The Best-Laid Plans

by etsfanfics

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

18. The Briary Bush

There was a bit of "musicalness" to smithing, once given time and space to craft uninterrupted. Granted, it wasn't exactly the most beautiful music to listen to—the sounds produced were often piercing and unpleasant to the ear, irritating to the mind. Still there was something there to be felt in rhythms that drove the blacksmith's forge forward: beats of the hammer, screeches of the rasp, turns of the bellows, steps of the foot.

Tnk, tnk, tnk!

Will was ticking out echoes of the town's distant clock tower, synchronizing time itself to the steady swing of his arm, the persistent pulse of his own heart. Each and every second snapped through his chest, out his arms, perfectly punctual.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

His hammer rang upon softened metal in a harmonized cadence. With years of practice already fulfilled, Will's body knew on its own all that it needed to do to mold such familiar shapes. And soon thoughts of where, when, how he ought to strike began to melt in the forge's heat. All that remained behind was a blur of colors, textures, sounds… And her.

Tap… tap… tap!

Like the breaths between each verse, the anvil marked his place as he changed his posture along with his thoughts. Away, away his mind wandered—for he was alone, and his company had to be found in other places.

'Oh, Elizabeth…'

Prior forgiveness and understanding aside, she'd have his hide if she knew exactly what his night was about to become. Nevermind that the food she'd blessed him with had done wonders to reinvigorate him. If she found out about his sleepless night, and the truth for why it had come to be—oh, heads would roll! And he doubted her next meeting with Mister Brown would proceed as kindly as it had before…

The thought made his lips twitch up instead of down.

What was she doing now? It was well past dinner time now, and if she were luckier than he, her duties would have reached a point of completion. What had her day been like? Had she horrified her new housekeeper with strange, bold arguments, or played her part of the perfect lady for the sake of a quicker escape from those duties she so loathed? Would she be rewarded for her hard work with the chance to steal away into the future, floating in their dreams the way he so wished he could too?

Had she interrupted her work to answer him? Or had her work been interrupting her thoughts of him as severely as he felt his labor intruded on his imaginings of her?

Thump, thump, thump, his blood beat inside his ears, against the tops of his soul.

Everything within him seemed to burn as hot as his craft, smokeless yet searing. Sweat collected on his brow, drizzled down his body and into his clothes, making his apron cling to his bared chest unpleasantly. And he decided to take the risk of propping the smithy's door back open, to trade the light of approaching gloaming for the coolness it could offer in return. Under his experienced observance, coals and iron glowed orange, yellow, white, transformed beneath the bellows' sighing incantations in a weary, sweltry strain like a voiceless organ. Repetitive and steady, the massive wooden gears pumping overhead drummed out their own pace for the forge's continual symphony. Their teeth met like dancers in a reel, punctuating in their revolutions with a single jubilant cry.

Da da-da da-da da-da da-da da-da—squeak!

Obnoxious. The shafts were overdue for their maintenance. For now, Will would have to bear with the nuisance of their noisy stanzas piercing his ears, whenever the bellows breathed for him.

All the way until dawn.

With that grating thought, a bitterness began to creep back over Will's tongue, as the grievances he'd wandered through this morning rose up inside him again, clinging dark and sticky like pitch. His hammer fell faster, higher, wilder. It would be easy, so easy to follow the sounds of his own anger crying back at him again…

And yet…

'Please do not forget what I said to you before…'

Will shook his head to himself.

Ka-ting!

Another keeper's plate was cut free upon the anvil's hardy, just before it could fade all the way back into a state that was dark, stubborn and splintery.

'… your needs and struggles are now mine.'

He needed to be free!

With a rustle and a hiss, the rod was returned to the depths of the fire. Through a whistle followed by the click of Will's tongue, prodded the donkey to walk another few turns in her pen. And thus it all went in circles: the beast in the corner, the arm on the man, the spurs on the machine, that path between anvil and forge, and the twistings between mind and heart, round and round and round…

Da da-da da-da da-da da-da da-da—squeak!

The hour was creeping, pieces, thoughts, and moments clattering together one by one. Overhead, silhouettes of hammers, fullers, and punches swayed merrily to the music being made below their places hanging on teeth of the greater spur wheel. And as Will withdrew glowing rods, and pressed their buttery tips firmly against the anvil, the rhythm of his work remained constant. A ting flattened down, a tang turned around.

Tnk! Tnk! Tnk! Tnk!

When there was no one to talk to, when thoughts threatened to wander to places better not followed, when striking ardent ore swiftly enough to spit sparks through the smithy's shadows was not enough to cool a glowing rage back into pewter-like temperance—when silence was no longer good company, then song became a natural accompaniment to cadences crafted in metal.

So, there bubbled up in Will's throat a crooning, which accompanied the beat he'd discovered. It may have sounded like nonsense at first, as he only hummed it in snatches. Yet it wasn't long before the frustrated stirrings of his heart made the melody rise up above the rest of the noise around him:

"O Hangman, stay thy hand,
"And stay it for a while
"For I fancy I see my master
"A-coming across the yonder stile…."

The tunes Will sang to himself were different day-to-day. He hardly ever needed to try to pick one out—they were always around him. Oftentimes he caught himself humming something which had popped into his head. A melody he'd heard near a tavern some other night prior; a hymn sung on Sunday; Ruthy Hackley's persistent nursery rhymes; whistles of passing car-men; or the snatches he caught of the local patterer's hawked broadsides, warbling past the shutters. Their songs all came to him on their own, whenever they pleased, and settled into his throat.

Yet some days the music came from someplace more deliberate.

Today was one of those days.

"O, master, have you my gold?
"And can you set me free?
"Or are you come to see me hung?
"All on the gallows tree?"

He tried to focus on his work, even as he sang: the final backplate, six smaller plates, and two perfectly twisted ring pulls had been completed in something between three or four hours. It would have been a feat to revel in, if there weren't so many pieces still left to forge. Four more handles and twelve hinge leaves remained, before he could get to the simpler hooks, pintles, and rivets at the end of his sleepless night…

Or morning, as it would be.

And where had his master gone to, really? How could one man spend so much on drink in such a short time? Was he still alive? How was he still alive, if he was?

"No, I've not brought thee gold,
"And I can't set thee free;
"But I have come to see thee hung
"All on the gallows tree."

How could Brown care so little that the gallows tree from which he stood ready to hang kept a noose on its other end, around the neck of his apprentice? Didn't he realize that if their standing slipped out from under them, they both would hang together?

The donkey had given up for the day, leaving Will to man the bellows himself with the spare pull chain woven through the rafters. While the large lungs did their job well, giving out long exhalations through less work than fanning or blowing by mouth, it was still another task to manage on top of everything else. He could feel warnings of a later weariness beginning to settle in his flesh. His feet and shoulder needed a rest—he'd been standing at work, pushing at twice the usual pace for nearly ten hours. Not even the most perfect posture could prevent a wearing down from that.

But if he sat down, it would be all the more difficult to get back up again…

He had to keep going.

"Oh the briary bush,
"That pricks my heart so sore
"If I once get out of the briary bush,
"I'll never get in any more."

How thorny and tangled was this mess Will had fallen into!

Just when he believed he had managed to begin climbing out of it, it snagged his clothes and snared his legs, refusing to truly let him go. And how many other briars seemed to still surround him where he stood, waiting to catch hold of him once he was free of this one?

If he could climb out of this prickly patch, if he could make it out of his cursed apprenticeship and find his way as a journeyman at last, he could leave this godforsaken shop behind him and join another. He could make a name for himself, and open his own shop, with the walls lined by the finest swords and cutlery this side of the Atlantic.

He could build a house with two floors, wide glass-paned windows, and the most magnificent goddamn strap hinges anyone had ever seen. He could shower Elizabeth with surprise books, and trinkets, and her own armory filled by every perfectly-crafted pirate sword she could ever want. He could spoil their children with feather beds and happy bellies and amusing baubles—or torment them with good schools and fine tutors. He could take them all to fencing school during Sunday picnics at the beach—with wooden cutlass replicas for the little ones, and perhaps a blunt rapier for her father to have. Hell, he could take up wood carving!

Then when they were all worn out from sand and sun, from school and work and play, he could kiss each and every one of them to sleep, without one single night missed. Not one.

All the things he could do, if it weren't for…

Bitter, bitter thoughts returned from before: if someone hadn't abandoned their work, he could have been done here an hour or two ago. He could have been able to lay himself down for a proper rest. He could have taken an afternoon to go fishing, and composed a long, breathless letter for his love. He could have headed to the arena to take up his practice again—how many days had it been since he'd been there? So many things he could have done with this time that shackled him to the forge this way.

He could have…

He…

He really needed an extra place to put his frustrations. And a cup of coffee.

But he needed these last few hours of sunlight more. All the doors' handle rings had been twisted into shape, leaving him with all the hinge straps to take him deep into the night. Though shadows and dimness helped him measure the temperature of his forging, it did not help while chiseling or filing out finer details. And the candles he most liked to burn were not cheap to come by—especially now.

