For many dangerous people, Shipwreck Cove was a safe haven. Still it hadn't taken long for word to spread whom Tara and her children belonged to. That Teague knew no mercy if they were to face any harm spread like wildfire back then, and so Tara never had to worry too much whenever Tia and James were out of her sight for a moment.

Today was no exception. They were close by now, but the day would be long. The Caribbean sun was burning in all well-intentioned innocence, and as much as it was getting to every adult – the children didn't seem to notice that it had to take a toll on anyone.

"Charts would be nice," Kate mused aloud. She tried to fan air to herself with one hand despite it clearly being of no use. Tia held her other hand while Tara gently pushed her brother ahead, through the usual crowded pier. "Or mathematical formulae, or diaries of Conquistadores …"

Kate hadn't hesitated years ago.
They had known each other since childhood, been through a lot together – and when Tara realised she couldn't stay on Tortuga, Kate and her lover Jean had immediately accompanied her to Shipwreck Cove.

To her disappointment, however, apart from the ancient transcripts Teague guarded, books were a rare and low-priority commodity there. When a new ship docked or perished on the cliffs just before reaching its destination, it eventually opened up the possibility of refilling shelves, but that was about it.

Tortuga had more to offer in that regard, but whenever what had belonged to others was being sold at the harbour in the Cove, it made the days all the more interesting.

"You'll end up finding nothing but love letters again." Tara smirked at the dawning memory of the bundle her friend had dug up during the last market.

"I swear, my birdies," Kate whined, "one more love letter from a seasick sailor and your Aunt Katie is going to puke …"

James looked up at her all excitedly. "I'm sure you'd like to get a love letter yourself."

"Oh well, but Jean and you, you two ungrateful fish bones, you just won't write one for me!" In mock-reproach, she snorted. "Your mother and I have long since taught you how to use a quill and ink, and yet you choose to disappoint me –"

"For your birthday!" he vowed on the spot. "I'll write you a poem, Katie, I promise!"

"A poem even?" She couldn't help laughing as she tousled his dark hair. "Ah, they all say that, Jay."

It wasn't long before they were looking through many a book, collections of all sorts of writing, even Royal Navy documents, without any other interested buyers at the pier in sight.
None of the goods seemed truly exciting at first.

"Where were Nona and Nono from again?" Tia soon asked, pulling business letters out of an old wooden box.

"Your Grams was from England," Tara answered, "and my Papá, your Nono, was from Caracas."

"Right, Santiago de León de Caracas," Tia read aloud, then pointed to the top of one of the letters. "Look, this one is from Venezuela! Maybe it's written by him?"

"Looks more like a report on cocoa exports," Tara said as she skimmed through a few lines. "Sorry, sweetheart, but I'm sure your Nono had nothing to do with it." She smiled at the mere thought of him. He'd always been very catholic and during his lifetime overly focused on making sure she'd never talk to a man that didn't wave with a ring, but his illegitimate grandchildren he'd still have loved dearly. "He was a clever, honest man, he spoke several languages and learned a lot by heart – but he couldn't have read or written this …"

"Is that why he memorised so much?" Tia asked.

Tara gave her a lopsided grin. "Yes, probably."

"You know," Kate began to philosophise, "every deficit can have its advantages granted one approaches it with the right attitude."

"Did you get that from one of the love letters?" Tara chuckled, Kate just waved it off.

"So Nono couldn't read, yes?" James had only been listening in silence so far, rifling through paper as well, but now he paused and looked directly up to Tara. "And here in the Cove, many can't either, can they?"

"No," Kate confirmed. "I guess it is what it is, Jay."

"Then what about our Papá?" he went on to ask. "Does he know how to read?"

Tia, too, was immediately very much interested in this question.

Kate just sighed rolling her eyes, right before she continued her search for suitable reading material, Tara, on the other hand, briefly glanced up at the sky, as if kissed by nostalgia.

