to make.

She told her father as she reached for the board, "I think you were right: I'd somewhat forgotten a bit of what it was like to be away from such overwhelmingly masculine spaces for a time."

Her queen captured another pawn, clearly targeting one of her father's rooks and his king once more with the queen's next move.

"Yes, well," he muttered thoughtfully as he did nothing about the danger of his daughter's queen, and instead quietly moved his bishop in a space that targeted both a knight and bishop of her own. "Men and women are different creatures altogether, and spaces for women do exist for multiple reasons—some of them being quite good."

Elizabeth wasn't sure what she thought about her father's ideas or his gamesmanship. On the board, she would have to choose between her pieces. And knowing she wasn't the only one in such a precarious position, she took some time considering the lesser sacrifice.

In their concurrent conversation, her father's assertion that men and women were so fundamentally unique made her mull over a different matter altogether. Her certainly wasn't alone in that thought—many men and women certainly seemed to go so far believe there was a "right" way to present themselves to the world, based on their sex alone even when it was entirely impractical. But while her more intimate experience with her friends had been quite unlike anything she'd expect from one of her father's parties, entertaining officers and lords and the like with games of witty wordplay, she herself wasn't wholly convinced it was purely because of the sex of her companions. After all, she had often felt much the same whenever she spent time with Will, falling with him into feelings flowing with ease, authenticity, and understanding.

Furthermore, even if they didn't flow like the river she felt sweeping between her and Will, she could think of streams of similar emotions she felt when speaking to other men as well: more than one occasion of political debate between her and James had brought a genuine smile to her lips; and even a moment or two on her marooned island with Jack Sparrow and struck her with brief sensations of having spied herself in a mirror, unexpectedly…

For another matter, there was the way plenty of women existed whom she simply could not abide. Certainly, if she were thrown into a room of ladies of her status, she'd be able to make friends of common interest—that part was not a concern. But for every Amelia, Mary, and Violet, there were also women that enjoyed too much complaining or bullying or simply had no tastes in common with her at all, and they left her feeling just as cold as the shallow compatriots of her father.

No, it couldn't be purely an innate difference in men and women that divided their friendships so much. How could it be, when men and women were all so different even amongst themselves? Surely, it had to be something else—something manufactured in their traditions.

But while Elizabeth was not convinced it was an issue of inherent natures, she had to admit that largely there was something of a difference or division between the sexes—her three friendly men were far outnumbered by the dozens that drove her to feeling distant or combative, without fail. She just couldn't yet lay her finger upon what the actual cause of those supposed differences were enough to say. And she didn't want to argue with her father over such small quibblings.

So with a sure hand she crossed her threatened bishop to the opposite side of the board, capturing her father's other rook though it involved stepping within range of his king. All the while she diplomatically conceded with her mouth, "That is certainly one way to think of it."

Her father shook his head and quickly advanced one pawn without looking at her.

"Of course," he began to expound, "I do want you to feel you are welcome in my circles. You were named after a queen, in essence. And you have proven to have all the requisite wit and tenacity to stand toe-to-toe with a great many politicians or tacticians, if I do say so myself."

Elizabeth smirked and responded with her little queen's attack, capturing her father's remaining rook and placing his king in check.

"Like that," he said with a laugh.

She smiled widely, reveling in her miniature moment of triumph, her father's esteem, and the easy feelings floating between them.

"I appreciate your confidence in my abilities," she half-taunted her gratitude with some pride.

But her smile began to slip as she watched his steady demeanor cast over their game, though it was not for a lessening of her mirth. After her father considered the board for a moment, he calmly sidestepped his king on a diagonal, careful to keep the piece standing on spaces of a color Elizabeth's bishop could not reach—a simple and smart move.