So until dusk threatened to blanket him in blindness, he pushed ahead with only cups of water and swigs of ale to wash away his thirst. And until dawn threatened to silence him in desperation, he continued to sing…

"O Hangman, stay thy hand,
"And stay it for a while,
"For I fancy I see my father
"A coming across the yonder stile…."

And to strike…

"O, father, have you my gold?
"And can you set me free?
"Or are you come to see me hung?
"All on the gallows tree?"

And to think…

"No, I've not brought thee gold,
"And I can't set thee free;
"But I have come to see thee hung
"All on the gallows tree."

And to bury half those thoughts in places where they could not strike him back.

He could think of gold coins, the ones he had and the ones he had not. He could think of gallows which had once been waiting for him. But he could not allow himself to continue to think about…

"Oh the briary bush,
"That pricks my heart so sore…

It didn't matter what he allowed or forbade himself to dwell on—that didn't change the truth of what he now lived, did it?

His master had slept through most of his piracy trial, eyes closed to the noose that hung so low before Will's face. His father had sent him the gold that had bought his passage to the gallows, and was nowhere to be heard from or seen once the voyage had begun. And now Elizabeth's father, as crucial as he was to cutting that noose down, he now held out his hand, asking for gold which Will did not yet have to offer…

"If I once get out of the briary bush,
"I'll never get in any more…"

"I know that one," came a small and of late so familiar voice from the smithy's open doorway, surprising Will.

He hadn't realized anyone had stopped to pay him an audience.

A swift glance was spared for Denys as Will reintroduced the latest strap to the coals. "You know what one?

"That song," the boy answered, from where he stood, just outside the smithy's door fingertips touched to the frame. "I've heard it before."

Will took hold of the bellows' chain and gave it a few pulls, making the bottom lung fill the top lung, which sighed slowly into the fire pot. The fire puffed and raged readily.

"It's an old one," he responded simply. "I used to hear it in England, when I was your age."

"Oh…"

A few more pumps of the bellows prompted glares of heat to flare from inside its brick casing, brushing across the sweat on Will's forehead, tightening the skin on his face. The iron was red like ackee fruits.

"What are you doing here, Denys?"

He heard the boy shuffle a little bit, and guessed that he was toying with stepping over the threshold of the door.

"I thought you might have an answer for Miss Elizabeth."

Will sighed, a little stung by yet another reminder of his day's regrets. "I haven't had the time to write a reply. It'll likely have to wait until later."

Whush, whush, whush…

The bellows creaked a little as they breathed and breathed, and the fire cackled with life. Sunset orange.

"How much later?" Denys inquired.

"I don't know," Will admitted, and it made him feel as though he were staring up a mountain. What time was it now? He'd fallen so deep into his mind that he'd missed the chimes of the church bell. Glancing once more at the open doorway showed the color of the day's light was bronzing, and the shadows in the courtyard outside had grown very long. He took a breath to steady the alarm that threatened to surge through his veins. "I've a lot of work ahead of me, still. I'll have another letter tomorrow."

Whush, whush, whush…

The flames had infused themselves into the color of the hinge strap, glowing more and more golden.

The boy remained hovering in the doorway. Why? Was he trying to make his way back into the shop? Had his reply not been clear that he should come back tomorrow?

"I'm sorry," Will said, turning to look the lad properly in the eye. "I don't want you in here right now, Denys."

"I'm not 'in' here. I'm out," the boy replied smartly, and indicated to his feet, with his toes only just outside the door's threshold.

"I know you're out," Will replied with a similar edge, sharpened by his thinning patience. "But I can hear and see you thinking about coming in. You should head home and tend to your chores."

"They're done already."

Will raised a dubious eyebrow. "All of them?"

"I want to run an errand for you," came Denys' reply, pointedly avoiding the question.

"I already said I don't have one yet."

Whush, whush, whush…

Yellow at last! Will seized his tongs in his left hand, and withdrew the rod from forge to anvil. He hefted his hammer in is right, lifting it near the level of his eye.

"Go back to your mother before it gets dark," he stated firmly.

The hammer fell.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Denys did not listen right away, but he didn't venture deeper into the forge or ask any further questions. So Will allowed him to observe from the door. The colors of the iron he worked hardened and cooled with the colors of the sun, from gold to rust, as the strap was drawn to its final length. And he shifted his work, flattening the prism shaped "bead" he'd maintained for the decorative tip. Eventually the lad grew bored and wandered away for a while.

Will hummed to himself his day's song:

"O Hangman, stay thy hand,
"And stay it for a while,
"For I fancy I see my mother
"A coming across the yonder stile…."

He understood Denys' eagerness. A sixpence seemed small in the greater scheme of things. But it was worth around two hours of labor for an average blacksmith, depending on the day. And if things were at all similar to the days when Will had been Denys' age, already supplementing his mother's earnings, then that one errand to the governor's mansion had probably made more than a third of his mother's entire daily earnings. It was enough for half a gallon of small beer, or a single loaf of bread.

And that was before considering how much the basket of pies Elizabeth had bestowed on the family was actually worth…

"O, mother, have you my gold?
"And can you set me free?
"Or are you come to see me hung?
"All on the gallows tree?"

One strap hinge was finished. Another rod was tossed into the fire.

"Do you have a letter?" Denys chirped, reappearing in the door, probably having heard the hammer falling silent from wherever he'd been waiting.

"No," Will answered bluntly.

Then he turned back to the bellows, and made his work turning black into a rod glowing like lemons, which he could take to the anvil once again.

Whush, whush, whush…

Tnk! Tnk! Tnk!

"No, I've not brought thee gold,
"And I can't set thee free;
"But I have come to see thee hung
"All on the gallows tree."

The iron cooled. Will sent it back to the fire.

Whush, whush, whush…

And the lad was back in the doorway like clockwork, mouth opened with his already-asked question.

"No, Denys," Will called.

And he laughed to himself in equal measures of amusement and frustration as the boy threw his head back with a groan, marching away from the door with annoyed footsteps.

And so it went on and on for a few hours more.

Tnk! Tnk! Tnk! Tnk!

Whush, whush, whush…

"Still no, Denys."

One hinge strap was finished, the second begun.

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap!

Whush, whush, whush…

"Not today, Denys."

How many times would the lad need to be turned away before he accepted that the letter would simply not be ready before tomorrow?

Certainly, Will would have liked to give him a job to do. Even from this distance, he could catch pointed glimmers of hope in Denys' eyes, as he appeared to fantasize over whatever it was he felt the Swann's coins were good for. And having a second pair of hands to run these bellows in the donkey's place would be one hell of a help, as small as it was. At the very least, it would have made it possible to rotate between another bar sitting in the fire.

But the smithy's coffers were nearly empty. And Will already regretted not being able to easily pay Denys the dues he'd promised him for the letter.

'Thank god for Elizabeth…'

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

"Oh the briary bush,
"That pricks my heart so sore
"If I once get out of the briary bush,
"I'll never get in any more."

Again the iron cooled with the colors of the sun, now from rust to greying purples. When he pulled the bellows' chain, and looked out the door in anticipation of Denys' return, Will was suddenly struck by the sight of the lavender shadows over taking the courtyard outside. The day had reached its dying minutes, where the sun would begin to fade very quickly.

The day was over.

It would now be cool enough to close the shop up, to finish the race against his sun. So when the little boy from down the street re-appeared one last time, Will released the chain in his hand, to walk towards the smithy's entrance. From there, he ushered the boy back out onto the quickly quieting street, and took hold of the wooden door. He lifted the door up off his hinges just enough to be able to kick free the triangular wedge of driftwood he used for a stopper.

"Tomorrow, Denys," he repeated, as firm in his assertion as he hoped he was in his sympathy.

This time the lad's frustration gave way to a look of hurt disappointment.

"Why?" he pleaded to know.

With brows pinched in pity, Will gestured through a flick of his eyes to the increasingly dim courtyard around them.

"It's much too late. I'll be up working all night. But you're not walking around town, least of all outside it, after dark. You know what your mother would do."

Denys had no clever arguments this time, and merely hung his head down in defeat.

So with one last pat of sympathy on the lad's thin shoulder, Will bid him good night with a simple, "Go home."

And the door of the smithy was clicked back into its latch.

---

It seemed dusk had fallen in only seconds.

The touch of a spill stick carried the forge's fire to light three candles around the workshop—far fewer than Will would have used even two months ago. Back then, his master's money had been more dependable and less intimately tied to his future—it hadn't concerned him if he burnt every bit of the drunkard's wax and tallow away, if he forged every spare piece of ore he could get his hands on. The money wasn't his, but the experience was. Now, every trimmed fiber of wick tossed to the ground felt like hammerscale flaking off of Will's own money, little shavings at a time; every drop of wax breaking free from their flame's pool to melt into nothingness felt like drops of his dreams that might leak away; and every tendril of smoke escaping into the dark felt like it was taking his precious time away with it.

Fortunately, the more major parts of forging could be done in dimness almost just as well as it could be done in daylight—perhaps even more so. His mastery was meant to be over fire as much as metal, and in the dark, forge and iron glowed all the brighter with signs he could read better than the written word.