"Speaking of poetry – your Papá," she then wanly began, "has a huge poem inked under his skin all over his back, among other things – so he'd better be able to read it …"

"How would he be if it's on his back?" Tia asked, suspicion on her features.

"Six years old." Kate laughed to herself, adding, "And yet already more perceptive than Jean …"

"Your father knows how to read," Tara eventually said, hoping to end the subject with that.

For James, however, this detail was far from enough. "And what does he read?"

Tara wished she could, but she knew there was no way to skip over this – and also it made her mind wander already. Memories of Sparrow squinting his eyes in dim candlelight, reading closely printed pages in the middle of the night, made her smile much too fondly, to her own surprise. Sporadically she'd made fun of it, usually he then put the relevant book into her hand in response, insisting that her eyes were, after all, nine years younger. And then he'd hang from her lips and wouldn't let her out of his sight as long as she read aloud …

"Please tell us," Tia urged, startling her mother out of her reveries.

"Well, Voltaire and Molière," Tara finally replied, "now and then Shakespeare, Juana Inés de la Cruz … That sort of thing."

"O who is more to blame: He who sins for pay – Or he who pays for sin," Kate quoted the latter, quite puzzled. "He read things like that?"

"A nun pondering over sin and love." Tara all but shrugged. "Kept him fascinated, yes." She looked at his twins again. "So does that answer your question?"

"Does he write, too? Love letters, perhaps?"

"James," Tara moaned, shaking her head in exasperated amusement, "no, at least not to us …"

"Your father, James," Kate now said before smiling wryly at him, "certainly doesn't write love letters to a soul out there. His life is but a hymn to the sea, and that's about it …"

The children probably didn't notice the cynicism, but Tara did. Sparrow's usual running away into the vastness of the seven seas was the one obsession that made Kate and her roll their eyes every once in a blue moon after a glass of wine or two.

"What's a hymn, by the way?" Tia asked.

"Sort of a song," Tara replied. She followed up with, "And before you ask – no. You don't hear him sing either."

"He's a paradise bird, after all," Kate said, "and not a nightingale …"

"Maybe we can find a songbook anyway." Tia nodded with renewed eagerness. "I'll look for one – if he visits us sometime, he might sing after all …"

Said and done, she set off with an aim, while Tara's heart broke once again.
He would never visit her, his clever daughter.
He would never explain the desiderata* to his son, only she knew he carried all those lines with him …

And even if the cosmos collapsed in on itself and, in ridiculous irony of fate, washed him up on one of the Cove's bays one day – he still wouldn't sing.

Tara pushed these gloomy thoughts aside when she, too, looked through the goods to buy again.

James, on the other hand, had better things to do. He moved a bit away from the others and let himself drift along the promenade.

All kinds of objects could be borrowed there – and usually no one was missing them in the end.

Who would be missing a wooden sword, for example? Or a wooden pistol? Obviously made for children. And wasn't he a child? The carving art seemed to be made for him, the vendor of which was fast asleep because the bottle in his hand was already half empty in the morning …

If he only painted the pistol, it would probably look quite real.

"Oi!"

Just as James was about to set off with his borrowed toy and began to think through the mixing of colours, someone behind him cleared their throat.

A boy, about his age, suddenly stood in his way and, almost in dismay, pointed at the wood. "That's not yours!"

"Not yours either," James retorted. "So what do you care?"

"Stealing isn't right." The boy wouldn't move an inch. "You can't take that."

"I'll bring it back later, you know."

Again, James wanted to go make his way, perhaps to the jetty nearby – but the boy wouldn't allow it. He even grabbed one of the wooden swords himself now, to punctuate his verbal dismay with threatening gestures as well.

"You want to cross blades?" James asked, clearly delighted at the idea. "Don't you know who I am?"

The boy raised his dagger. "You don't know who I am either."

"Then tell me," James suggested as he pushed the wood away from him.

"Why would I?" Again the child raised his arm. "You are a thief, that is all I need to know."

