A letter was written, sealed, set aside.

Hair of the dog was served to his master.

Yet despite Will's hopes that its bite would be deterred, or that Mister Hanson had brought his master home late enough to avoid it, the teeth of Mister Brown's binges finally caught him up. He fell ill to a violent headache and a belatedly sour stomach, which plagued master and apprentice deep into the night. And while ginger teas and samplings of the pushed-aside soup had helped somewhat, his improvements came in the smallest of measures and didn't quite keep the worst fits at bay for many hours.

Each time Will found time to lay himself down for an attempted rest, he did so praying his sleep could be permitted to finally last long enough to bring him back to places of sanity. However, once, twice, three times more he ended up pulled from his dreams anyway—sometimes intentionally, sometimes not—to clean out another pail of vomit, or toss another log on the fire, or even to chase sleep-addled imaginations that the miserable old fool was wandering out the front door.

What other dreams he had were not much better.

'She's treatin' us like poor folk…'

Winds howled through the night and moaned into the morning. Rain returned in smatterings, on and off, shushing Will's impatience with whispered patters on the roof, the walls, and the edges of his fitful bouts of sleep.

'She thinks she's better'n us.'

Despite his best efforts, he could not recapture the fantasies he most wished for. Instead he found himself perpetually wandering alone, searching for the One he could belong to through too large markets, and immeasurably deep jungles, and wide, choppy seas. Whenever the interruptions were delayed enough, he began to wonder what was the point of looking anymore.

'She don't belong here.'

Then the floods would come for him again. Over and over, he was swallowed in dark depths, where the dead and all their shattered ships would fall like leaves rended off the tree of life, settling across the sea's wintry floor. Again he saw the misshapen graves with the names he could not read, attached to the faces he could not recognize. Searching, searching—whenever he could, he kept searching.

'That's why her father's sendin' the money—to save poor old William Turner, aye? '

'Good strong name. No doubt a name for your father, aye?'

But that tomb—the Aztec chest with its added name—was never close enough for him to touch.

'He was a bloody pirate and a scallywag.'

'You think you're charity? That you need people like them? That I don't give you enough, when I've given you the run of this entire damn house?'

Each additional time he was broken awake.

Darkness was all he could find around himself, without a single whistle of birdsong through his window to warn of morning's breach. Night began to feel as endless and heavy on his shoulders as the seas of his dreams. And every extra instance he climbed back into bed to try and sleep again, he would roll onto his side with his arms crossed tight, hoping for an uninterrupted round of better dreams spent holding her—or if he could not have that, then perhaps a quiet peace of no dreams at all.

'You think you're better'n me, Turner, but you're not.'

'Good man…'

'He is a blacksmith…'

Except he always ended up trapped in too large markets, or immeasurably deep jungles, or wide, choppy seas, searching, searching…

'No, he's a pirate.'

'Good pirate…'

'My sons—they're comin' back for me. This is a family business…'

Until, for better or worse, he simply wasn't. Once the birds did finally sing for the sun's first hazy blooms, there was little rest to be felt in Will's weary limbs. If he had the luxury of such choices, he would have turned back over for the tenth time, shut his eyes back up, and tried to sleep until the streets grew too loud to ignore.

'…and you don't belong in it.'

But he had no such luxury. In all the years of his life he could actually remember, he'd never had it. From past's memory to present's morning, he always had to make do with what he had. Today, a little fit-filled sleep was genuinely better than having none at all—anything more was simply too expensive. And the rich silvers of dawn were always more desirable than the grim shadows of uneasy nightmares, whispering to him things he did not wish to think about.

'… you don't belong…'

Breaths deep and slow did little to ease him. Still, he compromised for a time, letting his body lay leaden and his mind drift empty over meager minutes saved up like pennies. How quickly they were spent: in a blink the town's many cocks could be heard crowing from atop nearby eaves and rooftops. Time was gone, time was gone, they warned—though it was in their own tongue, he understood far too well.

Lethargic legs and heavy hands worked through his routines practically by memory.

Within an hour Will was back in the gut-wrenching darkness of his master's room, replacing his abandoned tea with a fresh cup of coffee he was certain would also grow cold. Though he propped open the shutters to free the lingering stench of sick, Brown remained silent as the dead. For once it was with good reason: at some point, the sorry tosspot managed to finally catch a fresh, firm hold onto some sleep. And despite a few sharp pangs of envy lingering in low-simmering anger, Will could not find it in himself to disrupt something so badly needed for them both.

The sooner the old man was back on his feet and at the forge, the sooner this nightmare could be over once and for all.

'It's all on the guild. Let's hope they come quickly…'

Following the sun, Will slipped out of the house, back into his leather apron beside the forge without another word. Whether he was prepared for it or not, another grueling day had begun to push its way ahead of him.

Now he had to run like hell to catch up.

"Good morn-ing!" Estrella sang out her forewarning, before seizing a fistful of drapes and breaking open the dam holding back the grey morning.

Cloud-soaked daylight flooded into the room, and in all of an instant Miss Swann began to cringe and moan with displeasure from atop her cloud of feather pillows, as she cast a spotless arm across her eyes for a shield.

Estrella smirked to herself, then let loose another warbling song, "Ready or not, it's time to greet the day!"

And what a day to greet! The sky gradually unveiled through the three additional pairs of windows, was low and brooding. There was no rain yet. But thanks to treetops rustled by a blustering wind, the foothills of the mountainside rolled like restless waves on their way down towards turbulent seas. Whatever birds would have been flitting about had all seemed set on taking shelter instead, tucking themselves away in deep nooks out of sight of the eyes of humans, beasts, or storm.