Unfortunately, neither forge nor the written word were mastered for free. Just as the candles became consumed at a cost, so did the forge's coke, the smithy's paper, wells of ink or sticks of chalk...

All things came at a cost.

But the forge was meant to pay him back for its hunger. And the written word was more than worth its sacrifices…

Will touched his pocket again, conjuring the spell of strength sealed inside it to steel himself for reigniting the forge's purpose. For a moment, he gave himself over to thoughts of Elizabeth's thoughts, of her eyes, her hands all setting themselves to the paper for the sake of him and no one else.

'You must work. For her, you must work…'

He shook his head to himself. Yes, he had to keep working—and at the same persistent pace he'd pushed himself through the entire day, or better. She'd said it exactly right: his struggles, his weaknesses, his failings were now hers to inherit, as much as the fruits of his accomplishments. He needed to carry his burdens as far as he could go before he laid any part of them on her shoulders. No more standing around thinking!

With a fortifying breath, the young smith shrugged his actual shoulders to loosen his arms and back, shook his hands and feet a few times to try and reinvigorate muscles in limbs growing heavy and slow. Then, he lifted his hands to the bellows' chain again.

Whush…

Whush…

He grimaced to himself as he hauled the line. He could feel a greater resistance in the depths of his body and his mind, making the simple task of pumping air a few times feel more arduous than it ought to have been. But he needed to push himself forward, to invigorate himself into pushing onward again for just a little longer.

For twelve hours.

An angry huff was followed by another fortifying breath. He couldn't dwell on it! He needed to plough ahead at a better rhythm. Back to the way it was before:

Whush, whush…!

With a swallow to moisten his throat, Will began his song again:

"O Hangman, stay thy hand,
"And stay it for a while…"

Then he fell still.

The song died on his lips, and the will to move wilted within him, as he brought his forehead to rest on his clenched fists.

It had been five hours since his last break. And now that his momentum had been interrupted, however briefly, he was struck more and more by a weariness that began to whisper back in his bones, 'The day is over. Lay yourself down until tomorrow.'

It shouldn't have surprised him. On other days, he would have retired from the forge to take up his sword in practice by this time, before preparing for bed. And looking back, he had made a significant amount of progress, even with his interruptions: twenty items altogether, forged in twelve hours, all on his own. And not a one of them was a simple nail or rivet yet! His pace had been relentless—almost unimaginable.

Unforgiving.

And yet he still had a final mountain of work ahead of him, bringing the once-shallow depths of his weariness up to his knees:

There were ten remaining hinge straps to craft. And while they were the last of the major pieces to make, and he felt he could finish them before midnight, doing so still left all the minor pieces and detailing work required to ensure everything fit together. Thirty connecting pieces, if he recounted them all in his mind along with the items he'd forgotten about earlier in the day. Spindles and pintles and catches and rivets… And, ah, he'd also forgotten he'd need to make a batch of nails after all—he'd likely be the one to hang the doors for Mister Hanson tomorrow…

So. More than thirty bits and bobs remained.

He felt something in his chest clench a little.

All these final pieces were easy enough to craft. But there were many of them, and they needed to fit the major parts perfectly. Then where the main forging ended, the finer work began: chiseling, filing, sealing…

Twelve more hours.

Alone.

Somehow dawn felt both farther away and so uncomfortably close, all at once.

'Lay yourself down…'

Eyes drifted towards the workbench, where the stool sat near the remaining morsels unpacked from the Swann's basket, waiting for him so temptingly. And without his summoning them, the words of the final section in his day's working song came back to his mind:

'… I fancy I see my lover 'A coming across the yonder stile'

The feeling in his chest transformed, from a clench of worry to one of other softer emotions. And once again, he touched his pocket in a gentle reminder to himself: he hadn't done all this work today alone, not truly. Elizabeth had sealed an oath for him with her lips, had bundled parcels of love for him to take up and enjoy. It was the partaking of the first half of those gifts that had fueled him through the long, laborious suffocation of this godforsaken afternoon.

Truly, he could not have come this far without her. Somehow, she had tended to him better from afar than he'd taken care of his own self. He needed to listen to his body, needed to listen to the unspoken advice that came with her kind packages.

He needed a break.

So with a nod of surrender, Will released the bellows chain, withdrew the iron rod from the low-burning flames. Then with Elizabeth's latest little feast gathered up in his hands, he took himself back into his master's house, prepared a pot of coffee, and sat at last at the empty table.

He drank, and he felt the coffee pour through his veins to feed the fire that had been dwindling inside him.

It refreshed him.

He ate, and the taste of his meal was so heavenly it nearly consumed him back.

It refortified him.

When the last of the pastries were consumed, the bottle's final drops were drained, Will buried his hands in his pockets and withdrew the letter that had been sent with the pieces of his meal.

He read, and the magnificent meanings behind Elizabeth's words danced across his eyes, wrapping themselves around his heart like an embrace he never wanted to release. With the touch of the letter to his lips, he took his second kiss, and the subtle scent of her swept into his breath, making the feeling of her closeness complete.

It overwhelmed him, this love.

How many times had he found himself standing before his own gallows tree, only for her to come and cut him down?

All anew, he could imagine the feeling of her hand slipping into his, like all those weeks ago: holding him soft as silk and taut as a vice, while they both bet their lives on that of a pirate's… A life they believed in and dreamed of.

Together.

If he'd ever truly been alone, if the world had turned its back on him the way he'd believed it had for so long, he would have been hanged that day, for certain.

And yet…

'I am here, standing right alongside you…'

He blinked away a prickle in his eyes, as his thumb brushed the words.

He'd spent far too much of this day allowing his mind to drift towards thoughts of failure. The people who'd failed him, the people whom he'd failed in turn, the ways in which he felt he was failing himself. And, deep down, there was the burning fear that he loathed to admit he feared he was failing her before they'd even begun their journey together. He trusted the cheerfulness of her words when she claimed their cancellation to be alright—but still it was a broken promise.

He could not be with her tonight in person, but he could be with her in spirit—as she had been, and would be, with him.

So though night had crept into Port Royal, and its visit would not last long, Will returned to the smithy's workbench, where he opened its writing drawer for the second time today. And before long his hand was occupied with making scratches in a tumble with words that were running wild in his heart, close to Elizabeth. There was no room for the pressures of haste or the puzzles of secrecy or questions of propriety—he wrote what he felt in ways he wished he could say as she sat beside him, with her hand clasped to his.

With her letter next to his own, he captured the dozens of questions that raced about his mind as he analyzed each of her pen strokes. Some things were simple conversation he wished she could hear—attempts to review the course of his day, as he wondered again about her own. But as he began to scrawl these passages, he found his mind wandering to the way he'd meant for them to be together now, speaking of these things in person. His feelings were coming out in a muddle, swinging from one topic to the next, reflective of the mess that was inside his heart. But he did all he could to untangle them for her.

He was grateful to her; he wished well for her; he lamented all that he could not offer her to better show it. And he ached for her so, in dozens of different ways. So he confessed it once, twice, perhaps too much.

In the sum of it all: he loved her, and he needed her to know it. Across the front and then the back of one sheet, then two, he hoped she understood.

'O, lover, have you my gold?
'And can you set me free?
'Or are you come to see me hung?
'All on the gallows tree?'

Once he'd reached the end of his reply and left the ink to dry, he could no longer tell what time it was. The moment had passed by in a blur, where he knew minutes could have passed by just as easily as hours. But his fatigue had been tempered in his excitements, the sleepiness threatening him chased away for now.

With pangs of longing settling in place of the aggravation that had lingered in him before, he returned to the forge. Hands moved by instinct, bellows creaked, anvil rang, iron gave way. And even as his paced returned to a brisk clip, the blacksmith dreamed wide awake:

One day, there'd also be no smithing left for him to do. And on that day, he would certainly take his lover's offered ears, her hands, her tongue—only he would put them to her advantage as well as his. With his arms, his lips, fingertips, and every side of his soul, he would make certain her feet were carried off the ground, away from her troubles and towards her dearest delights. He would ensure the only words she heard were worthy of her most blissful smiles. He would dress her wounds, if there were any ailing her.

He would sing for her, as her love now sang for him:

"O yes, I've brought thee gold,
"And I can set thee free;
"And I've not come to see thee hung
"All on the gallows tree...

"Oh the briary bush,
"That pricks my heart so sore
"Now I've got out of the briary bush,
"I'll never get in any more!"

---

Hints of silver were just beginning to peek through the smithy's open windows by the time Will finished sealing his last hinge. Sunrise was less than an hour away. And somehow, after a marathon with only two short breaks to top off on coffee, he might have made this order's due date.

If he could make the delivery on time, that is. And with how far he'd have to walk, he needed to leave immediately.