"Fine, if you think so," James said – and then they battled it out.

What felt like a fierce duel at first was nothing but playful folly to the chattering adults around. No one took children seriously, especially not when they were soon laughing like the two of them.

"All right, this is fun, I'll tell you my name – I'm Henry."

"James." In the meantime, he jumped onto the jetty to avoid two dockworkers who were carrying heavy loads.

"My mother once knew a James!" the boy exclaimed, now ducking under the sailors' crates as well.

"Everyone knows a James." He spread his arms flamboyantly, though it nearly cost him a blow. "It's a good strong name," he followed up as his opponent's dagger hit a post instead of him.

Wood on wood, James thought, a strange sound – and promptly the moment of carelessness got him the blade on his neck again.

"You're not bad at all," he admitted and stopped, supposedly capitulating.

A bit startled, Henry said, "After all I practise three hours a day …"

"Three hours a day?" James gave him an incredulous glance. "Don't you have a sister to stop you from practising?"

"I'd practise all the more if I had one – to protect her!"

"But you're not even protecting yourself right now …"

Henry didn't understand until he turned his gaze down to the wooden pistol in his opponent's hand.

"I won," James joyfully declared.

Henry hesitated for a moment. Then he said, "You cheated!"

"Why?" James shrugged his shoulders. "There were no rules …"

Between the passing people someone was approaching them while clapping, and they both looked around in equal surprise.

"Very good, boys, really entertaining," a woman said. She was a little bit younger than his Mamá, her skin a bit lighter, but James didn't miss that she had the same hair colour as his new friend – it reminded him of hazelnuts.

"Mother," Henry called out, "I would've been right back!"

She came to a halt behind him, yet she eyed James, her expression both friendly and perplexed.

"You fought in a very honest way, Henry," she then said, not taking her eyes off his new acquaintance nevertheless. "But you …"

James raised his brows and nodded for her to continue.

"You were cunning." She smiled, as if in thought. "You remind me of someone. Say, what's your name –"

"James! Where the hell have you been?"

Tara hurried towards him, already shaking her head at the sight of the two fairly distributed wooden swords and one pistol, of course in her son's hand.

"Playing dirty again?"

"No, we didn't have any rules," the other boy was quick to defend his newfound friend.

Tara just inwardly groaned, but Henry's mother added, "More like guidelines, huh?"

"You wouldn't pull the trigger," Tara said to James, more sternly than usual.

"How would you know?"

"There's a lot in your blood," she muttered, "but not that …"

"But whoever sails the seas must be able to do it," he claimed in defiance. "Quick Draw says that all the time!"

"Not only does Auntie Quick Draw need to defend that absurd name of hers," Tara fumed, "she's also obviously out of her mind!" Frowning, she mumbled, "Talking my kid into such nonsense, next time I see her I'll tell her a thing or two …"

"You know, James," the other boy's mother spoke up again with a warm smile, "I once knew a man who sailed to our world's end and still didn't fire a single shot for thirteen years …"

Tara immediately glanced up.
Everyone in the Caribbean knew that only Sparrow had been crazy enough to save Hector Barbossa's bloody shot for thirteen years …
It had been a matter of principle for him. Hector was to die from the very bullet he'd offered Jack. As a supposed last resort for escaping the tiny island where he once left the sparrow without wings with nothing but a pistol …

"Mother", Henry whispered, "who was that?"

Raw curiosity flashed across the boys' faces.

"I've once told you about him, Henry." The woman, perhaps four or five years younger than Tara herself, nodded. "His name was Captain –"

"He kept losing the Pearl," Tara cut her off, "so the majority of times he shouldn't even have introduced himself as Captain."

"I didn't mention anything about losing ships," the woman said. "Especially not about the Black Pearl."

"You didn't have to." Tara smiled, not particularly invested though. "Member of the Brethren Court and Pirate Lord, but mostly without a ship – the irony never gets old." She was already pushing James into the direction they'd come from and groaned, "But sure, the titles got him one in each port …"

"Come again?"