Apparently, such behaviors affected certain classes of Swanns also, as this house's mistress was having none of the morning either.

"No," she answered in a voice as firm as it was sleep-soaked. "I don't want to."

And to punctuate her point, she grabbed a pillow and dropped atop her face, burrowed away.

Estrella took advantage of their lady's self-induced blindness, and rolled her eyes. "Then it's time for the day to greet you. Up and up."

A muffled murmur was barely able to be discerned in return, "Just leave me alone for a few more minutes. I hardly slept at all last night."

Ah, Estrella should have saved her eye roll. Instead, she put her hands upon her hips and sighed.

"Well, that does tend to happen when you stay up reading books all night." She looked at the burnt-out oil lamp and splayed-open tome on Miss Swann's bed, as though they had ratted their mistress out to a great folly—which, in a way, they had. "But not all of us have the luxury of choosing the consequences for our poorer decisions. And unfortunately for us all, your father's guests will begin to arrive this evening, so there's no time left to waste even for you."

She reached out and gave the tick a few good slaps to press her on ahead, as though she were coaxing a stubborn horse to pick up its hooves.

Another garbled grumble slipped out from beneath the pillow, sounding suspiciously like Miss Swann was saying, "This is bullocks."

But the woman still did not move. Even after waiting three seconds, five, ten, the only detectable motion was the swift currents the wind made through forest and clouds—outside.

Well, this was the job, wasn't it? And now Estrella reasoned she ought to get to doing it.

She snatched Miss Swann's pillow away, earning herself an angry scoff and a blinded, sleepy glare.

"Now, none of that!" she scolded, as though the woman she worked for wasn't already in her twenty-first year on this earth. She pressed the pillow to her chest and took a step out of reach, when a clawing hand chased after it. "You yourself told me last night that under no circumstances was I to allow you to make a late start, after all the time you wasted on your little excursion into town yesterday. I am only following your orders—you have no one to blame but yourself."

"Well, last night's Me was sleep deprived, and stupid, and had no business making any sort of decisions for me today. Give it back."

Another more determined grab for the pillow, another step back, all the way past the foot of the bed, where Estrella could shove the pillow into the trunk if she felt so inclined.

"And this morning's You is behaving like a child, and will very much be treated like one if she doesn't pull herself together. I had five siblings back home—I'm fully capable of pulling you out of there by your ankles, if need be."

"Oh, fuck off," Miss Swann snarled back, flopping onto her back like a limp fish. But she was rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms, and breathing angry puffs of air. Before long her hands had been dropped forcefully to her sides, and she was glaring at the ceiling in what could only be called disgust, clearly mustering up the fortitude to begin drawing herself out of her warm cotton nest.

'What drama…' Estrella thought to herself, shaking her head.

Then, after judging it likely safe to set the pillow back down upon the foot of the bed, she returned to Miss Swann's side just long enough to begin turning her sheets and blankets down past her knees.

"Drink your tea, you'll feel better in a moment," she advised, then turned on her heels to her lady's changing corner. As she stepped through the door to the closet, she called back, "I'm picking out your dress for you, since you're moving like a tortoise."

There was no response to that, so Estrella was likely being scowled at. Seeing as there were no words of preference one way or another, she made her way towards the main wardrobe and snatched up the first few items that seemed to go together well enough—a steel blue indienne robe ornamented in flowers painted gold, ruby, ivory, and olive, and a muted saffron petticoat to go beneath.

When she returned to the bed chamber, she found some progress had been made, but only just: Miss Swann was now seated up, though she'd drawn her bedclothes back over her legs and was still rubbing her fingers over eyes.

'Guess it's time to roll out the big guns…'

Estrella tossed her lady's dress across the changing screen, then made her way back to the foot of the bed to draw a fresh smock from the linen chest. In as casual a voice as she could find, she mentioned, "If it helps at all: you've received a few letters this morning from people you actually like."

Miss Swann's movements froze for a spell, as though she were debating whether it was worth taking such obvious bait. Eventually, she slid her hands down her face just enough to peek with keenly suspicious eyes over the tops of her fingertips. "Which people?"

"Well, Miss Blackwell, for one," Estrella responded with an air that pretended that she was unaware her answer's order was drawing out its suspense, making the lure dance before Miss Swann's nose. "And, of course, if I was reading correctly, there was one message that seemed to come from Will Turner, for ano—"

Up and out of bed, Miss Swann launched herself like a cannonball towards the tea tray on her desk.

"—ther," Estrella finished to herself, with lips curved in amused satisfaction. Perhaps she ought to simply lead with that apparently irresistible tidbit next time.

In a single blink, Miss Swann had snatched her letters up and sequestered herself to the corner window offering the best light. And even with Estrella's attention split between her tasks of laying out the day's toilet for changing, watching Miss Swann race through each line with darting eyes was almost the same as watching a journey unfold at an eager, stumbling sprint. Though her lips were still and there was no other way to make out what words had been penned for her, the turns in her brow bent in transformation from a breathless tension, to an enraptured relief, then through a bout of frowning aggravation, until finally she arrived back at a familiar, sparkling delight.

She let out an audible breath in the form of laugh, before looking straight back into Estrella's observant watch and holding her letter out in a triumphant gesture. "You see? I was right all: he isn't upset with me in the slightest. He's even asked me to visit him again."

Estrella's eyebrows rose.

"Has he?" In fact, she did not see—figuratively or otherwise. She offered an admittedly dubious smile, then walked to collect the pitcher of warm, clean water she'd brought with her mistress' tea. "Not today, I hope?"