He felt a little like he was floating as he hustled about his business, gathering all the finished hardware in a pair of rucksacks, and loading a few tools into one of Mister Brown's leather bags. His hands were trembling as he moved. Invisible grains of sand had also become embedded under his eyelids. His upper back felt almost as stiff as stone. He could tell his attention was slipping—he spent several minutes looking for his favorite sledgehammer when it was already in his hand; after which, he walked out of the shop twice without the keys to lock it up. And, for one final stroke of forgetfulness, he opened the shop one last time to collect Elizabeth's letter, along with the remaining two pence in the smithy's strongbox.

Aside from that he felt fine.

He was fine!

With a thud, his shoulder clipped the corner of his neighbor's house.

…

'I am definitely taking a nap today.'

With that reward lingering in his mind, Will set off down the street under the gently waxing light of a thickly clouded morning.

---

It wasn't long into his walk before Will began to realize he may have overlooked the threat which the weather posed. As the sun rose, darkness hovered lower than usual, revealing clouds that were not just thick, but grim and heavy. Gusts of wind rolled in off the sea, rustling the trees along the edge of town in restless warnings he ought to have heeded sooner. The birds and tree frogs agreed with their loud, clamorous cries in their own languages: rain, rain, rain!

But a promise was a promise—and money was money. So he pressed on.

It was only a few minutes before his journey's end that the sky opened, and rain began to fall—a patter, at first, which progressed into a steady shower by the time he walked within sight of the mansion in progress. The sight of the building should have been a relief…

But with a sinking feeling settling in Will's stomach, he soon realized he could see no life around the building, aside from a few birds taking shelter along the window sills. Its tall wooden walls, painted to look like white granite stones, nested glimpses at rooms which were dark and vacant. And not one whisper could be heard of a human's voice, above the sounds of the storm.

Had all his sleep been sacrificed for nothing?

Could he have climbed into bed and waited for the storm to settle?

What was this light-headed feeling, this dull aching in his limbs even for?

For a few moments all he could do was stand and stare at the building, feeling the frustration inside him rise in temperature until his stomach began to boil. He clenched his fists and grit his teeth. And an impulse tickled at his hands and arms, tempting him with the idea of how satisfying it could be to hurl his delivery sacks through one of the man's pretentious windows.

Or all of them.

'You could get away with it, if you wanted,' a vindictive little voice whispered in his mind's ear. 'You could smash a whole set of windows. There's no guarantee he'll pay you your due, anyway. Just take his order back with you—make sure there's no glass or other sign you've been here.'

Though he shook his head to himself, he couldn't help a wry smile. What a persuasive vandal this inner voice in him was! But secrecy had never been his strong suit. And even if he managed to get away with it, that would only mean that someone else was bound to get the blame for it. If not for the vandalism itself, then for failures to guard the house and prevent it.

That someone else was bound to be one of the workers here, most likely one of the men enslaved. And he could never do that to another undeserving person…

No, if Will were to ever resort to such measures, he'd much rather do it with open eyes turned on him to witness—a rebellious clash performed right in front of Mister Dodson's uplifted nose, the way he'd done at Jack's hanging. It was stupid, he knew. But at least in those circumstances he could understand the outcomes much more easily.

'Remember your agreement, William,' the better part of himself reminded. 'If not that, remember the money…'

With a deep sigh, he calmed himself. The money, the money…

What were his options here, ones which wouldn't get another person into trouble or take away his chances of collecting payment…?

The most level-headed ideas he could think of were to simply come back later… or to find a place where the hardware could be easily found, and leave it behind, delivered. Then he could call on Mister Dodson after the rain passed, and confirm his team received it… Perhaps after speaking to the foreman about it.

After reconsidering the options, Will nodded to himself.

Yes, that would be what he'd have to do.

So with another shift of the heavy load slung across his shoulder, he stepped towards the house to walk through the front door.

Except the handle refused to give.

He frowned. Just to be certain, he gave it an extra shimmy, to make sure the door hadn't become stuck in the rain's humidity—but no. It was definitely latched. And why not? Of course the door would be locked! The last thing Mister Dodson would want was for thieves to make their way into his house, stealing his artisanal fixings.

Either there had to be another place to leave building materials, or another way into the house…

Another roguish little thought began to tickle in his mind, but he pushed it aside before it could form into a complete idea. No broken windows would be needed here! If the front door was locked, the back door would likely be too—but unlike the front door, the back may have been made by his master, with locks he knew how to spring loose. So even if It ended up locked, there was a good chance there was another, less-damaging way to make it into the house.

But if not…

He brought his baggage with him as he turned the corner around the side of the house, struggling to hop between puddles and more obvious collections of mud—he almost lost his shoe to a particularly large one. With some careful maneuvers, he managed to salvage his footwear and turn the second corner to the house's rear property.

He was surprised to see the orange glow of a fire, burning low beneath a small cauldron, hanging from a tripod. It was shielded from the rain by a thatched roof—a temporary hut without walls, covering several barrels of supplies and assortments of tools. It wasn't inside the house, but it was exactly the place Will needed to find. Near the fire was a tall, clean-shaven man in a simple grey tricorn hat, smoking a pipe and adjusting the position of one of the fire's logs with a poker. Or that's what he had been doing—he seemed to notice Will as quickly as Will had seen him, and abandoned the task in light of his trespassing.

The whites of the man's eyes flashed a little with recognition, before he hauled himself to his feet.

"Oh, William Turner!" he called in a familiar accent. Then with his pipe tucked between his teeth, he walked to the edge of the thatched shelter shielding him from the rain. "You'n made it after all!"

Akachi Egbo, one of the freedmen employed by Hezekiah's carpentry business, and a member of Will's informal fencing club. He was not a proper friend, per se, as Mister Egbo seemed to play things close to the vest when it came to any relations he entertained with white folk. They knew little more than the simplest things about each other, and crossed paths almost exclusively in professional settings at the club's practice "arena." But Will considered him a good man and trustworthy colleague, regardless. Best of all at this moment, it seemed he knew what business of Will's had brought him here, and would be able to attest to his barely-on-time delivery.

Will offered a tired grin to the man, as he walked through the rain towards the supply hut.

"Only just," he replied, once within a more natural speaking distance.

"I can see that," Mister Egbo quipped, and made a point of looking Will up and down, before standing to the side and waving him into the shelter. "Come over hereso, get under the roof."

Will breathed a thanks in time with a grateful dip of his head, as he stepped out of the rain and into the reach of the fire's drying warmth. With his head swiveling about, he began to look for the best place to unload his work.

Mister Egbo noticed. "I take it that's the last of the parts we've been missing?"

"Aye…" Will spotted a dry patch of ground near a stack of floor tiles. "May I leave them here?"

Mister Egbo shook his head in response, then began fishing around inside one of his pockets. "The doors are propped in the dining hall."

He withdrew something jangly out of his pocket and tossed it in Will's direction. Will barely caught it, feeling sluggish with his surprise for the motion. But after a brief fumbling, he managed to pin the awkward present against his chest: the keys to the house! There'd be no need to force his way in after all!

Holding them up in a saluting motion, he crossed his way to the Dodsons' large back door. After some more fidgeting with the keys, he let himself into the house's half-finished ground floor.

The building was only half as spacious as the governor's home, but far more stately than Mister Brown's. The walls were painted white, and tiles were being laid across the ground floor, in a way that reminded him very much of the Swann's breezeway. But Mister Dodson seemed to have slightly simpler tastes compared to the governor, though it was likely not by choice. There were no columns to hold up the home's upper level—the entry hall seemed small enough for it to not be necessary. And the stairs' banister was much more simple.

But the craftsmanship before Will's eyes was still of high quality, in such a way he hoped the home's visitors and occupants would feel his handiwork fit nicely. He could not help but wonder at the costs—and not just for Mister Dodson's purse.

A part of him would have liked to stay and explore the house a little, for curiosity's sake. But greater in him was the desire to return home and find his way back to his bed as quickly as possible. So instead he found the room that must have been the dining hall, for there were the doors Mister Egbo spoke of, with his master's fixing's kept nearby in spare, open barrels. He unloaded his own work into them, an elated weight lifting off his shoulders over this barely-made victory. He'd pulled it off, somehow! Now the rest of his week could gradually return back to normal.

The old normal.

Upon exiting the house, he locked up its door. Then back at the hut, he returned the keys to Mister Egbo with another accompanying expression of gratitude.

"I'm sorry about that rush," the joiner answered, as he pocketed the keys. "It could have waited another few days, in truth, but Old Jessamy wouldn't hear it."

A sigh and another nod from Will acknowledged Mister Egbo's much-appreciated sympathy, followed by a grin worn-down to its threads. "Here's hoping it's not too late to finish the project."

"Careful what you wish for. A man like that gets his way, you'll never get to afford the clothes for walking in this weather," Mister Egbo suggested looking down pointedly at Will's soggy, muddied stockings, before taking a long draw from his pipe and letting the smoke out slowly on a deep sigh.

Will grimaced a little—his performance of lightheartedness wasn't the only thing hanging on by a thread. And his companion's warning was likely not given lightly.

But before he could make any answering remark, Mister Egbo gestured to the simmering pot in between them. "We've got some breakfast here, if you'll be needing it. Callaloo. It'll wake you up real good and proper!"

"I think this rain has taken care of that," Will answered with a tip of his head to the drenched grounds surrounding them.

