the Dalaverse

::collapses:: Okay, I have to go to bed now. But I finished. Also, I changed the name (thank you, KT Tunstall). Also, I stole Bart Roberts from history and I will not give him back. Also, I think this is going to be as many words as my dissertation is supposed to be.

Oh I almost forgot - character death.



Other Side of the World
back to part 1


Jack stared at him, water dripping from his unkempt dark hair. The girl’s rouge was smeared across his cheek. He was no thinner than when Teague had seen him last, although that was small comfort since he always had an underfed look about him these days. But the shadows under his eyes – those seemed deeper and darker.

“Wha – what?” Jack managed, vision slightly unfocused. Teague felt his teeth set to grinding. True that he couldn’t blame the rum for everything, but it certainly didn’t help.

“The boy to break the curse,” he said in a short, clipped tone. “You break the curse what binds Barbossa to this world, you take your ship from him, and you act like a man again.”

“Th’ Pearl,” Jack mumbled, sinking back against the pillow and closing his eyes.

Teague fished a pair of trousers out from under the bed and tossed them at Jack’s head. He’d see Jack get the Black Pearl back, even if he would never understand why that was what it took to drag him back into the sunlight. Or at least he hoped that would do it; God knew nothing else he’d tried in the past three years had worked.

“’S not natural,” he grumbled aloud, returning Jack’s sword to its sheath without bothering to ask why it had been flung across the floor. “Proper pirate oughta be lookin’ for his next ship, his next prize – always trading up.”

“She’s not jus’ any ship,” Jack protested, heat fading into the usual melancholic bliss associated with his precious Pearl when he was drunk, which was basically every day. “Pearl’s the fastest ship in th’ Carib – the entire world.” He let out a hiccupping laugh. “An’ to think, they din’t e’en have her rigged right…”

“Aye, you’re just lucky Bart realized the mistake after you’d sailed off, or he’d surely have taken her back.” To stop him running on about the damn fool vessel or the action that had won her, Teague said, “I hate t’ tell you this, Jacky, but a ship ain’t a woman. Or a lad,” he added with respect to Jack’s wider range of preferences. His son merely scowled at him and dropped his hat over his face.

After showing what he felt was a remarkable amount of patience due a layabout, Teague was beginning to lose his composure. He kicked the mattress hard enough to bounce Jack’s immobile form. “Get up, boy. We’ve more t’ talk about.”

Jack turned over and fluttered his hand at Teague, whose nostrils flared with annoyance. He decided to take a shot at Jack’s vanity, which was sometimes a successful tactic. “’F you’re gonna wear your hair long, you’d best learn to plait it like a damned sailor. You look like a sea-witch with it hangin’ about your face.” He told himself that it wasn’t actually as shrewish a complaint as it’d come out.

Getting up very slowly, and to his credit only swaying a bit, Jack kept his eyes firmly on Teague as he leaned down to grab a boot, fished a dirk out of an inner pocket, grabbed his bedraggled mane in one hand, and hacked it off.

Teague watched this little performance without expression. After Jack had flung the shorn locks to the floor – stomping on them for good measure – he cocked his head critically. Some patches of Jack’s hair reached his chin; some only went as far as his ears.

“Well, now you just look silly.”

Jack let out a groan, cast his eyes to the heavens, and flopped backwards onto the bed.

Teague was not about to present him to his uncle in this state, not when Weatherby remember him as a sweet, charming boy. He went to the door and called for one of the maidservants. When Sarah emerged from the room she’d been tidying, he handed her a coin straight off. She dimpled prettily and looked at him in expectation.

“Bring me some scissors, and a pot of –”

“Rum?” came a hopeful voice from the depths of the room. “Ale? Wine? I don’t much care f’r wine, but ‘f it’s served hot wit’ spices…”

“- of coffee.”



Elizabeth was not a child to whom sitting still came naturally. She fidgeted in the empty taproom, peering at the door and tapping her feet. The boy, on the other hand, sat quietly with his hands in his lap. Every few minutes his eyelids would droop and his chin drop to his chest. Weatherby couldn’t blame either of them; he was getting tired of waiting for Teague too.