As she walked back to the changing corner, Miss Swann followed her, clearly well past the reach of any remains of sleep, despite throwing herself back upon her bed.

"Not today, no. This Saturday, at best," she sighed. Then with her letter held aloft towards the ceiling, she looked it over again and laughed. " Ah, and here you had me believing I'd somehow crossed a terrible boundary of some sort."

'Because you had,' Estrella wanted to say, but held it in—out of a needling doubt as much as a want to keep her job with feathers unruffled today.

Instead, she shook her head to herself once, as she stepped back into the water closet and poured the warm bath into her lady's washbowl. "I still think you ought to have called ahead."

"Well, clearly he doesn't mind, as he's said nothing of the sort," Miss Swann called back from her bed. "He even says: 'I am keeping this chair for you whenever you again appear at my door.' So that settles it."

Estrella rolled her eyes in her hidden spot. As far as she was concerned, it was certainly not settled—and she had a feeling Miss Swann knew it deep down, but was eager to overlook it.

It had seemed so obvious to her yesterday that Mister Turner had been exercising a mighty work of patience. She knew what she had seen, heard, understood: the commiserative look in his eye when she'd been put to the task of brewing some coffee on the spur of a moment; the uncounted times he'd yawned and blinked away sleepless tears while nodding earnest signals of his strained but unbroken attention; Miss Swann pushing her way about his master's stuffy kitchen and cutting off half his frustrated attempts to speak out. She also knew Miss Swann was neither blind or deaf to all his signs. Despite her pretenses at confidence in her choices, she'd been caught in an uncharacteristic malaise of disappointed uncertainty for the rest of the afternoon and evening, fretting over whether or not she'd been too pushy or or not pushy enough. And somehow denying herself the simpler answers that lay right in front of her nose, for god knows why.

In any case, the point was: if it had been so obvious that Mister Turner was in a bad skin that they both had seen it, and yet somehow Estrella had managed to be wrong in her assumptions about the situation altogether, well…

'No, he must be trying to please her, still. It's what he would have done as a lad…' she thought to herself.

Out loud, she offered a not-quite sarcastic, "Congratulations, then—you know each other very well."

Miss Swann's answer was a smug, grin, offered just long enough to tear her away from the slower re-reading of her letter in a glance.

Estrella tutted, and waved in the direction of the washroom. "Now while you're re-reading that and daydreaming, come over here, and get washed up and dressed."

And so Miss Swann did, rising from her bed once and for all, to weave through her morning routine without any further grousing or taunting remarks. But she said nothing else for many minutes, keeping the letter for her companion all throughout. She tucked it under her arm just long enough to wash her face and mouth. Then after that, she performed a dance with it, page to face, passing it from one hand to the other as she was made to slip her arms and body, one after the other, out of her night shift and into her day dress. All the while, she tutted and sighed anew over each passage, as though it were still the first time reading.

It was after Estrella began to help her pin her bodice closed when Miss Swann finally folded the letter in half, letting an aggravated sound from a tipped-back head. "This man…"

Estrella suppressed the laugh that threatened to bubble to her thin-pressed lips: if Mister Turner was trying to please Miss Swann, evidently he was doing a shoddy job of it.

That was made all the more clear as Miss Swann continued to voice her grievance. "I wish there was something else I could do for him. But no matter how many times I ask him to come to me when he is in need, it's like talking into the wind. You know he hadn't slept at all since Monday night?"

Estrella winced—for Mister Turner's sake, yes, but also for her own, as she narrowly avoided pricking her thumb with one of the pins.

"Poor dear," she muttered back.

Her sympathy was clearly appreciated. Miss Swann waved Mister Turner's letter in response, like it was a proof for her outrage, which she expounded upon readily. "All because Elias Dodson couldn't bear to have an order fulfilled later in the week for that ridiculous house of his. What bully-brained nonsense! And meanwhile Mister Brown seems to have been out of the picture entirely. 'Indisposed…'"

A deep breath left Estrella as she finished her pinning. Neither of those circumstances surprised her altogether—she doubted anyone of her family's rank would be either. Mister Dodson was somewhat notorious amongst the serving class for his impatient temper. And Mister Brown? Well… While not exactly notorious, he had taken to poor health ever since his Missus and their children had parted from him so quickly. If it could even be called that—there were rumors he spent more and more days at his smithy half the seas over. And if that were the case, it would explain a great deal more of the circumstances beleaguering Mister Turner of late.

That he or anyone else should be caught in the middle of those unfortunate circumstances was genuinely regrettable. But…

"That does happen sometimes. And when your workshop is as small as that…"

She left the thought to finish unspoken in Miss Swann's mind. It spoke for itself well enough, after all.

"That does seem to be the problem, doesn't it? He's all alone…" the lady considered to herself. To Estrella's regret, she opened the letter a third time and began to look it over, clearly thinking the situation over. Then after a moment's musing she turned her clever eyes back in Estrella's direction, and asked very carefully, "You have a brother, don't you, Estrella?"

'Oh heavens above, please don't come up with another scheme already!' she thought to herself.

As though she could physically turn the woman away from her shortsighted plans, Estrella grasped Miss Swann by the wrist and began to haul her across her chambers, in the direction of her desk.

"I do," she confirmed. Then with an admittedly indelicate push, she "helped" Miss Swann sit upon her chair. "And I know what you're thinking. Unfortunately for you, he is already apprenticed to my sister's husband—half way done already and loves it. You'd be hard pressed to snatch him away."