That might have been the end of it, the beginning of goodbye—he'd already done the most important part of what he'd come to do, and in the aftermath, the weariness which had been hovering over him was now starting to come crashing down onto his hard-worked body. He needed to rest before the doors' hanging.

However, there was a hunger in his belly which had grown gnawing and ravenous. And when some of the aromatic scents of peppers and coconut wafted in Will's direction, he could feel his stomach grumble and roll inaudibly, making his mouth water. The last thing he'd eaten was a wedge of cheese around midnight. He would probably work and rest better with a full belly—but in his rush he had overlooked preparing himself any meal of his own. On top of all that, it would take over an hour to walk home, which wouldn't be pleasant in this rain…

So tentatively, instead of offering a farewell, Will went through the motions of politely declining and hoping it would not be accepted, "I wouldn't want to take advantage of your early preparations."

"Pah! Don't be a fool—sit yahso!" Mister Egbo spat, and gestured towards another small barrel Will could use as a seat. "You are part of the team today."

Ripples of relief settled over Will, but he continued with one last rejection, less insistent this time, "I didn't bring anything to eat with."

"So you'll borrow!" Mister Egbo stretched to lift a small wooden bowl out of a bag behind him, offering it for Will to take. "You may use mine. I've eaten, and it's clean. Come now! Dry yourself."

He pointed at the spare barrel-stool using his pipe, with stronger insistence. His grin giving way, Will accepted the invitation at last, and took his seat beside the fire.

"Thank you," he repeated, feeling a little bit like the cuckoo clock in the cordwainer's shop next door to the smithy. Repeating, 'Thank you, thank you, thank you…'

He perched his hands in loosely curled fists atop his thighs, not wanting to appear too eager or greedy as Mister Egbo went about serving up his stew. If he ate slowly enough, then there was a chance a few other workers would arrive, and he could hang the doors before making his way home. It would save him another trip, and give him back more of his day to use as he pleased. Then perhaps he could return tomorrow morning to instead settle the next part of this order…

"How early does Mister Dodson arrive?" he wondered aloud.

"Oh, there'll be no arriving today with this weather, god bless," Mister Egbo answered with a tired laugh of his own. Then catching the amused surprise on Will's expression, he expounded, "He's been a pain in everybody's tired asses the entire build."

Will let the hiccup of a single laugh free, both surprised and very much unsurprised by the two halves of that revelation. In his brief encounters with the man, Mister Dodson seemed the sort who wanted his hands and noses involved in every nook and corner of this build, without regard for what it meant to the hands actually fulfilling it.

"I can imagine," he replied dryly. "Why are you here so early?"

"Oh, I was hoping to beat the rain by an hour or two. But the weather was too quick for me." Finished with ladling the callaloo, Mister Egbo set his bailer aside and then offered Will his bowl with one hand, his wooden spoon in the other.

Will accepted both along with the lift of a little toasting motion, to offer Mister Egbo a thankful unspoken, "cheers." He cradled the bowl for half a moment, enjoying the warmth seeping through the wood and into his water-wrinkled fingers. But only for a moment—he was far more hungry than he was cold. Only a few seconds later, he used the spoon to shovel some of the leafy, deep-green concoction into his mouth. His tongue was coated by flavors matching the appetizing scents from before—sweet creaminess from coconut milk, savory aromatics from garlic and the callaloo's leaf, fruity heat from the peppers.

A lot of heat, actually—both from the peppers' spice and from the bubbling simmer of the stew itself. The combination was more than Will had expected, despite the warnings that had come to him through his hands and nostrils. In fact, the combined surprise was enough that he gasped a little at the burn, and accidentally breathed some of the soup's liquid into his windpipe.

He began to cough, and swallowed hastily. It helped him avoid choking, but now the pepper's spiciness was inside his throat, not only on his lips and tongue. And it worsened the feeling of having inhaled something completely wrong, as small as it was.

Mister Egbo laughed, rocking backward and forward with his amusement over what probably seemed like a strong reaction to the peppers alone. "And what did I tell you? Wakes you right up, don't it?"

That was one way of putting it. The remnants of exhaustion that had been weighing his mind, his eyes, his hands down had practically been blazed away, for the moment.

"Very thoroughly!" Will wheezed back, then began to aggressively clear his throat to calm the choking sensation down. His eyes were watering now.

Belatedly, Mister Egbo seemed to realize that something more was wrong than just peppery spices. He reached out to whack Will across the back a few times, attempting to help him dislodge the nonexistent object stuck in his throat.

Will waved at him that he was alright, and instead simply took a few moments to allow the reaction to calm and pass.

Despite nearly burning his mouth and being killed by it in the process, the food was delicious. So much so, as soon as his breathing had stabilized to something relatively normal, Will took a moment to blow on his stew to speed along its cooling and more swiftly return to tasting it again. When he finally did, it was still spicy, which he felt he might regret later, but much less physically scalding.

He began to shovel the callaloo into his mouth.

Mister Egbo's eyebrows pinched in a mixture of wonder and concern. "You like it!"

Will merely nodded back at first, pausing every so often to pant around his spoonfuls when the heat rose back up to a temporarily intolerable temperature. While the stew's steaming was cooling quickly, the spice of the peppers was gradually building and becoming painful—but so were the wonderful flavors underneath.

Eventually he paused to ask, "You'll teach me this one?"

The food in the Brown household had suffered in the immediate aftermath of Missus Brown's death, when Mister Brown had been forced to step in and fill her absence with little knowledge of proper cookery. Once he lost interest in that task, which was very quickly, he passed that chore onto his apprentice. Eventually tiring of the same plain dishes everyday, Will began asking his friends and neighbors for advice and recipes they used to keep to a budget while eating pleasantly. Mister Egbo was one such "neighbor" Will had turned to in the past, even though he lived in a far different part of the city—in some ways, in a completely different world.

"If you pay me for it," Mister Egbo replied firmly. He stood to stir the pot, then rose it a little higher from the fire on its chain. "I do not work for free anymore."

"Of course not," Will responded in understanding. Then he held up his bowl of callaloo. "And I'm assuming you'll charge a premium for this."

"Twenty doubloons at least!" Mister Egbo quipped back, not a second wasted. "Or a pair of decent swords—I would trade."

Will shook his head, and took his time to swallow another mouthful of creamy, leafy stew. "Why has everyone been asking that of me lately?"

"You make them very well," was Mister Egbo's sincere response. "When you need a master joiner, I'll help by building something very well too. That's the trade."

Though his mouth opened to turn the offer away by reflex, Mister Egbo's words tickled a part of his brain with the smallest prospect of a marvelous possibility, which teased Will into slowly shutting his mouth, thinking. His eyes drifted from the work scene under this hut to the beautifully framed house which so many hard-pressed hands were building, pieces at a time, including his own. Elizabeth's father would likely expect something similar to that house for his daughter—anything lower for her married home would likely be seen as a true fall from grace. But if Will was to be realistic, he'd have to admit that he would not be able to afford anything so spacious or luxurious for years and years—and even that was only after assuming his swordsmithing somehow could become a runaway success, in an age were guns were swiftly solidifying themselves as the more choice weapon of military man and farmer alike.

But if he could build up an exchange of good will from his peers and fellow craftsmen…

"I may have to take you up on that," he mused aloud, before continuing to stir his thoughts around the bubbling cauldron in his mind.

If he could trade swords and other forged goods for help with carpentry, or joinery, or glass work… Perhaps he could afford a small, well-built house—one designed with a promise to be expanded upon over the years? If that were the case, he might not need to use any part of Elizabeth's dowry at all… And perhaps he could prove his resourcefulness to Governor Swann, in the process. Possibly.

He sniffed. The unusual spices in the stew were starting to make his nose run a little bit, but he couldn't bring himself to stop eating it. He stopped talking to quicken the pace of his feast, until the bowl was scraped as clean as he could manage to get it. Then he set the bowl for a moment upon an overturned bucket, so he could withdraw his handkerchief from his inside coat pocket, to dab his nose and mouth clean with alternating corners. His lips and tongue were still burning, almost tingling. He was thoroughly warmed from the inside out. And his mind was buzzing with the very vague beginnings of a plan.

"That was… stimulating. And delicious—thank you again, Mister Egbo."

"Of course," Mister Egbo replied with a grin, before pointing with his pipe back at the cauldron. "Next bowl, one shilling."

Will laughed. The heat of his breath seemed much warmer than usual—like he'd become part dragon, it felt, and the sensation enflamed his raw-feeling mouth. He pursed his lips to suck and blow a bit of air over his tongue and past his lips, trying to cool his mouth down with the rain-damp air. Unfortunately, whichever peppers had been tossed into this pot had a heat that was outpacing any potential cooling effect the air could have had on his mouth. He had to admit whatever he'd eaten was a bit beyond his limit—and he ate his fair share of pepper pots.

He looked at a smirking Mister Egbo with a bit of a wince. "Is there water nearby?"

"Well, you're welcome to step out and open your mouth, if you wish," Mister Egbo said in a voice that sounded completely serious.