It was not lost on her that her father was not going easy on her in this match, as he never had. In these places, the praise he showered with had generally been matched with his treatment of her as something akin to an equal mind. And while there were many boundaries he had drawn around her, he also had provided her with many opportunities she had come to realize were often kept away from other women of her class. Had he not often taken her with him on all manners of business, even from a young age, and shared his affairs with her as if she were a son? Had he not supported her excursion to her friend's home, even though he'd expressed a need for her to return to work by his side? Had she not been free to love whoever, whomever she pleased?

In truth, Elizabeth knew no other father so gracious as her own, and felt herself moved deeply by this knowledge—such that she was not able to consider the board for a moment, only the kindness that lingered evermore in her father's eyes.

"And I'm grateful that you take care to look after my interests," she spoke softly, sincerely.

His eyes rose to meet hers for a moment, colored with casts of confusion, amusement and affection.

"You're my daughter," was his matter-of-fact reply. "What kind of father would I be if I did otherwise?"

'More typical than you'd think…' she thought, with her throat beginning to clench.

Wishing to not become overwhelmed by her feelings just now, Elizabeth moved her eyes back to the board before them, and considered her next play. After a moment, she launched her second knight. Now both her valiant cavaliers were in place to defend the vulnerable spaces before her king, so very cleverly targeted by her father's advancing horsemen.

But making things right with her father, expressing both the appreciation and the full extent of the frustration she had realized she'd been withholding, had been the main reason she'd approached her father with this little game. And she found herself wondering what she ought to say next to better convey her complex feelings to him.

Then she remembered what else she'd brought with her, for this exact moment and purpose.

"I've actually brought you something," she announced, taking both of their attention from the board as she unveiled from her pocket a brass and ebony necessaire she had finally settled on in her shopping. "I know it's not the same as the one you had before—they didn't have one exactly like it, but I thought… perhaps this could be close enough."

"It's wonderful. And what a lovely surprise!" her father remarked, laughing at the unexpected souvenir he turned over in his hands for closer observation.

It was slightly bigger and rounder than a deck of cards, definitely suitable for his pockets, and the rich darkness of the polished wood made the ornate leafy inlays shine like gold. He slipped off its lid and examined the space inside the container, then closed it back up and held it up as if to compare it against the colors of the waistcoats draped over his changing was a little bolder than his preferred pastels but he seemed to appreciate its beauty all the same, setting it down delicately on his bedside table.

"Thank you, darling." He reached for Elizabeth's hand alongside the chessboard, and she clasped her fingers around a palm as warm and soft as his smile.

Her heart tickled with satisfaction at her father's pleased acceptance of her gift. That part of the matter had been settled. Now for the part that was not so sweet, but far more necessary: she took a breath.

"I also wanted to apologize," Elizabeth announced, squeezing her father's hand unintentionally. "While I don't regret what I said about the men on your council, I realized that I have been somewhat … self-centered lately, and I can see how it would—"

"Oh, Elizabeth—"

"No, I am sorry, father. I am," she insisted over his attempted placation. Her heart was pounding now. She'd gained the moment she needed and wouldn't be stopped. "All I've thought of these past few weeks has been myself and Will, from danger to danger and need to need. Yet somehow I haven't paid enough thought to how neither of us would be alive or where we are without your kindness."

Her voice faltered for a moment, and she swallowed to clear her throat while the numerous mercies her father had extended for her heart's sake ran through her mind.

"I've asked a great deal of you repeatedly, thanklessly. And I know I've done things you aren't exactly proud of, and… Well, the way Will put it: we've all been through so much, and there's only so much a person can take."

While her father had been looking at her with earnest concern and receptivity, his expression turned reflective for a moment. Perhaps he was mulling over those words much as she had when Will had spoken them? She recalled her hands had been clasped with Wills at that time as well; and that the sensitivity with which he had shared his words to the wise had taken her unawares, alongside the tacit admission of his own remorse. He'd reminded her that they were all simple humans in the end, making much of the same mistakes, partaking in much of the same basic regrets and pleasures, reaching similar limits.