She picked up a brush and began to attack the sleep-tossed tangles in front of her. Why didn't this woman ever use plaits or a sleeping cap?

"Oh, damn it all," Miss Swann hissed her disappointment through grit teeth.

Estrella shrugged one shoulder in reply as she traded the brush for pomade. "I'm not sure it would have mattered either way. Mister Turner is also already apprenticed, and apprentices can't have their own apprentices."

"Not officially, no," Miss Swann quipped. The letter was laid upon her desk, open again, and despite her being constricted by the captive placement of her head, her hand began fishing about her drawers for paper, pen, and ink. "But I'm certain I could convince Mister Brown to take on at least one more. He desperately needs one, to begin with. And all he'd have to do is collect his dues, make certain there's still food in the pantry, then get out of Will's way. Will could take advantage of the extra pair of hands, and take care of the younger apprentice's most essential education. It'd be some of the easiest money in the world. There's even a spare cot sitting in his room, already waiting and everything…." She paused to push her sleeves out of her way, set pen to ink and ink to paper. "It could be perfect."

This time, a laugh slipped past Estrella's lips before she could stop it.

That paused Miss Swann's writing attempts, and earned a glare through the large mirror on the wall. "What?"

"Nothing," she dismissed, and focused on her plaiting.

But Miss Swann was not about to let her off easy. "No, it is not nothing. You think that this is a bad idea as well?"

Estrella shook her head, a good disguise for her building annoyance. "Not at all! It sounds like a very pretty plan."

"But…?"

"But nothing!" she insisted, then aggressively pressed a pin into Miss Swann's coiled up hair. "I just never call anything that hasn't happened yet 'perfect.' Feels like it's tempting the fates."

"I'm sorry to hear that," was her mistress' unimpressed reply, as she turned back to writing her letter. "I think it will be perfect."

"Well. Perfect or not—you ought to ask Mister Turner about it before you try anything drastic."

Estrella caught sight of a peeved motion of Miss Swann's eyes. But nothing else was said on the matter for the remainder of the morning.

"Good Morning Elizabeth,

"My Dearest, Sweetest Will,

"Or if this letter does not make it to your lovely hands in time: good day, good afternoon, good evening, and everything else in between. I hope your night's rest was long and peaceful, that your dreams were filled by everything you love most. I hope your morning looks fair to you, and the day that lies ahead is kinder than every other to have come before.

"A good morning and a wonderful week to you! How thrilled I am to hear from you again, in better spirits. I hope this latest letter of mine finds you strong, well, and happy, following the perfect night's rest and slow, easy morning which you have so long and deeply deserved. I hope you will not mind my saying so, but you appeared in sore need of it when last we spoke. I keep your health in my thoughts each night, knowing you ail for yourself and your master, and pray for the betterment of your condition soon. X

"Beloved angel, I write to you filled with wishes to thank you for the visit you paid me—and a great gratitude for all the time and abundance you have continually showered on me year after year. Whenever you appear at my door, offering so much comfort and care in your company, I am left all the more amazed that you have done so from our beginning. Even the very first moment I awoke and found you standing above my face: your eyes, your hands, your words all moved over me with your careful concern. And this, despite your being surrounded so constantly by others much more worthy of your devotion.

"But now I must warn you where you have truly offended me with your words. To call a man, whom I love so greatly, anything remotely unworthy of my devotion is a great insult to my heart. Now how shall you make it up to me, I wonder? I cannot forgive you until you've offered the most sincere penance—along with an abandonment of any ill-informed pursuits of pretended humility. Do not say such things to me anymore! They are unacceptable to me, as they ought to be to you. The world has already humbled you enough, Will. From now on, I only wish to face the unfurled brilliance of your talents and your pride.

"How can I not marvel over it? I am so fortunate to have you walking into my life with all the love you wish to share.

"Do you not see I marvel over you? You who have seen all the ways this world has been broken, and everyday sets out to answer its injustices by setting your beautiful hands to its fixing, its defense, its most humble ornamentations? You who have crossed oceans and unflinchingly lain his life down for the security and freedom of my own? Is it not written, 'What greater love hath any man than this?' You speak of my bravery and all that I inspire in you—yet it is you who moves me to tears when I consider all that you have been willing to sacrifice for my sake. It is because of you that I live to walk through my own life to begin with. That I may walk into yours and lift up someone as truly noble as you in return is the greatest privilege I have ever been granted.

"I've been drawn into an unexpected distraction by how quiet and empty my master's table feels when your smiles and laughter have left your chair. May I call it 'your' chair now, when you've only sat in it twice? Or would you find it offensive, considering how many chairs you already have to yourself? I would offer you a throne whenever you pass by—but I do not have one just yet. So I hope you'll forgive something so rickety and poor compared to your comforts.

"How I wonder at you and your chairs! You may call that particular chair of yours whatever it is you like—the only thing I find 'offensive' there is the doubt that I should accept any offer to share a table with you as anything other than the most kingly of honors. What have I for a throne? Since you have offered it, I've made up my mind: I am claiming it for my collection. I'll admit you have discovered my secret vice: my desire for a good lounge is nearly insatiable. It is a curse I shall never be freed from until I find that perfect seat to satisfy me. What you offer will be more than enough—you are not so rickety or poor to me as you would claim. As such, I expect to see my name carved proudly into that chair upon my next visit, in full accordance with this understanding. What a fair trade it shall be, for the name I shall carve into myself soon, in accordance with our own private understanding. It is mine now. I'm certain Mister Brown will not miss it.