Will narrowed his eyes in part suspicion and part annoyance, then opened his mouth to riposte with a fresh barb, sharpened by the imaginary brimstone coating his tongue.

The carpenter cut him off, "Or you can try those barrels by the house. But it'll do you no good, either way. It'd be far better to cut one of these open and suck on it for a spell."

Mister Egbo reached in another direction and produced a beautifully smooth, round lime. Like he did with the house's keys, he tossed the fruit in Will's direction without warning.

This time Will missed the catch, too tired to be properly coordinated. Instead, the lime bounced off his chest and hand, tumbling to the floor and narrowly missing the edge of the fire ring. Mister Egbo clucked his tongue at him in a sound of disappointment. As Will bent to pick the fruit up from the ground, he returned his own half-accusatory glare.

Wiping the fruit off on the side of his breeches, Will considered whether he ought to toss the fruit back. Mister Egbo had a demeanor that was simultaneously guarded and friendly, sometimes all at once, but more often in quickly shifting intervals. His jokes were swift to come and swifter to leave, with the words he said in sobriety often sounding very similar to the things he claimed in jest, making it sometimes difficult for Will to spot the difference. Telling Will to eat a lime could just as easily be the thoughtful sharing of wisdom as it could be a joke he was making for his own amusement.

But Will was tired—Mister Egbo's intentions were too much to try and consider today. So he chose the easier way this time: blind trust. Without a single sound or any other indication of argument, he took out his pocket knife and cut the citrus fruit into quarter wedges. Then refusing to think twice, he took a juicy bite out of one slice, as though it were a sweet orange.

Limes were not oranges.

He tried not to pucker, tried to convince himself and Mister Egbo that biting into such a sour morsel was as normal as could be. But it was not, for him. And try as he might, Will only managed to hold out for a few measly seconds before the tartness of the lime's juices made his mouth practically shrivel upon itself, with chills racing along his spine, his face scrunched up tight by a reflex as pure and strong as though he'd been sprayed in his eyes.

Slapping his own knee, Mister Egbo threw his head back, and guffawed loudly into the hut's thatched roof.

In response, Will could only fail all attempts to glare back with any weight, as his face was still pinched by his lingering cringes, smacking his lips together and cursing inside Mister Egbo's unpredictable pranks. But soon the initial sting of tartness began passing over—and now that he was adjusted to it, he thought perhaps it wasn't quite so bad as the initial surprise made it seem. He could probably taste it again more easily on a second bite. His mouth was beginning to water once more, but no longer from hunger. From the sting, perhaps? Although it certainly wasn't painful. Actually… quite the opposite: the peppers' burning had lessened significantly—not enough to soothe it away entirely yet, but far more effectively than any other method he'd tried before.

The only prank here was the way this remedy had been delivered: without warnings or any watering-down.

Bracing himself for another figurative punch to the mouth, Will bit into the lime once again, this time seizing the pulpy remnants of its flesh in his teeth and tearing it free to eat as confidently as any other fruit. It was not any less sour, but he braced his face against the puckering reflex, refusing to show the effect such a hearty bite was having over him.

It didn't work, exactly—whatever attempt at stoicism he was making somehow only made his breakfast companion laugh even harder. It was probably the way he couldn't quite manage to resist squinting.

Mister Egbo rocked backwards, cackling, then rocked forwards again in a chuckle. Finally, with a wide grin lingering on his face, he reached for the emptied wooden bowl on the neighboring bucket.

"You'll eat anything, Turner. Won't you?" he accused, and served up a second bowl of callaloo, holding it out for Will to take.

"If it works, it works," Will answered with a shrug. And it did—after his second bite of the lime, his mouth had cooled so significantly with the help of his little citrus gift, the only hesitation he felt in sending himself back into the fire over again was rooted in Mister Egbo's previous warnings of it costing some pretty pennies. Yet despite that, he accepted the bowl. And in a tone carefully lighter than the weight of meaning he felt behind it, Will acknowledged the past agreement, saying, "Besides, food is food… and a shilling is a shilling."

He knew his evasiveness wouldn't matter—Mister Egbo saw right through the breeziness of the reply, and possibly even further down to why Will said it to begin with. With that more serious shift in his demeanor Will saw so often but never fully predicted, the man nodded almost gravely. "One shilling for the next bowl."

The fresh rush of gratitude Will felt accepting this extra bowl ran nearly as sharp and hot as the following bite he took of the stew. He wasn't entirely certain why he deserved such charity—and a part of him wondered whether it wasn't pure charity at all. Mister Egbo was a kind soul, to be certain, but he was also a survivor of enslavement. What his experience had been and how he'd managed to secure his freedom, Will did not know. But he had heard enough stories, and understood from his own experiences of indenture, and now of piracy, to have built a bit of understanding for the need to be shrewd to make one's way. Sometimes a kind turn was purely a kind turn—and sometimes it was also a carefully made deal or alliance.

After all, trust did not come easy in these circumstances—the only blame Will could find for that lied with the men who lorded over them for their own gain.

The burning in Will's mouth reached a sudden peak in pain, breaking through his thoughts enough to halt his musings and seek out the next lime wedge. He also noticed the beginnings of a searing feeling rising up in the pit of his stomach—like the skin-tight flares of the forge biting against his hand when it was drawing too close to the radiating coals for too long. Either this lime would have to perform its miracles inside his guts, or later he would just have to accept some painful regrets.

Ah, but a free meal was always worth it.

He set the lime wedge between his teeth and pinched the juice free inside his mouth, to keep from making a mess.

"It's better with salt," Mister Egbo's voice caught his attention before it could attempt to return to its earlier thoughts.

Will blinked for a moment, unable to reply immediately with the lime caught in his mouth. As he removed it, he pressed his mouth shut tight, to ensure the lime's pulp slid between his lips and brushed some cooling remedies along the outsides of his mouth.

"I'll take your word for it," he responded through another mighty effort to avoid shriveling into himself.

Mister Egbo cracked another smile.

The pattern continued for a few minutes: Will eating a few bites, then balming himself with the help of the citrus 'ointment,' before eating a little more, all while Mister Egbo laughed a little less at his expense each time, until he had consumed all of his second serving. Then the pair of craftsmen sat silent for a moment, Will letting his thoughts become lost to the gusts of wind and rain rushing through the surrounding forests over his chilled back. He would have to brave this weather again soon. And even though his mind felt refreshed in the remnants of the punchy flavors with which he'd just unwittingly waylaid his senses, the bubbling crackle of the cookery before him seemed to lure his rain-soaked legs into a sort of sleepiness. His body did not want to move—especially not to walk through the storm, only to find more work at the end of his journey.

'I wish I could at least dry my stockings and shoes before I headed back,' Will thought to himself, as his mind retraced his steps down the path that would lead him back to town and the smithy. 'Or that I had better shoes for this weather, to begin with.'

But the clouds were gloomy and thickly blanketed as far across the sky as his eyes could see. It seemed unlikely the rain would let up long enough to make the effort all that worth it. He would just have to wait to dry off, and hope that his shoes held out.

But he didn't want to have to hope that they would hold out. He wanted to keep sitting here until the rain stopped and the fire melted the weariness from his bones. He wanted to be done with his job today, to hang these accursed doors then catch a wagon's ride back into town.

He wanted his master to come home sober and ready to finish the day's work, so he could go about his own business for once in his life. He wanted to go back to his own orders, to start making and keeping his own earnings, so he could buy himself those boots he kept thinking of whenever the weather turned foul. He wanted to meet Elizabeth under a cottonwood tree where other people's eyes could not see, then throw both their shoes away entirely, to feel cool sand and warm waters beneath their feet, like they used to do. He wanted to shuffle and stomp to the rhythm of a proper duel again, with someone who could really keep him on his toes.

He wanted another taste of the fire and zest in living his own life: facing the wide-open world and the wind to take him to his wildest whims; no masters to answer to; a sword on his hip and a worthy opponent to take it up against…

'Yo ho, yo ho…'

Wait.

A shake of his head freed Will from that train of thought. Where had that come from? He hadn't heard that song in… five years? Six? Whenever had been his and Elizabeth's last day at play with their pirate games. Back then, he'd insisted on fighting the pirates back, defending their sand castle forts or port town boulders while she'd irritated him by singing her song as loud as she could, to remind him of all the things he so hated about her strange heroes…

Lips quirked upward in a silent laugh. How ironic he suddenly found his heart singing it back to him now!

'She really did win all those rounds in the end, didn't she…?'

Then his smile slipped away. It suddenly occurred to him he'd been staring dream-eyed into the cooking fire—and Mister Egbo had been watching his expressions, with a single, knowing eyebrow raised.

…

"How's the arena?" Will blurted out the first question he could call to mind.

Mister Egbo only stared back without changing his expression, puffing on his pipe a few times in watchful, amused silence.

In answer, Will bit into his final half-sucked lime wedge, staring as well while tearing the pulp free from the rind. Immediately, it sent him cringing at the sour sharpness that bit him back.