“Mr. Swann,” said Belle, after conferring in whispers with a dark-haired maid who had made several trips up and down the stairs, “would you mind doing me a wee favor? I’d be ever so grateful,” she said with a bright, too-familiar smile.

“Ah – certainly, Mistress van Doorn,” said Weatherby, shifting uncomfortably beneath the hand she laid on his shoulder. “What is it you need?”

Belle pulled a small drawstring bag from her cleavage, eliciting a tiny giggle from Elizabeth. A few coins jingled when she put it into his hand, but it wasn’t terribly heavy. “Just an errand – down to Tia Dalma’s place. Let the children stretch their legs a bit. Go down the land an’ turn left, you can’t miss it,” she promised, leading them to the door and pointing in the right direction. Traffic on the street was still thin, though there were a few more women strolling in the morning sun, and at least a dozen children.

“Tia Dalma,” said Elizabeth happily as they made their way down the lane, her head darting from side to side like a bird in her determination not to miss a single sight. “Doesn’t that sound like a mysterious name?”

“’Tia’ means ‘aunt,’ in Spanish,” said Weatherby absently as he sidestepped a steaming pile of horse droppings.

“She might be very old, then,” Will remarked. He looked content enough to encounter a grandmotherly type rather than whatever wild siren Elizabeth expected. Weatherby was finding that he liked this solemn little boy. The smile dropped from his face as he remembered just why they were waiting to see Jack – Sparrow, Teague had said. It was going to take some getting used to. Anne had given him her own name, though the respectability of the Fosters didn’t fool any of the folks who knew him for a bastard.

Elizabeth tugged on his hand, dragging him out of his reverie. “Left, Father.” The alley down which they turned was even narrower than the main street; it appeared to end at a flipped-over hulk of a ship, with doorways cut into the planking on either side of the prow. Weatherby had seen the quirks of Shipwreck Town’s structure on their approach, but it was even more bizarre up close.

Will was staring down the lane with some trepidation. “Are we going in there?”

“No,” said Elizabeth in obvious disappointment, pointing to a sign halfway down the lane. It was painted with ‘M. Dalma’ and a picture of a mortar and pestle.

Both children sneezed when they entered the dim front room of the little shop. Weatherby fought down the urge and inhaled carefully. The room was small, but it was packed with hanging herbs and sachets of spices. On a perch that looked like it should have held a vulture, a great yellow snake coiled indolently.

A thousand scents fought for dominance in a heady brew. He caught sage, aniseed, garlic, vervain, lavender, meadowsweet –

“Rosemary,” he murmured, swiping his watering eyes with a handkerchief.

“De gentleman knows plants,” said a woman’s soft, smoky voice. Weatherby blinked to clear his vision, handing the handkerchief to a persistently sneezing Elizabeth.

Her skin was a rich brown and her eyes were very dark. She wore a gown the color of turning maple leaves, cut low over her bosom. With its short, ragged sleeves it was the sort of garment one might expect on a woman of ill repute; but Weatherby did not think many dared question this one. When she smiled, he saw that her teeth were stained with some black, sharp-scented juice. Her beauty was at once alluring and frightening.

“Ah – yes,” he said, more to fill the silence than anything, for Will and Elizabeth were both staring openmouthed. “I like to garden.”

She swept a graceful hand around the shop. “Here you see what my garden grows.” Twirling a stiff twist of black hair in her fingers, she leaned forward and asked, “What…do you seek?”

Weatherby had always scoffed at the term ‘spellbound,’ and he believed in sad old women rather than witches. But he had never seen a woman like Tia Dalma.

“Tell your fortune?”

Weatherby looked away from the woman’s fathomless eyes. A teenage girl had stepped around her right side: dark-skinned as well, a bit older than Elizabeth though she was not so tall.