"I suppose I mention these things, as silly as they are, because I am lost searching for the words I really wish to offer you. In only a few days' time there's been so much I've wished to say, and not nearly enough room to say it.

"And I hope you also know how I love to be silly with you. You are now my fastest and oldest friend, do you know? I treasure every moment we've spent in our past getting lost in silliness together. And I yearn for all the days and weeks and years I will spend in our future, being silly and lost somewhere with you. I think we both deserve it. What need have we to have proper words or serious purpose all the time? They will always find us one way or another.

"It is my apologies I most wish to offer you, as meager as they are. In my surprise at your visit, I fear I answered your loving warmth with a coolness you did not deserve, and I know you felt it without understanding whence or why it came.

"But it is I who must offer you my apologies—although I accept your sentiments, and appreciate your perspective very much.

"What excuses I have are poor, and difficult for me to express through pen and paper. However, you've asked to know my excuses all the same, as I've been less than forthcoming concerning my hardships these past few days. Causing you concern has not been my intention. For now I can only say this: I was not unhappy with your visit, only certain peculiarities surrounding its circumstance and timing. I know you saw in my face how I had not slept the night before. My hours of work had stretched unusually long and burdensome.

"I sometimes worry over how easy it is for me to forget the difference in the weight of time, between your life and mine. All these years, I've looked at your rest as an opportunity for me to take, failing to remember that all the remainder of your day is spent in the service of one man or another. You are right—I saw the weariness and languor in your face, and regretted prolonging it immediately. The worst part of it is that Estrella had warned me that it would be unwise to interrupt you in such a manner. I have not even poor excuses to offer for spurning her advice and overlooking your inconvenience. I can only swear I too am sorry, while offering the admission that there is a pull stronger than any part of my temperance can withstand, drawing me to your side at every given moment, waking or sleeping. For your sake, I will try.

"Due to reasons I cannot describe here, I was obligated to set my plans aside to complete a great many pieces at the last minute for Mister D—'s order—you know the one, I believe. The pieces were required before dawn if we were to keep his business, which is significant, and I labored accordingly. After all was completed, I fulfilled his delivery to his pen. While it was not difficult, the time required of it did not bring me home until some time after noon. And it was not until a few hours after that I'd found the time to lay my head down.

"Yet for all the apologies I would offer, there is one I cannot extend in any circumstance: I shall never be sorry for trying to secure for you a better life. I will say it a thousand times if I must—I am ready to help you as surely as you would help me in the same circumstance. And while I thank you, my darling, for indulging me in the soothing of my worries for you, I must confess my fair opinions of a great number of the men in your life are quickly deteriorating with every new thing I learn about them. Where was your master in all this, I wonder? Do not think I did not notice how you failed to mention him even once. Especially when it does not sound to me as though you are only bearing the burdens of an apprentice serving his master, as you claim, but rather are shouldering the burdens of both the apprentice and the master himself without receiving the proper freedom or due reward.

"And for what? You have already cast more than your two mites for me—you have cast your very life, and still you would work yourself weary finding more with which to lavish me? No! You are my comfort. I do not care if your noblest senses cry out for you to do it—I refuse to watch you lay yourself down as a sacrifice for my sake. It is more than enough to have you as you are. I will make up the rest for myself.

"Still, these are the reasons I must also beg your forgiveness in many things: first, though I wished to bestow upon you fortunes in my attention, I failed and left you with but a handful of petty alms upon your lips. I did not mean to remain so focused on myself—I was a poor host and a poorer excuse for a suitor. For this I am sorry, and can only hope some understanding will make forgiveness an easier thing to grant me. I do not wish to ever seem ungrateful for the bounty which you shower over my head—even now, I can hardly keep pace with it.

"There is no forgiveness you must 'beg' for after one unfortunate day of exhaustion and the sour moods that follow—unless, of course, you wish to donate more 'alms' to make it right. If that is the case, then I accept your penance immediately. After all, I believe forgiveness and apologies are best exchanged face-to-face. But know you were not cruel to me in the slightest. If anything, I now feel you were somewhat indulgent, to have not turned me away from the beginning.

"Second, there is a forwardness I must ask you to forgive as well, as I beg to know: when will you visit me again? Please tell me as soon as you are able. It would ease me greatly to know, so I might look forward to it with all the anticipation you deserve.

"And you really ought to be forward more often—it certainly becomes you. But that's little to do with your question for me, and more to do with where you choose to throw your sharper edges… and perhaps your taste in hats. As for your questions: I will admit it also pleases me immensely to know you await our reunions with such keen anticipation. I understand the longing which troubles you. It pains me as well, far too much. So do not heed any fear that you have chased me away—far from it. They say patience is a great virtue. But with you I do confess it to be one of many I find too difficult to fully grasp.

"(The other troublesome virtues you chase away I will leave to your discernment.)

"And last of all, though you visited me with a gracious heart, I was not well prepared for it. In all the time spent in your visit, I do not recall asking you about your goings on. Twice now you have eaten at my table without a cloth laid atop it. You were the one to offer drink and service, when it was my duty to do so. And the time before, you were the one to tend to the attention of my master. When next you are here, I shall ensure you are a true and proper guest—that I will be the one to insure your fingers are not lifted for my sake or anyone else's. I swear it.

"Yet your remorse gives me cause to wonder: who but saints among sinners could in their right mind remember to ask about the state of a person's voyage while they themselves are drowning? Think nothing of it—if it were significant enough to note, I would have told you about it myself. Besides, the most pressing reason I did not say anything on my own was because I've written most of it in a letter, which I entirely forgot to leave with you. I've enclosed that letter with this one, so you may catch up at your leisure. However, there are a few other things which have taken place since I sealed it up, so I will tell you a little more.