His compatriot's expression warped to include an air of perplexed wonderment over the course their conversation had taken. "I was going to say that we've missed you, but now I'm not so sure…"

Will's eyebrows perked up with surprise and admittedly more than a little flattery from that admission. "Have you?"

"Aye," Mister Egbo answered, then paused for a moment to free his pipe from his teeth and dump its ash into the fire pit. "Things don't run quite so smooth when you're not there to keep Marshe in line. Plus, though the other lads won't admit it, no one offers up quite the same challenge as you in an opponent. Any chance you planning on coming back soon?"

"I intend to. I've missed it," Will answered honestly. "Whether or not it'll happen 'soon' remains to be seen."

A deep sigh escaped Mister Egbo at that, and a serious crease crossed his brow. He glanced inside his pipe's bowl, then used his finger to scrape out whatever remains he saw still clinging to its insides. "Saw your master in town again. Catt and Fiddle, at his usual habits."

Will's winces settled into a scowl, as he tossed the rind of his lime slice into the fire. "When was that?"

"Two nights ago," came Mister Egbo's quiet reply. Then with his hands on his knees he pushed himself to his feet, saying, "Who knows where he's gone since?"

Will nodded in return, grateful for the confirmation of his suspicions, even if the truth was unpleasant… and out of date. Two nights ago was the evening spent late at the governor's mansion. Brown had started exactly as he'd assumed—but that left two nights and an entire day for him to have wandered to whichever places would have let him sink as deep as he wished to drown himself, for a bit of coin. No need for any weight wrapped around his ankles…

It turned out silver could be just as cursed as gold, and there were hungers in the world that required no moon to reveal how deep to the bone they consumed their own bodies.

With the emptied bowl clutched in his hand, Will was suddenly struck afresh by Mister Egbo's willingness to see his own hunger was tended to, to extend an open hand of help before he could even think to ask for it, as his master's vices threatened to sink him too. And he felt a little ashamed of himself, for the bitterness that he'd allowed to take hold of him yesterday—there were more good people in this world. What did it matter if they asked something of him in return…?

Everyone in this city was wanting for something—and this far down in the lowtowns, the needs were many and great.

"How is your wife?" he carefully ventured asking Mister Egbo's back.

For a long while, the man merely stood on the edge of the hut, staring through the rain's mists at the great house with a perfect stillness. Will began to believe he ought not have asked it, despite it being the trouble he knew weighed most heavily on Mister Egbo's heart and mind. How could it not?

"Surviving," he answered at length, with a spit of bitterness under his voice.

Will felt the taste of it rise in the back of his own throat. "How close are you to freeing her?"

Mister Egbo breathed in deep, held it, then let it loose in a slow, determined sigh. And when he looked back at Will, there was a hotter fire in his eyes than even those blue-white flames that fueled the city's foundries.

"Not close enough."

Of all things in this world, natural or unnatural, Will felt he understood fire close to the best—especially ones that burned like this. Fires forged his blades, and fires called them to the hands of those who most desired to wield them. He felt the fire in himself, and saw its reflection in the eyes of the young Mister Hackley. But this… this was no simple fire—it was an inferno. And at the sight of it, the song Will had sung to himself throughout the night came back to his mind at a roar:

'O yes, I've brought thee gold,
'And I can set thee free;
'And I've not come to see thee hung
'All on the gallows tree...

'Oh the briary bush,
'That pricks my heart so sore
'Now I've got out of the briary bush,
'I'll never get in any more!'

Mister Egbo would never ask for it in any way that would get either of them into trouble. There were few things that frightened the powdered overlords of this island than the thought of those they would keep in chains finding weapons for their hands. A mere whiff of such things would summon punishments swift and disproportionate—he was shrewd out of necessity. But he didn't need to ask for Will to understand what was wanted with his swords.

Will was not free to patronize taverns regularly, did not have the coin to read the pamphlets or newspaper about the goings on around him more than a few times a month. Even if he did, there was little he could make of it all—he was not his own voice, his own body, his own man yet. Still his ears heard the chatter of changes happening in the island's plantations and jungles—rumors of runaways and raids and, dare it be said, revolutions. He wasn't certain what was fact and what was fiction, whether any of it was actually a movement in motion, or only fevered predictions from those who dreaded and desired them in equal measure.

But there was a truth he saw in the faces of those whose shoulders he brushed in the craftsman's district, the markets, the docks—one darkened by pains and lit by convictions familiar yet unfathomed at once. And whether or not the fires behind them came to raze this world of theirs to the ground… How could a scapegallows like him stand in their way?

"I have no shillings," Will stated plainly, "but if you're willing to wait a little, I can get you something better."

Mister Egbo only nodded.

---

The rain was coming down in sheets by the time Will left the build sight. With drops thick and heavy, the sky quickly washed the roads over, turning them into wide, rushing streams of water.

Just his luck.

For half the journey home, he found himself wading with awkward, light steps around the blisters threatening to form on his muddy, waterlogged feet. And with his posture crouching around his leather pouch, pressing the one barrier protecting Elizabeth's letter firmly against his breast in an effort to keep it dry, he wagered he looked awfully strange walking into the nearest King's Arm tavern with his knees raised high like a chicken. But it was worth the effort—the ink was safe, and he was able to leave his reply and the necessary fee with the bartender, just as the next messenger was preparing to go out into the storm.

So it was he made it back to the Brown's home in one piece—albeit sopping wet as a soaked wash rag, with all the wrinkled fingers and puddles trailing behind him to prove it, but whole and healthy all the same.

It was a relief, walking through his master's door. However, as the relief swept over him, the silent darkness made it all the more easier to heed the way his feet were crying in complaints over how run-down he really was. He'd just walked eight or nine miles to make his delivery, one way bearing over twenty pounds of gear, the other trudging through mud, wind, and rain. Halfway through said journey, he'd mounted six doors with locks and hinges. And all that was today alone—if he counted how he hadn't slept in well over a day, and the amount of work he'd done through his un-ended yesterday, well… it was little wonder that his soles were throbbing as painfully as they were.

And his calves.

And his shoulders, and neck, and… well, most of his back was tense, actually.

Nothing sounded better than the chance to simply fall into his bed, and sleep the day away! Unfortunately for Will, there were things to be done first which could not be avoided. The donkey still needed to be tended to, most crucially. Almost as important, he needed to begin drying his coats, breeches, and shoes—he only had one set of each to wear, and if he still intended to try and meet with members of his guild's court, he needed to appear somewhat presentable. Finally, he'd finished the last of Elizabeth's victuals in the course of the night, and would need to begin preparing a meal now, if he wished to eat anything come evening. And, if he could muster the energy, he wanted to try and make progress with at least one of his own orders from yesterday…

Although, that was probably unrealistic.

He threw his head back to sigh towards the ceiling in aggravation. The motion only called attention to the beginnings of a headache starting to form behind his right eye. Yet another pain to add to his list.

Would this day ever end?

Not with him standing here, it wouldn't.

With this in mind, he slowly got to work. First he started by coaxing the house's fire back to life. Once the flames had caught onto their new introductions of fuel, Will tied up a clothesline and stripped down naked to hang most of his dripping wardrobe near the fireplace for quicker drying. Unfortunately, he needed some sort of coverings to make his way to the stables without risking a scandal. He did not need rumors started from nosy neighbors claiming he was losing his senses, running around disrobed.

So a few extra minutes were spent gently wringing the water from his breeches and blotting them with a rag, to make them at least prevent water dribbling down his legs. That would allow him to get a bit of work done without too much trouble. Once he was satisfied that they were… not dry, but not so much of a problem anymore, he shuffled back into their damp discomfort, and threw on a clean and dry shirt.

Dressed well enough for what he needed done, on bare feet he chicken-hopped as quickly as he could down the house's stairs to the stables. The donkey brayed in anxious greeting when he stumbled through the door, and she nipped hungrily at his clothes as he gathered her barley straw for her.

"I know, girl," he soothed, scratching her ear and neck once she'd tucked into her hours-late breakfast. "Believe me, I know."

A few more minutes were spent on routine chores: cleaning out her pen, topping off her water, checking for leaks, and examining her limbs to ensure the previous day's work hadn't overtaxed her in ways she'd hidden the previous afternoon. By the by, he was satisfied all was well, and she'd be content until the next morning. For good measure, he left her another bark-covered stump to strip down as a treat. Then he finally scurried over to the house's cellar with a bucket in hand.

Though Will initially cursed himself for not having the forethought to plan for a meal the night before, there were a few plans he could fall back on when dinner had become an afterthought. He was distressed to see their barrels of saltfish and pork were getting low, as were their stores of fresh vegetables—the last of their onions had begun to sprout. But they still had a few carrots, parsnips and squash. And as a lucky treat, he discovered one remaining coconut, which had been kicked into a corner, where it somehow had not yet seemed to spoil. Even more fortunately, they still had a few pounds of rice and plenty of beans. And last of all, they hadn't quite run out of dried ginger or pepper yet. With these things, he could think of a few meals he could improvise, and eventually settled on a relatively quick saltfish soup, with plans to make a half-spiced pot of rice and peas tomorrow.