Elizabeth's hand squeezed her father's a little tighter, and she looked at him steadily. "We both are grateful to you, father. Truly. And I haven't intended to be so impatient or short-tempered or self absorbed, I... Life lately has just been so…"

"So much," he concluded for her. Her father's sympathetic smile returned as his fingers curled around her hand in a scrunch of his own.

"Yes, so much," she agreed with a breathless laugh of relief at his apparent understanding, at the chance she saw for them to genuinely move forward at last. Emboldened by her success thus far, heart a thunder in her chest, she felt she could finally request of him, "I feel we need to speak more clearly about the way things are changing."

"I believe you are right," he said with a nod and reached out with his other hand to tap their joined fingers before releasing her hand altogether. "I had intended to speak with you tomorrow, once you had rested. But if you feel you are ready for it… there are a few minor things I feel ought to be said now."

Though she felt a little squirm of nervousness inside, she nodded. This was what she had come for—if there were conflicts in her and her father's plans for her immediate future, they could negotiate. He was willing to negotiate, so she would be as well.

Elizabeth nodded.

His eyebrows fell from their height of anticipation to a relaxed expression, and he nodded back with satisfaction at her answer. "Good. Now…" He inhaled deeply. "I have both very good news and slightly bad news, so I will start with the latter."

Elizabeth pulled the inside of her bottom lip between her teeth and curled her hands atop her thighs.

For a moment, her father cast his eyes down to the board, and as he spoke, he began idly straightening and centering his pieces in their specific spaces. "As you may have noticed, we have received a new regiment in Port Royal to make up for our losses and protect the harbor."

"Will wrote to tell me, yes."

He raised one eyebrow, seeming to be both surprised and unsurprised at that. He continued in a businesslike tone, "I have arranged for those guests to be hosted elsewhere during the following week—while we are in transition, essentially. But I will need to begin accepting people at this house once again after next week." She felt a jolt across her insides, but her father raised a hand before she could react any further. "I understand this is short notice, but I ask you to hear me out before you pass your judgement on the matter. That's the first less pleasant piece of news."

She felt tense, somehow both underwhelmed and distressed by the proposed end of her recovery period, and a returning to a lifestyle she now realized had become her personal cage. There was little she could offer as a counter argument anymore—especially there still seemed to be more to the bargain to be said. And in the end, it would be temporary if all things went to plan. One more year…

"In the meantime, I wish to make you aware that there also is one very important guest I was not able to reschedule. He will arrive tomorrow, and will require a great deal of your personal care and attention with his hosting—to the point that I am afraid I must insist that you plan on being here for the entire weekend."

Her breath left her, feeling for a moment like her father's words had struck her in the stomach. A guest this weekend?!

"What?!" she gasped. This couldn't be right—she had just returned! How could he send an entire regiment away except for one? "But I thought… He can't wait for next week, with the others?"

"He cannot. I am sorry. It must be here and it must be with you."

The gutted feeling in her stomach began to transform into an angry boil. She had waited all week to see Will again—longer for a full day like this one—and if this work week had gone anything like the ones prior, tomorrow would be his only day free to properly spend with her!

"That isn't fair!" she choked, starting to feel tears pricking at her eyes. "I had no consultation—I've made plans!"

Her father appeared surprisingly calm considering her obvious mortification, and it irritated her further. "They will have to be adjusted. I am sorry, my dove. I cannot relent on this."

"Why?!" Now she was up on her knees, gesturing angrily in the direction of his window as her vision began to grow blurry. "There are perfectly serviceable inns and other homes from members of your council—let them take him! I only need one more week!"

Now her father's expression began to show signs of remorseful sympathy, and he reached out to her with a hand attempting a soothing gesture.

"Now, Elizabeth, my council has already generously stepped in to help with the arriving officers of the regiment as it is. And you know it is part our duty, as the head family of this island, to provide rest and comfort at times, as needed. It will only be one man, and you may enjoy his company more than you currently anticipate."

"Unlikely!" she spat, now beginning to feel nauseated.