“Oh!” Will jumped back, for the yellow snake had left its perch to inspect the newcomers. It slithered over the boy’s foot and Weatherby shuddered. He had never liked garden snakes very much, and this one was another story altogether.

“She won’t hurt you,” said the girl, taking his daughter by the wrist and turning her hand up. Elizabeth curled her fingers into her palm, then let them relax, staring at the girl with wide-eyed fascination.

In a bolder move than Weatherby would have given him credit for, the boy swallowed and reached down, making sure the snake could see his hand. It lifted its blunt head and flickered a tongue at her fingers before continuing on its path across the clean-swept floor. Will brushed its pale scales with his fingers.

Weatherby shook his head and shook himself out of the strange daze into which he had fallen. “I’ve come on behalf of Mrs. van Doorn – here is her payment.” He held the little bag up and squinted at it. “I, er, trust you know what it’s for?”

Tia Dalma nodded and took the bag, her fingertips just brushing his knuckles – a cool, dry touch. Weatherby’s temples began to ache and he realized he was sweating. He jerked his hand away like he’d been burned.

“Well, we must be going now,” he said too quickly, putting one arm around Will’s shoulders – he moved obediently – and gripping Elizabeth’s elbow when she proved more reluctant to budge.

The girl’s face turned less friendly, and she released Elizabeth’s hand. Elizabeth stared at her over one shoulder as Weatherby hurried them back through the shelves.

“Welcome to Shipwreck!” Tia Dalma called through the closing door.



“But she was interesting!” Elizabeth hurled herself over the threshold of the Crown. “And I didn’t get to ask the girl’s name. I’m never allowed to see anything interesting!”

“That was not a suitable establishment for – for anyone,” Weatherby retorted, still shaking his jacket in an attempt to air it out. The scent of Tia Dalma’s shop had clung to all of them.

“Are you perhaps referring to Madame Yvette’s?” a young man drawled from a nearby bench. “Because I can personally vouch for the suitability of her service to all sorts and types.”

“Shut it, Jack,” Teague muttered, nudging him with an elbow. He offered a sort of grimacing smile. “Weatherby, William, Miss Lizzie – please join us, and let me introduce you t’ my son.”

The man bowed as best he could from a sitting position, although he didn’t remove his leather tricorn hat. “Uncle Swann now, is it?”

Weatherby walked over and looked down at him, unsure of what to say. “Hello, Jack,” he finally managed in a low voice.

Beneath the hat Jack Sparrow had grown into a fair mix of John Teague and Anne Foster as Weatherby had once know them. He was cultivating a beard and mustache, but badly – the scant growth ended up making him look even younger. Weatherby had no idea why his hair was cropped so short, but it did suit his face – Anne’s cheekbones and her fine dark eyebrows…

If he had expected his nephew by marriage to run joyfully into his arms, he was disappointed. Jack canted eyes up at him with a shade of insolence. He merely looked amused when Weatherby held out his hand. Teague’s expression was thunderous, but at Weatherby’s brief glance he remained still.

The longer Weatherby stood there, stiff-armed, the more pinched Jack’s face got. Finally he accepted the proffered handshake, looking surprised when Weatherby squeezed hard.

Elizabeth was hovering like a dragonfly at his back, so he stepped aside to present her. “And this is Elizabeth, my daughter – Lydia’s daughter.” For her sake he allowed his voice to harden. Taking the hint, Jack greeted her politely without having to be shamed into it.

“Jack Sparrow,” he said gallantly, raising her hand to his lips.

Weatherby assumed she would either giggle or put on her lady airs, but instead Elizabeth exclaimed, “But I’ve heard of you!” Off of his sharp look, she wilted a bit and muttered, “I can’t help walking by the paper-sellers in town, can I?”

“You can be a bit flashy,” Teague remarked to his son as he nursed an ale.

Jack looked pleased at his own notoriety and seemed to be about to ask her questions, but Elizabeth added, “Only you’re not a very good pirate, are you?”