Grabbing everything he wanted to take with him on his way out, he returned to the house to deposit his ingredients. He was able to make quick work retrieving water from their rain barrel instead of having to travel to the fountain. Then soon the fish lay soaking over the fire, harnessing the boil to speed up a desalting he should have begun overnight. He chopped up his onion, carrot, and parsnip, and pounded some pepper, dancing around his drying wardrobe to make patient disposals of the fish's steaming, salty water to the streets. Twice he did this, before finally trusting there would be enough preserves removed from the fish to make the soup's flavor eatable. While the pot was empty, he took an opportunity to toast the rice and give the vegetables a little color. Any rendered lard he could keep was tipped out to add to the room's lamp. Finally, after retrieving one last batch of water for his master's cauldron, he was able to toss everything together with some rice, beans, pepper, and ginger, hoping it would all taste halfway decent come evening.

---

He had no idea what time it was anymore—probably somewhere near noon. He was hungry again, but had nothing ready to eat yet. Slumped in a chair beside his master's table, Will felt as though the final bits of his strength had finally left him, utterly spent at last. So heavy every part of his body felt, it seemed entirely laughable that he'd so much as considered returning to the forge today. Even his head was beginning to feel like too much to carry, as though the weight of the room's darkness itself was beginning to press down on him, making his senses spin and his head begin to throb ever so slightly.

He needed rest before anything else—and a good amount of it.

But there were dishes to be done now. Tempting though it was to leave them, the thought of summoning a new batch of cockroaches or mice did not sound remotely appealing—a wash up needed to be done. If he could just remind himself it was one last thing… One last necessary but little thing between him and his bed…

And as he sat there contemplating whether he could muster himself for one last spurt of work without another cup of coffee… a dull, heavy set of knocks boomed through the empty room.

Dnn! Dnn! Dnn!

He jumped a little farther out of his skin than he would have normally, jolted into feeling somewhat like his soul was preparing to abandon his too exhausted body for a more peaceful plane somewhere. But it was not gone, it was here in the same room as his body still, where he realized someone was knocking at the door. The combination of his surprise and sleepiness was beginning to make him lethargic. He did not rise to his feet the way he would have done on a normal day, instead staring a little listlessly at the house's entrance, an entire journey away from his chair.

"Enter…" he muttered to himself, wishing that his caller would just let themselves in and leave him to sit in peace and silence

Dnn! Dnn! Dnn! a second time.

And in response Will gathered himself enough to take a deep breath into his stomach and call out with force, "ENTER!"

He did not want to stand.

Whether or not his caller heard him over the wind and splashing rains, they ended up doing exactly as he hoped, with the iron latch lifting and the door swinging open with a forceful push. The shadow of a large figure loomed in the cloud-filtered light outside, bearing the weight of a second much limper, more easily recognized figure—one that made a bit of peppery bile rise up in the back of Will's throat.

Mister Brown back at last, thanks to…?

He blinked under a strike of stupefaction as the figure stepped through the doorway, dragging his master's barely walking body to the table and dumping him upon another chair.

"Mister Hanson!" Will gasped at last.

This was the first time he'd ever seen the tavern keeper away from his tavern, and the sight of him in his master's house left him reeling nearly as much as Mister Brown finally having returned, as worse for the wear as he'd suspected him to be. He struggled to bring himself back to his tired, aching feet with an outstretched hand towards Mister Hanson in a delayed greeting, "I'm sorry. I had no intention of leaving it to you to bring him back."

"I chose to, lad," Mister Hanson muttered, wiping away the drops of water that had drizzled down the sides of his tricorn and into his eyes.

In time with his heart sinking into his guts, Will let his hand fall back to his side, untouched. "Does he owe you?"

"Aye," was Mister Hanson's low reply. "And a pretty penny, at that. I was not there to catch sight of him coming in, elsewise I would have stopped our barmaid and chased him off sooner."

Will clenched his fists and teeth, barely withholding a snarl of open contempt. Goddammit! The man had taken most of the smithy's coin, and still managed to rack up a bill?!

"How much?" he asked brusquely, the anger in him tightening his throat more and more.

With a beleaguered sigh, Mister Hanson quietly withdrew a damp paper from his coat pocket, and handed it to Will.

Will opened it with shaky hands, and was somehow relieved to find it was less than a pound. Still, at nearly 5 shillings in addition to what he'd already pocketed and spent, the cost was staggering. And after he'd specifically told him what these costs meant now! There was no way he'd been able to drink it all away alone—the only reasoning could be that Brown had ended up paying for more than just drinks as he'd wandered the city, throwing his silver at food or company or, god help them both, bad gambling bets…

A breath huffed out of his apprentice's flared nostrils, before he folded the debt back up and nodded to its distributor. He pledged, "I'll come see you."

'After collecting my share of the Dodson order…' he swore to himself.

It was good for him that he kept his word so clean—Mister Hanson accepted his promise with a strained smile.

"I've heard he was bumming around a few other houses on the street a good while. May want to pay them a visit as well."

Another hot stone fell in Will's gut, more scalding by far than the callaloo he'd battled down that morning. God, he hoped The Three Crowns, was the only place Brown had run out of his pocket change. If he lost significantly more at cards or dice in particular, it could ruin them both. The little fears that rose in him shot through his veins like bright bolts of lightning.

He could not dwell on this now! He was unrested and beyond tense—a state where he was prone to making some of his most rash decisions. And unlike other times, this was not something that had to be addressed at this precise moment. No one's heads would roll if he waited for nightfall, or even a little more. He would simply have to breathe, try to rest, and then try to make some rounds tonight on his way to speak with the guild's court—and he needed to speak with someone on the court soon. It could not wait, if he wanted his future to survive this failing man's quickly sinking ship.

With a few steadying breaths followed by awkwardly exchanged thanks and farewells, Mister Hanson was seen back out the door, to make his way back to his own business through the rain. A few more efforts were made to bring Will's blood down to a more rational temperature, staring at the man he was meant to depend on as he puddled up rain onto the floor like a sick, wet dog. The fire on the hearth crackled a little with questions.

'O, master, have you my gold? 'And can you set me free…?'

At length, the young smith let loose a wry bark of a laugh, gathering the will within him to pick both their bodies up. Then with grit teeth he carried the weight of a dozen concerns atop Brown's groaning, stumbling body, as they made their way to the master bedroom. He tried not to focus on the waves of questions he could feel threatening to crash down over him, wondering why, what, when, and how… Instead, he pressed all his focus upon the uneasy balance of their footsteps, the cold trapped inside the cloth stripped from his master's shaking frame while guiding the man to his bed, the weight of the water left at his bedside table, the sound of the coffee milling grinding and the kettle bubbling out the restlessness he was too tired to heed any longer.

As the coffee brewed, its scent filled the room. He took care of his undesired wash up, breathing in the stimulating aroma of the roast. Then his mind cleared enough to think a little more: if he covered his master's debts, it would simply continue to encourage his falls into his vices. They'd agreed, shaken on it, that Will's earnings would now be his own—he needed to hold onto that agreement as tightly as he could.

But…

But he simply didn't have time for confusion over his apprenticeship. He needed certainty of promotion, of employment, of stability. If Mister Brown ended up in a debtors' prison, Will would end up paying in different ways.

Ah, he couldn't jump to those conclusions yet! There was no reason at this moment to assume whatever amounts Brown had amassed were past the point of repayment. And certainly there were plenty of people like Mister Hanson, willing to wait for a man to get his affairs in order, to pay things back with a little bit of time? If he could only sit and think about it for a moment without these fears bouncing around his mind and body like hailstones! Then he could figure out a way to make sure the debts were paid with Brown's own money, not his. Even if it meant convincing the old man to sell a few things off…

Right?

Would it be foolish or wise to allow the man to sell off some of the smithy's swords, despite the master smith not having touched a single one of them in months? Or would it be better if he gave in and asked for help from…?

No. It was too hard to think these things through right now! He was done with today! His heart was pounding in his ears, dizzying cocktails of feeling raging through his head to the sound of steel scraping loudly against all the wrong things. He needed to rest—then he could think this through.

It was with this in mind Will drifted like a ghost from the fireplace to his master's bedside, leaving him a cup and his freshly brewed kettle with as little disturbance as he could make. He was halfway out the door, when he heard his master choke, and tore his eyes back in his direction to make certain he hadn't breathed in his own vomit—something Will had worried about for some time now.

He was only waking up, seemingly shocked and confused by his surroundings as he struggled to rise in his bed, wheezing from the tick's sagging posture. Eventually he was upright enough to blink through the shadows, until his eyes found Will's and were belatedly shocked by a moment of pained clarity.

Will saw his shoulders heave, saw his bottom lip move underneath his untrimmed whiskers before his body fell back into the arms of his bed. But the voice he heard was frail and fragmented.

"I'm so sorry, lad," he thought he heard Brown say. "I'm so sorry..."

Somewhere inside himself, there still shone a little bit of sympathy.

But Will was starting to lose sense of where it was becoming buried, under this deep, deep entanglement of thorn-filled briars of woe.