Henry's mother sounded indignant by the very suggestion, but Tara didn't look back. "Come on, James, move …"

"Can't Henry come with us?"

"Yes, can I come?" the boy shouted. "Please!"

"I'm sorry, boys," they heard Tara say, "we have a lot to do today."

"But Mamá," James protested, "practising with him is much more fun than with Tia!"

"Sure, because even with cheating you always lose to her …"

"Tia and James? As in Tia Dalma and James Norrington?" Henry's mother quickly caught up to them. "Did you know these people?"

Tara paused, but only with extreme reluctance. "No need to be so interested," she said, "it's none of your business."

"You don't know who I am, do you?"

"And I don't care –"

"I dare doubt that."

At this point, Henry and James seemed to tacitly agree that their mothers would carry on their argument for a while anyway. So they promptly snuck into the background to fight another duel on the jetty.

"They're his, aren't they?" She inched a bit closer to Tara, while their sons were already enjoying themselves in some distance again. "Jack Sparrow's …"

"You know what? For you there should be a Captain in there somewhere …"

"Am I right?" She skipped the remark, "Your children look just like him."

Tara eyed the woman in irritation. "Then why ask the question?"

"You know, Jack made me Queen."

"For heaven's sake," Tara sighed, looking off into the distance in utter disbelief, "why yes, I'm sure he did –"

"No, pirate queen, I mean," the woman quickly specified. "It was the second gathering of the Brethren Court, right here. Shipwreck Cove."

"Oh!" Tara put her hands to her hips, thoroughly surprised. "I see, you're Elizabeth? Lizzy Swann?"

"Turner, by now, but – yes."

"Isn't that interesting …" Tara was astonished and concerned all at once. "Your boy and you, you've been waiting here for Turner's first day on land, haven't you?"

"Only four more years." Elizabeth nodded, sad by the mere thought of it. "If there's one thing I've learned from Will, it's that time means nothing when you're in love."

"See, the personified chaos himself taught me that love means absolutely nothing with time," Tara replied, "but anyway …" She looked at Elizabeth, obviously amused. "You killed him once. Didn't you?"

"What?"

"The father of my children."

Elizabeth hesitated. "Well, yes … But it was –"

She paused as Tara held out her hand, suspiciously exhilarated. "I've changed my mind, Lizzy Turner. We're not doing anything today. I'd love to hear all about it if you can arrange it."

"I can, actually," Elizabeth chuckled. "You must be Tara, then."

"So Edward was telling the truth for once when he claimed Sparrow had mentioned me."

"More than once, yes."

"Well," Tara sighed, "that doesn't do me much good, so I'd rather hear about his death. Have dinner with Teague and us today, will you?"

"Does he still play the guitar?"

"All the time. And even more gladly for an audience." Tara called over to the dock, "James – put the toys back and introduce Henry to your sister and Kate, will you? We're leaving."

It turned out to be the evening when Tara learned she'd been all wrong.

Sparrow did sing – according to Lizzy, at least – when boredom and Rum took over on Barbossa's favourite mutiny island.

"We're rascals, scoundrels, villans, and knaves – drink up, me 'earties, yo ho," Henry and his mother taught Tia and James to sing under the stars of the night sky, high up above Shipwreck Cove on Teague's terrace. It were the same words Elizabeth had to teach Sparrow, until they would both dance around the fire.

"Maybe," Kate whispered, turning to Tara, "that songbook Tia found today is going to be good for something."

Tara couldn't help but shrug. "Because apparently he does sing? Maybe …" And yet it couldn't be denied. "But he still doesn't sing here."

*Desiderata, by American writer Max Ehrmann, 1927. Obviously not quite the zenith of piracy in terms of time ;) But let's just go along with this Canon decision, it's a beautiful one …

And thanks a lot for the kind guest review, I was so thrilled!