"As has always been the case, it is my father's dealings which most influence the course of my duties day to day. My return to work comes at the forefront of a flood of guestmeals and balls to be planned, as I've said before. Compared to your experiences, I daresay you'll find the work involved laughably dull—it certainly is nothing compared to what you've described for yourself. But my father and his house also needs their tending, in its own way. And my Thursday is bound to be similarly overtaken by last ditch efforts to make the guest house presentable for father's councilors and their wives.

"But, ah, I do not wish to leave you with only thoughts of bitterness or regret. There is good news in all this to share too! I was able to lie down after you'd left—and the vittles you provided did invigorate me greatly, as they always do. Please know that I am well, and my weariness shall not last, no matter how it appears now. The weight of the burdens I bear is only that of an apprentice serving his master through a time of particular need. It will not last. The order was completed, and the burden is off my shoulders. I am confident Mr. D— will find it to his satisfaction.

"I think I've managed quite well, all things considered. Many changes to the rooms' arrangements have had to be made, in order to conceal the extent of our losses and some half-finished repairs of damage from the fires—especially in the parlor. Have I told you the guest house was far more thoroughly ransacked than the main house? I assume it was because no one was there at all that night, it was an easy mark. But even with Mister Yates' efforts re-building up the resemblance of a proper art collection these past weeks, it has been a tiresome task for me, sorting through paintings and vases and window dressings, and figuring out where they best belong—what they could possibly mean.

"Which drapes belong upstairs and which downstairs? Should the armchairs all be capped, and which parts of the room would they best face? How many flowers should Mister Taylor arrange from the garden? And, lord, did you know we still needed to replace more lamps and candlesticks? If you were a silversmith, I would have come to you for that.

"But now that I consider it more carefully, perhaps laughing would be the best reaction. It is almost a cruel joke, the way my chores have been filled by assessments of new fabrics and re-arrangements for the very chairs you tease me for. We're to cover those in the guest house until they can be reupholstered for the new year.

"I realize it is far from the sleepless nights and unrelenting toils you've described. Yet there is a sort of drudgery to these things when their purpose feels so heavy with contrivance. You should think the color of the walls would not matter enough that I must be the one to decide in every case, and no one other if it is not my father. Yet the scrutiny of a single room's design will be watched for signs not just of father's taste and culture, but of his wisdom in his wealth, and by extension his governance as well. How strange and horrible it is! That all these chairs, as bountiful and exquisite as they all are, could signal to scheming eyes the perceived weaknesses that could remove my father from his office! I wish it were not so.

"If all goes as I wish, I may be able to take up Mister D—'s gate and cookhouse after all, to be completed at a reasonable pace and time, of course. And even if not, I believe my prospects will soon improve greatly: in fact, I have still better news I wish to share with you face-to-face. There are fruits from these labors that will soon be ripe for the picking. I will not say what it is yet, but know that I have made a progress that holds great promise for our future together. It will not be long now that I will have, at last, something truly worthy of report to your father—and something worthy to offer you for a life to live in happiness and comfort.

"But the strangest part about it all, is that through these hours without you I've taken to dreaming of this house as a great emptiness, whilst dreaming of the house we will have—you and I. It is always in the most unreasonable and most peculiar of places. And often I find myself waiting for you, because you are not yet come home. Last night, I remember being surrounded by the most horrible torrential flood, like the seas were at our door ready to break in. But I was not afraid—for I knew you were safe wherever you were, and would be home with me soon.

"I digress. You have shared the goodness you see, and I will share my own. Missus Lancaster has taken up a good deal of the drudgery in organizing the servants for all requisite housekeeping preparations. This has freed me up somewhat for the more personal touches of planning—though I must admit it has not preserved the peace I have come to enjoy these past few weeks. Besides a dinner with his councilors tomorrow, another will be held with key electors on Tuesday—many of whom I find utterly loathsome. And while father hasn't made them known to me yet, the same dinners are all but guaranteed to be held week by week, until every elector of every parish has eaten and drank and curried favor at our table. Then of course, the King's Ball is barely three weeks away, followed by all the end of year festivities.

"In all this, I fear there will once again be very few nights spent without guests kept in the mansion, requiring my attention. Fortunately, my friend Mary will be in attendance with her father on Tuesday, so I will not be altogether outnumbered. And then of course, this Sunday you will be the only one at our table—and when it is you, I cannot wait to entertain.

"Unfortunately, I must work now—the tasks ahead have become unending, but so too do our opportunities. Please know you shall be continually on my mind in your own labors and leisure, and I wish you the best of luck with your father's guests. Give them heaven, give them hell, whichever it is you see them to deserve. And save one of those chairs for me come Sunday—I am keeping this one for whenever you again appear at my door.

"Sunday, Sunday! Until then, take heart, as I have, in the reassurance that our partings need not last as they once did. Months we used to go without sight or sound or word from each other. Can you believe it? Now months are all we have left, before the need for patience in our partings will be forever altered. Soon 'goodbye' will only be a word. There will be no chairs to set aside, for we will sit at the same table day and night. And though my obsession will be somewhat appeased by the exquisite seat you provide me, we will still have our own collection of chairs pushed in every corner—so you may appreciate the freedom of sitting in any corner you like. You will see the light then!

"Are you laughing now? I hope you are. It would cheer me to know I've brought you some amusement. I want nothing more to do with chairs or drapes or candlesticks. I want my sword. I want you at the other end of it, and a quiet place to practice our sport on one another.