Jack’s face fell and he let his bottle drop to the table. Teague’s eyes crinkled over his cup, and Weatherby sighed.

“I mean, you haven’t got a ship,” said Elizabeth tartly.

Weatherby knew she was being forward and bordering on rude because she was nervous, but the others had no such insight into her character. He really ought to reprimand her, but Teague was so clearly enjoying Jack’s consternation that Weatherby hadn’t the heart.

Jack took a long pull on his rum before biting out, “There were – are – extenuating circumstances –”

He caught sight of Will just then, as Elizabeth sat down to hear the tale. Weatherby’s conscience sparked to life with a painful rumble in his gut.

“And you,” said Jack, leaning forward to jab his finger into Will’s chest, “must be the boy.”

Oh hell, he couldn’t let it happen – the lad was too young, and innocent in all of this. Laying a protective hand on Will’s shoulder, he turned to Teague and said, “John, I think we ought to talk about this again –”

Teague looked at him warily. “Talk about what?”

“Bill Turner’s boy,” Jack murmured, still staring intently at Will.

“It simply doesn’t seem –”

“Swann, you gave your word –”

“Father, what are you talking about?”

Will slapped his hands on the table. “Quiet!”

Weatherby, Teague, and especially Elizabeth gazed at him in astonishment. He’d scarcely spoken above a whisper since he had been rescued. But Jack – Jack’s mouth lifted at one corner.

“You know my father?” Will’s face had turned pale, but his voice was still strong and clear.

“Aye,” said Jack, his smile slowly widening. “He sailed with my crew. ‘Twas my doing that got him this.” His fingers flexed and the grinning gold skull appeared in his palm. Will bit his lip as he watched Jack roll the coin on his knuckles.

“Stop this,” said Weatherby sharply. Teague looked away.

Will shrugged off Weatherby’s hand and bent over the table, spine rigid. “Where is he now?”

Jack fingered his chin as if in contemplation. “Why, I imagine ol’ Bill’s still on my ship – which, as Miss Swann so helpfully pointed out, is currently outside the realms of my possession.”

Bless her or curse her, Elizabeth was the sharpest child he’d ever seen; she had figured out the bones of the story already, if not the flesh. Throwing Jack a look of deep distrust, she touched the boy’s arm and said urgently, “Will, you don’t have to listen to anything he says.”

“You don’t have to,” Jack admitted, holding the coin up to the light to better admire it as well as to present a picture of nonchalance, “but you may. What say we have a drink, William, and you make up your own mind?” Teague crept up from the bench, still silent.

“This is preposterous! You cannot risk a child on a fool’s errand –”

Will looked up at Weatherby as he sat down in Teague’s place. His young face was earnest and determined. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, sir, but I’m neither a child nor a fool.”

That was debatable, but one thing was certain – he was not Weatherby’s child. There was nothing Weatherby could do to stop him following Jack, short of tying him up – and Weatherby rather thought Teague would object to that.

What he could do was keep his daughter out of this nonsense. “Elizabeth, we’re going.” He tugged her along behind him, heedless of her dragging heels.

The main street was bustling now, with God knew what kind of people going about their daily business. Weatherby was so intent on getting away from the Crown that he failed to notice a cart crossing directly in his path, and it was only Elizabeth yanking him back that kept him from being run over. The driver shouted curses back at them.

“Weatherby!” Teague had followed them out of the inn at a trot, and now he drew Weatherby under a red awning. Elizabeth hung back, alarmed.

Teague’s face was grave. “I’m not proud of my part in all this, but the lad’s got a right to make his own choice.”

“And your son’s got the devil’s tongue,” Weatherby retorted savagely. “What’s happened to him, Teague? What sort of man needs one particular ship to prove his worth?”

“I don’t know why,” Teague said through gritted teeth. He leaned against the building and pressed his forehead to his hand. “I don’t know why he needs that bloody ship, I just know that he does need this or he’ll keep destroying himself. Whatever’s wrong with Jack, I’ve certainly had a hand in it – but I will not be responsible for another broken soul.”