Something about this wasn't right. Even if she hadn't made plans for the entire day, her father should have known that she would be anxious to see Will even for an hour or two. It was like he was intentionally trying to keep her in the mansion and away from her beloved on what should have been his first free weekend in months. A horrible thought came to mind, leaving Elizabeth wondering whether her father thought it might be a fun little prank to reveal that the Dauntless had disembarked overnight, that the commodore had returned and…. No, he couldn't possibly try something so callous. She was certain he wouldn't. And yet here he was, outright betraying feelings she knew he knew he was fully aware of.

This was not some simple oversight. This was planned—it had to be.

She bared her teeth, incensed as ever. "Who could possibly be so important as to be so inflexible?! It better be the damned bloody King!"

"Watch your tongue—and no, he's not quite so important as that."

He folded his hands together and laid them in his lap softly. In spite of the hues of charity that had highlighted his face, he still seemed shockingly undisturbed by her reaction, cursing aside—what was going on?! Had the regiment captured Jack, and he felt she'd want to hear about it directly? Why couldn't he have written to her?

"Would you actually like to know?"

Opening her mouth to answer, she found but could not. She swallowed, but her voice was bound by the constraints of her hurt and anger. She knew the fire raging inside of her was in her eyes as well, and she could feel her mind already rifling about for a plan of escape.

She could slip into the kitchens and out the front gate just as dawn was breaking. If their guest was so important, there'd be food already waiting from which she could pilfer some snacks to take on her way, and if she was fast enough, maybe she could make it down the hill and into town in time to convince Will to to take a picnic someplace new, so they would not find her. Perhaps she could even invade the laundry before she left and dress herself in the maids' livery to better blend in…?

Her father placed his hand lightly on the edge of the chess board to bring her attention back to the moment.

"We will be hosting a Mister William Turner until at least Sunday night."

It took a moment to register what her father had said, then another to come up for air as her mind became overwhelmed by crashing waves of relief. She began shaking her head, suddenly unable to look at her father as her mind tumbled swiftly between her fading rage and growing cheer over having been tricked in such a manner.

"You are cruel!" she exclaimed once she had found her voice and blinked her collected tears away. It had been a joke, though for quite the opposite reason than she had expected. When she finally met her father's eyes he seemed to be equally taken by regret as he was by amusement. A smile began forming on her lips. "Will is coming? Truly?"

"Truly. I sent him an invitation yesterday, and he agreed," he answered with a single nod and a steady voice. "We are about two weeks from our initial meeting. And while it hasn't been properly discussed, I have a feeling I know what both your answers will be. There are some things we shall need to discuss about your courtship…. And I assumed you would have enjoyed his company after your time apart."

As her father spoke a fresh sensation of delight and excitement began to flood inside of Elizabeth. She would spend her day with Will after all, only now it was the whole day, hosting him as a proper guest in her home! How much better could this be! She could see that he wouldn't have to lift a single finger the entire day. How she could spoil him and he could lavish her with attention! They could have tea and dinner, maybe take time to rest together in the garden—truly rest for almost the entire day. She doubted Will had ever experienced such a thing once in his entire life. Additionally, aside from the watchful eyes of her father or a servant, there was the added benefit that they'd have a perfect privacy the likes of which they'd never had before. Not since they'd promised themselves to each other. There would be no public at all to debate about pleasing or offending…

She could touch and kiss him as often or as long as they both pleased.

A flushed heat was in her face, her limbs and inside suddenly a-jitter. Though she'd fallen back down to sitting, she had half a mind to spring out the room to summon her intended right away. She blinked and recalled where she was—speaking to her father, who was now looking at her with an openly entertained expression.

"May I collect him in the morning? In the carriage?" she blurted out.

"You may," he answered with another calm nod. "Although, it may bring some unwanted attent—"

Elizabeth was off the bed and standing at her father's like a flash of lightning, arms thrown about his neck in a heavy embrace. "Thank you!"