"Imagine Estrella reading that! Perhaps I shall show it to her before I send this to you!

"I love you. I hope it is not too simple to say it so, again and again. I would make amends to you, if you will allow it, and offer you whatever words you have been wishing for, delivered directly into the welcome cup of your ear.

"I never consider it too simple to be reminded of how you love me. That's all I ever really wanted to hear you say, all those times I asked you to say my name time and time again. You may say it however you please now—even the simplest ways are a joy to me.

"If we could agree upon it, I would meet you this coming Saturday at the previously agreed upon time and place. If that does not suit you, name your appointment—I will offer all my efforts to keep it, Mister D— or anyone else be damned.

"When we meet, you best be prepared to discover all the ways I intend to tell you again what it is I feel for you. For of course I would agree to it: yes, yes, yes! If I could turn the earth faster, to speed the sun to Saturday now, I would do it. Saturday, Saturday! Until then, I am holding my breath, hoping this time you might keep your word to capture it for my sake.

For ever and always,
With you, all my strength and all my love,
Your devoted Will
Elizabeth

With a day finally left somewhat undisturbed beyond the usual business, Will was able to return to his half-finished work on the Brookes' turnspit and hangers.

The remainder of Thursday went as quick and well for Elizabeth and her father as could be hoped.

The project was two days late from the originally promised time, and it wasn't exactly the most intricate design in the world. But the work was balanced, clean, and made to last. Most importantly of all: it was done.

That left Mister Papiol's farm tools, the Walkers' knives, and a tired hope for new, better projects to fill his pockets next week and the week after that and the week after…

And a thousand more bloody nails.

It was hard not to sigh to himself for the thousandth time, as he propped the smithy's barn doors open to Friday morning's market traffic.

The Cawdoes' and the Branches' carriages pulled into the mansion carriageway before dusk as expected. It was not often that the men brought their wives with them, but for a dinner such as this father had felt it appropriate—or, more likely, he had wanted to keep Elizabeth's nose more buried in entertaining her own guests and less buried in eavesdropping on his conversations.

It mattered little what the reason was, in the end. Despite their differences of opinion, Missus Lancaster and Mister Yates managed to coordinate their teams of staff in admirable orchestrations. With minimally visible hands, horses were stabled, guests were greeted and put up in adjacent bed chambers of the guest house, which was prepared with turned-down linens, fresh towels, and pitchers of hot water.

All according to the same, well-tried plan as every visit before.

In a way, yesterday's rain had been a blessing in disguise. After most people had stayed huddled indoors, it seemed the entire town had been put out of work for a day—and Will found himself in good company in his lagging behind, gifted by the weather a perfect excuse that everyone was sharing.

Today, though the clouds hung heavy and winds blustered angrily over Port Royal, sweeping into the smithy with cooling huffs, there was no real tempest to speak of. The market was twice as busy from the bustling efforts of townsfolk and jack tars all working double-step. People seemed to walk into the smithy as quickly as they left it, the majority of whom were looking for repairs, which was much more typical than these recent days had allowed. Two separate households needed hinges or nails for their blown-off shutters. A carpenter had somehow managed to wear down the teeth of his favorite saw. A ship's mate wanted a new reduction compass for his captain—so that would involve a fresh make. Finally, the old tailor Mister Ainesworth needed a proper sharpening for his shears.

And besides that, there remained the old contracts for the Walkers' knives, Mister Papiol's farming tools.

It was significant, but nothing extraordinary—especially compared to the mountain he'd just moved for Mister Dodson. With proper negotiations, fair schedules were negotiated, contracts were signed, and all in all Will could not complain.

It was future work, future coin, future promise.

Dinner proceeded without hiccup or hitch—or any news worth repeating. Though Elizabeth was already at work in a sense, keeping watch over her guests' cups and plates and moods, the time for her father's business had not yet arrived. The only tests she faced were the smallest seedlings to her patience. Polite pleasantries abounded alongside bounties of bread, soup, and ale.

Truthfully, the conversation was enjoyable, summoning up thoughts of the gaiety she'd shared with her friends in Spanish Town. The edges of the days-long storm finally began to pass them over in a gold and ruby cloud-spattered sunset. And it was with an accompanying lively laughter that the drinks served at dinner's end saw the ladies off to bed.

But dusk fell like an ambush, so quickly the day had passed in the distractions of hands and flame.

The turn spit was collected as expected, earning the smithy a little over two and half shillings—and a third of which went to Will's own pocket. The tailor's shears were sharpened, for threepence: another penny for him to keep. And the Walkers' knives were begun in earnest. All three blades were drawn and shaped, lying ready for their finishing touches and assembly tomorrow. All in all, his day had been productive and left him feeling satisfied.

Mostly.

The smallness of the sum he'd earned made it difficult not to feel a nagging disappointment undercutting his sense of accomplishment. Eleven cents for an entire day's work. A paltry third of what any beginning journeyman ought to expect. Granted, that was the agreement he'd come to with Brown: that he would get a third of all commissions he fulfilled. But now, seeing the first fruit of this agreement laying in his hand, he was beginning to worry he'd sold himself dangerously short. A third he'd thought he could manage, having assumed he would work twice as hard as usual and could count on a salary from Mister Brown.

But now his optimism about this entire agreement was starting to seem a little foolish. He hadn't received even a whisper of that first payment from his master—he could hardly count on Brown to pay himself lately.

Perhaps his confidence in his plan had been a mistake.