Weatherby had to fall against the wall before he collapsed in the street. He couldn’t see the street, couldn’t hear the chickens clucking or the cartwheels rattling. The sound of Anne’s weeping and shouting filled his ears. Bile rose in his throat as it had in that cold, stinking cell, from which he had retrieved her body because her father would not go. Before the vicar closed the casket on they day they laid her in the frozen ground, her face had been more peaceful than he’d seen it in years.

He looked at his daughter standing a few yards off, confusion and worry knitting her brow. There was nothing, nothing else in the world…

“Forgive me,” he whispered. To Elizabeth, to Will, to Teague, to Anne, to Jack, to God – to them all.



Will left with Jack several days after their arrival in Shipwreck Cove. Elizabeth unable to get a straight answer for perhaps the first time in her short life, spoke coldly to her father and hollered at Will when they parted.

“Jack will keep him safe,” said Teague quietly as the three of them watched the Minstrel enter Devil’s Throat. “He can have uncanny luck at times. And he’s a good man, at heart.”

“I hope you are right,” said Weatherby heavily. Elizabeth turned on her heel and walked down the jetty.

The three of them took rooms at the Crown. Teague would have slept on his own ship, but that wasn’t possible as he had lent her to Jack. He was quite content to enjoy his leisure, visiting certain households of certain ladies from time to time; however, it quickly became clear that both Swanns were accustomed to a more creative timetable. Weatherby would not let Elizabeth go out by herself, so she turned to Belle’s kitchen out of sheer desperation. Considering that she burnt everything she touched, Belle was the one to suggest that Elizabeth take a turn on the Wall.

“Don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” said Teague, smacking his knee. When Weatherby looked at him quizzically, he explained, “Children in town walk the Wall – the hills that enclose us – as sentries. Costs nothing and it gives ‘em something to do.”

“It’s not…dangerous?” He glanced over at Elizabeth, who was sitting at another table with her head on her arms, looking glum and bored.

Teague tapped his teeth with a fingernail. “Well, every now and again there’s a goat givin’ birth or stuck in a bush. That’s about as lively as it gets. If she wants, she can go up with Tia Dalma’s girl –”

A crash of wood on wood interrupted him. Elizabeth righted the bench she’d just knocked over and dashed towards the door, skirt pulled up in one hand.

“Elizabeth, where are you going?” Weatherby asked in alarm.

“To Tia Dalma’s,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine!”

Weatherby started to get up, but Teague waved a hand. “She will be, don’t worry. Nothing’s gonna happen t’ her with Dalma around.” The other man’s doubtful look was tinged with something approximating guilt, and Teague hooted with laughter. “Already met our witch-lady, then, eh? Did she put th’ eye on you?”

“Certainly not,” Weather sniffed, affronted. “I don’t believe in evil eyes or witch bottles – poppycock, all of it.”

Teague caught Sarah’s attention, begging for another piece of mincemeat pie as usual. “I din’t mean the evil eye, mate.”

Weatherby colored, but otherwise ignored the implication. “What sort of woman is this…Tia Dalma, anyhow?”

“Oh, she’s been around the last five, six years. Sells herbs, remedies an’ the like – people say she peddles other wares as well, but I can’t say I’ve ever been a customer.”

“You mean – she’s a…”

Sarah came over to their table before he could force the word out. He looked up in surprise when she set a second piece in front of him, and blinked when she smiled at him. Teague hid a grin behind a forkful of pie. Apparently Weatherby hadn’t spent much time in female company since Lydia had died, though he was handsome enough – a bit fuller in the stomach than the boy Teague remembered, but at least he hadn’t taken up one of those foul wigs.

“What I mean is that she’s said t’ be a fair hand at – poppycock, did you call it?”

Weatherby blew on his bite of hot pie with a sour expression. “Tales, of course.”

Teague shrugged amiably. “Believe what you will, mate – but you haven’t been in Shipwreck very long.”