He laughed, uttering some disjointed words as he tapped her arms affectionately with one hand—the best that could be returned in their current position. But Elizabeth realized it had been some time since she'd last embraced her father, possibly years. It wasn't as though such affection was typical between a father and his adult children, after all. And it was likely he was unsure of what to do now that she was no longer a child.

She released him at length, but not before placing a light and careful kiss on the top of his head, in the midst of his thinning hair.

He continued to tap the hand she had left on his shoulder. When their eyes met, she found her father's face deeply creased with emotion, his lips bent in a frowning tremble, fighting against a wave of tears that had risen up shining in his eyes. It was not from sadness or from pain. And looking at him, Elizabeth felt the tight but warm sensations of their special affection begin to squeeze her heart as well.

At length, her father gave out a harrumph and fluttered his eyelids to clear their wetness.

"After all that, I fear I have a few more things that will require your more immediate attention, and I hope you will forgive me for it," he said with a voice that gained steadiness as he spoke. He blotted the cuff of his night shift at each of his eyes one time.

Elizabeth took a seat on the edge of the bed beside him, prepared to listen to whatever else her father had to say to her. Feeling as happy as she was, nothing could possibly be so bad now. And seeing as her father had also indicated the worst news had been first, she was somewhat eager to hear the rest of what he had to say.

He gave her a little smile.

"As I've mentioned, we will officially open our doors again next weekend. We cannot stay as we have for as long as we have—there is business I must conduct. But before you'd departed, I mentioned changes to staff."

She nodded to him. This had been something she had been curious about essentially from the moment it had reached her ears.

He cleared his throat once more, speaking more clearly again, "I have invited several new people into the household, some to fill recently vacated positions and others to fill new positions entirely. I've also made offers to move a few of our more senior staff into new positions. I won't go into full detail, but there are three changes in specific that do involve you."

Oh?

He held out one finger before both of them. "First: I have hired a housekeeper to take over your most time consuming duties in running the house with Mister Yates."

Elizabeth's heart nearly stopped with the surprise.

"Her name is Missus Lancaster, and she will begin her work on Tuesday. She is already tremendously experienced, with excellent recommendations, but I would like you to work alongside her for the following week to show her about the house and help her become acquainted with the staff. Can you do that?"

Now her pulse was racing—she had half a mind to hop atop the bed and bounce about, chess board and propriety be damned.

"Of course!" she exclaimed, gripping her father's hand tightly instead.

He gave her another smile, curved in compassion. "I have also hired another cook to work with Missus Lancaster and Mister Posey, to relieve you of most duties related to the kitchen and dining room. Now…" He mimicked their earlier stance, holding out a hand to signal for calm and patience at her sharp intake of breath, though this time for quite opposite reasons—she was obviously on the edge of her seat with her delight.

"…when we have more important guests and events, which will be often, I would still like you to work with them on planning the table and entertainment for the evening. It would not look well for you to have no hand at all in hosting our guests, especially with no official engagement yet to present. But you may delegate the largest portion of the work as you see fit."

Oh, how she could sing and dance right now! Her heart was a-frolic inside her chest, her body feeling light enough from her disappearing burdens that she thought she could almost leap out the window and across the sky in a single bound. He had heard her! Once again she threw her arms about her father's neck and squeezed him, now as tight as she could manage. "Thank you, father!"

But somehow he wasn't done, and signaled as much with another tap of his hand, despite being obviously pleased to see her so happy. She released him again, and looked to him in curious anticipation.

"The final change most relevant to yourself: I have spoken to Miss Trattles about a potential promotion to be a proper Ladies Maid for you, seeing as she has been filling that role in an unofficial capacity already for some time now. This is subject to your approval, ultimately, but I would strongly recommend it all the same, as she will be enabled to take on the more minor of your duties, should you wish it, further freeing your time. And if I am right in my assumptions, you should wish it, as I take it you will be taking more effort to spend a greater amount of time with your Mister Turner from now on… My dear, are you alright?"