Especially because, when considering such a loss, it became clear it was worse than receiving eleven pennies for one day. It would be different if Mister Dodson had actually sent his payment in, but he hadn't yet. And without a salary or his portion of Mister Dodson's commission, it was really the same as being paid this sum for three days.

Less than four pennies a day!

What an embarrassment! Paupers made more than this begging for alms in the street. Hell, if his calculations were right, Denys was making more than him delivering Elizabeth's letters—and he wasn't even ten years old yet.

'Why are you so bad at this? You had a fair deal. Negotiations and bargains shouldn't be so… tricky!'

Well. There wasn't anything else he could do about it tonight, except pocket what was his—and try to secure away what was his master's. Then tomorrow he would try again.

Until then, he still had tonight—and another letter from Elizabeth to help him brave the dreams that lie waiting for him.

But Elizabeth remained awake a few hours longer, as did her dear father. From the muted recesses of her room, she could hear the indiscernible hums of his voice trading with Mister Caw doe and Mister Branch. The laughter became more quiet, and a slower sobriety was sensed in the sound.

She drew up new letters, to set her skipping thoughts free. One for Mary:

"I offer my regrets for such delayed correspondence, especially following the hastiness of my parting. I should not have left you wondering what became of my situation, and whether I arrived home safely. Rest assured that I am well, and it is in large part thanks to you.

"I look forward to your visit this coming week, and again for the holy season. I do not recall the last time you came to visit Port Royal—if there is anything you

One for Amelia:

"Thank you for your kindness and good humor. I have always esteemed you highly; I value your advice; and I consider myself blessed by the opportunity to revive our friendship. I hope we might enjoy each other's company soon, and in doing so, that I might find you in strong health and pleasant spirits.

"I am looking forward with eagerness to seeing you and your companions in November–assuming you do truly wish to come. Upon some reflection, I feel we may have been overly enthusiastic with our plans for the festival, and I hope you will say as much if we overlooked your desires. My excuse is how well I know what it is like to come so close to giving your heart away as a parting souvenir for pretense at greater virtues, and I do not wish for it to happen to you. The very thought of such circumstances is painful to me, as I am sure it is for you. But it is your life in the end, not mine. More than anything I wish you to live it in whichever way you choose freely."

One for Violet:

"Reuniting with you and being granted the opportunity to share in your vivacity was nothing short of a delight. I feel there are things we have grown to have more and more in common, some of which I did not expect. If you visit early enough, we can have a day or two together without the others. Then we may speak more freely about those topics they find tedious, which I would greatly appreciate. I feel there are wells of wisdom you've unearthed which I would like to draw from, if you are willing to share them with me.

"You mentioned a book before I left, which I have not forgotten. I have grown bored with the reading I already have, and have been overly restless in my home of late. Something new to read would be a welcome boon–please bring it with you when you visit at last."

And as she turned down her lamp and crawled into bed, night came and left in a final whisper of sweet simplicity for Will:

Saturday, Saturday, Saturday…

Saturday,

Saturday,

Saturday…

But first he had to finish Friday.

And after a thankfully dreamless sleep and a slow but steady re-awakening of Mister Brown, Will pounced upon his day with two hands.

For Elizabeth, Friday passed like a snail and a sneeze all at once. She took her time in the morning reading and writing still yet more letters, and daydreaming about how it was Will thought they would escape.

Would he try to pass through the front gate? Climb it? Blacksmith his way around its locks and hinges? How was she meant to help? Surely, she was meant to help. He was clever and daring, but admittedly seemed to have more trouble with the ending parts of a plan than he did the beginning. Would she have to lure away Mister Willoughby's attention? Did he want her to climb the tree?

He hadn't said a word of what he intended—only that they would meet after dark under the cottonwood.

Blacksmith and apprentice hardly spoke, aside from what was most necessary.

Knives were mounted, sharpened, polished. The saw was honed and filed to bite again. Mister Papiol's hoe was able to be started. And in the heat of his own mind, Will was able to begin the forgings of an entirely new plan.

So even though the guild still had not appeared, even though Mister Dodson's payment was still missing, Will had sixteen more pennies in his pocket and a skip in his step as he picked up his own sword for the first time in many days.

He cut through the air and the shapes of his own shadow, only one day more until Saturday, Saturday, Saturday.

The Cents, the Tootells and Mister Ingraham all arrived one after the other throughout the morning, completing the gathering of father's council at last. Tea was laid and Elizabeth and her father led the councilmen and their wives through a round of pall-mall in the garden.

She cared for hardly anything of the conversations shared, so well-practiced and repeated it felt. Yes, her health was well—she quite enjoyed the opportunity to be out of doors. How fortunate it was to hear the other's families were happy and healthy too. How lucky they also were to have not been struck by a hurricane this week. What news was there of the Dauntless' return? And how vigilant was Commodore Dandridge and his company, already reinstating a sense of safety in their harbors.

All the while, the cottonwood stretched wide and tall, and seemed to wave its branches in the pleasant breezes, summoning Elizabeth over.

Dinner was a more proper production that night before, with a beautifully dressed duck she personally carved for the main course, and a bounty of exquisitely carved fruits offered with cups of chocolate for dessert. Father was pleased.

The women withdrew to the guest house parlor, and played music and games deep into the night.

Everyone loved the goddamn chairs and Mister Yates' bible paintings. And Elizabeth had had enough wine to laugh out loud about it.

When she finally fell back upon her bed and drifted to sleep, she saw visions of dancing trees covered in cherubs, who were singing for the morning that would come like the heralds of her own passage to Paradise: Saturday, Saturday, Saturday.