“And I don’t intend to stay,” Weatherby replied. “I’ve a deed to a plantation on Jamaica – not many acres, true, but it’s respectable enough. I ought to be able to do well by Elizabeth in the sugar business.”

“Sugar, is it?” said Teague, keeping his voice carefully neutral. He had wondered but held his tongue; English gentleman came to the New World for a variety of reasons. But Weatherby had always liked tending the earth. “Might be the old Espinoza place, I heard tell it’s on the market again. ‘S where Tia Dalma’s little niece Anamaria comes from.”

Weatherby leaned forward with interest. “Really? Is the land productive?”

“Dunno,” Teague said quietly, spearing a raisin with his fork. “Slaves don’t see profits.”

The silence at their table was interrupted only by Belle’s laughter from the kitchen. Weatherby stared at his plate and set his fork down.

“Sugar trade’s supported by other trades, y’see,” Teague continued. It was a topic kept as quiet as possible in Shipwreck, but there were businesses that wouldn’t serve slave carriers, as well as some violence now and then. He didn’t bother making excuses for those of his comrades who participated. Certainly he could understand the logic of it, particularly in lean times, but somehow he’d never found himself hard up enough to take on human cargo. He supposed it ran in the family, as Jack had once made an allusion to crewing a slave ship. The haunted look in his eyes kept Teague from asking questions, either then or after he’d sobered up.

“I don’t –” He might have meant to say that he didn’t intend to use slave labor, but the both of them knew he couldn’t afford to pay free workers. Perhaps he’d been avoiding the thought since he signed the deed. In any case, he didn’t finish.

Teague stretched out his legs, wincing at the crack in his bad knee. “There’s land here, y’know,” he remarked, rubbing the stiff joint. “Nothing so prodigious as a plantation, but folk cut plots into the hillside.”

“Oh?” Weatherby was intrigued despite himself, and the agitated color was fading from his cheeks. “I thought I saw some controlled vegetation, but is there really proper farming?”

“Aye, as much as can be managed – no room for vast wheatfields, or sugarcane for that matter, but the soil’s rich. I daresay Shipwreck couldn’t support itself otherwise. Dalma’s garden is a fair sight – I swear that woman can grow anything.”

Weatherby frowned at his uneaten pie. “I’ve already bought my land, Teague. Thank you for the advice, but we’ll be moving on as soon as word about the boy arrives.”

His voice was firm, but Teague thought he still sounded a bit troubled. He didn’t press about the labor, nor about the chances of a bad season; he didn’t offer a warning that plantation owners could be every bit as opulent and snobbish as London society. And he certainly didn’t raise the possibility that Elizabeth’s spirit might not be suited to the life of a planter’s daughter, a planter’s wife. Those were Weatherby’s choices to consider, on his own time.

“Suit yourself, mate,” he said with a shrug.

Over the next several weeks, he assumed Weatherby did weigh his options, right up until they were taken from him. When the Swanns had been in Shipwreck for just over a month, the alarm bearers ran through the town to ruin a perfectly good Monday evening.

The Crown, being agreeably close to the docks, was one of the first places to hear the news. Little Peter Carew came barging in the door while the inn’s patrons were enjoying supper. He hadn’t run far, but he had certainly run fast.

“Good heavens, lad,” said Belle, flicking her apron straight and kneeling beside the gasping boy. Her voice was one that carried, and conversation slowed throughout the room. “What’s happened?”

“Royal Fortune taken – Bart Roberts is dead,” Peter panted, clutching at her skirt. “And they’re coming for us.”



Will fought his way out of the depths of a dream. Even when his eyes were open, he could still feel the bones tugging on his limbs. He clapped a hand over his own mouth to keep from screaming, staring at the beams above his head until his heart began to slow.

It must have been a quiet dream, for the rest of the men slumbered on. Cotton wheezed to his left in perfect harmony with his parrot’s grumbly noises, though the horror of the dream was too fresh for Will to smile at this. The blood still pounded in his veins and his hammock was much too constricting; so he rolled out of it to plant his feet on the solid, dark wood of the deck.