By now Elizabeth's vision had become obscured altogether, as without warning her heart had filled so full with thankfulness it had spilled into her eyes, swiftly brimming them to overflowing with hot, fat tears that trickled down her cheeks and chin, cascading onto her lap. Her father's attentiveness had come so completely and unexpectedly, she was left overwhelmed. She was going to be free, to devote her time and self to almost whatever she felt fit as she began her journey towards her new life. The thought of it all had become… so much, but now in a way entirely contrary to how it had been before.

"Yes," she whispered, nodding her head and squeezing her father's hand with all her might. "Yes. Thank you. Thank you!"

How different was he from the families her friends had! How had she come to be so lucky in such a father as this?

"Oh, darling… Come here," her father muttered, this time opening his arms to her.

She felt somewhat like a little girl again, as she leaned into his embrace and began to weep beside his ear openly. His brushes along her hair and back were light and soothing in ways that suddenly called to mind the night they lost her mother. In fact, one after another, every memory of the best and worst moments as a little family, a former trio and a constant pair, began to attack her tender heart, and her tears began to fall faster and thicker for several minutes.

Once she found herself relieved and quieting, they pulled away from each other, and he indicated to his bed stand for her to retrieve a handkerchief. She was grateful for this as well, since her nose had begun to run and her face was now a wet, uncomfortable mess. He patted her back a few times while she cleaned herself up and caught her breath.

"You know I have only ever wished for you happiness, don't you?" he asked softly, suddenly.

She nodded in return, fighting back another wave of tears that threatened to return.

Her father continued at a pensive pace, "I have had… a great deal more time to myself for thought lately—which I do not fault you for, I hope you know. And I often worry I've become so caught up in trying to predict and protect you from a hard life, I'd grown a little deaf to your feelings. And I am sorry as well. Being a father is so very different day by day—what seemed wise when you were small I've realized is utterly foolish now."

Another tear escaped one eye. She felt her throat closing up again as they looked at each other, and he wiped her emotion from across her cheek.

"I've called you my dove and have kept you close, somehow believing you would always be soft and small, and that I could keep you safe forever. I see now I cannot protect you in all the ways I had once believed. Nor should I."

He laid his hand back over her fist that clutched his handkerchief. With her lips curved into a grin, she laid her other hand atop his in a silent challenge and nostalgic reminder. At last, he added his second hand, completing the stack. And for a moment they simply sat there, with the lamplight flickering and the crickets singing in the treetops beyond their windows. All of the sudden, Elizabeth realized she felt tired and contented, marveling at how different it felt to be thinking about facing another day unburdened from the concerns that had plagued her for so long.

Eventually, her eyes fell back to the chess board, and her father followed her gaze.

"Ah!" he gasped, seeming to remember it was his move. Then he reached for the board. "Check!"

In a simple jump, he moved his knight, jeopardizing Elizabeth's king as he'd declared. However, as Elizabeth blinked and re-familiarized herself with the board from her father's side, she realized it wasn't a simple check-he now had enough pieces targeting her from enough directions she was very nearly under threatmate.

"Goddammit," she growled before she could stop herself. As soon as the oath slipped through her teeth, she looked to her scolding father with eyes slightly widened in apology. "Sorry…"

Her father shook his head at her with a stern expression. "You know the rules."

He held out his palm.

"No. You can't be serious!"

"Hand it over," he insisted, beckoning with his fingers.

"I'm a grown woman—you've even admitted it yourself! I may speak however I like!"

"Certainly, but I own this house and you know the house rules: you'll feed my army each and every time. In fact, you're lucky I'm only asking for one. Now, if you please:"

Elizabeth groaned a most immature and unladylike groan as she dragged her feet to her side of the board, plucked one of her father's captured rooks, and placed it back in the security of his hand. But she didn't mind giving it back in the end—not after she had been given so much.