The Pearl seemed quieter than the Minstrel as he crept past the inert bodies to the stairs. He supposed it was due to her larger size, or maybe the fact that they didn’t have a full crew. Jack said that there’d be men aplenty in Tortuga, eager to sail with such an infamous beauty. Will assumed he had been speaking of the ship and not his own self, but it was sometimes hard to tell with things like that. He’d also asked what sort of portside treasures Will wanted for his birthday. Will was still thinking that one over.

To his surprise, he found the captain at the helm when he went on deck; Jack had never bothered to take a night watch on the Minstrel. Will was even more surprised to find him sober, although there was an unopened bottle at his feet.

“Couldn’t sleep, William?” Jack asked without turning around.

Will shook his head before remembering that Jack wasn’t looking at him, and clarified, “No. And you?”

“Too much sea t’ waste my time on sleeping,” Jack replied, grinning at Will over his shoulder. His eyes were clear, reflecting the light of the moon. Will couldn’t help a shiver. Jack seemed to take note; something flickered across his face for the briefest of instants, and he beckoned. “C’mere, lad, take a turn at the wheel.”

Eager to learn anything new – he was never let near something so important as navigation – Will stepped up beside him and gripped the spokes tightly.

“Easy, now,” Jack chided. “Don’t manhandle her.”

Will sighed and relaxed his fingers, keeping the course as best as he could. It was a still night, but up here he could hear the sails luffing, the lines creaking, the water lapping gently at the Pearl’s hull. It wasn’t perfect silence, but it helped quieten his heart nonetheless.

Craning his neck to the point of pain, Jack gazed up at the topmast. “She feels different, eh?”

“I don’t know,” said Will truthfully, concentrating on keeping the wheel steady.

“I do,” said Jack with obvious contentment. His ever-moving hands reached out to pat the ship affectionately. “I won her, you know. Saved Bart Roberts’ life off of Barbados, at great peril to me own, an’ the Pearl was the prize.”

It wasn’t just the rum. Will didn’t think he had ever seen Jack’s face look like this, without each thought crowded out by the next, without a dozen wheels turning in his head. And why not? Jack had gotten exactly what he wanted.

“It was the first time I ever felt – that the world had balance,” he continued softly, gaze roaming the deep blanket of stars. “First time I believed I was worth something.”

Will stared straight ahead, his knuckles white. Still without looking at him, Jack said, “I’m sorry about your father, Will.”

“Thank you,” Will whispered, letting his head fall forward to lean against the wheel. Jack’s sleeve brushed his arm as the captain reached out to hold their course.



Weatherby didn’t like to admit it, but he hated large crowds packed into small spaces. And while the Merchant Hall in Shipwreck wasn’t exactly small, the number of people packed into it was more than enough to make his palms start to sweat.

“Father, can you see?” Elizabeth was tall for a girl of her age, but she was still grabbing his shoulder to hoist herself up on her toes. She had elbowed her way nearly to the front, dragging him along.

“They’re sitting down,” Weatherby said, looking longingly at the scant feet of clear air in front of the platform. He leaned against the wall, feeling lightheaded. “The captains are lining up.”

Teague had explained something about how Shipwreck was governed while they were winding their way through narrow streets and labyrinthine corridors to the heart of the settlement, which was in fact the hold of a great ship. Timbers and decking had been cut away here, pillars for support added there. It was quite a feat of construction, really.

The platform they faced was set aside for the representatives – one proprietor for each street, chosen by everyone living on that street (the elections were informal but often, given the frequency with which many Shipwreckers changed location). There were twenty-six at the moment. Weatherby doubted he’d ever again see a body of government, dubious though it may be, where women outnumbered men nearly two to one. They met only in times of great emergency, which Teague had assured them was definitely now.

He had already taken his place in the line standing before the representatives – any captains whose ships were currently docked in the Cove. Though their word carried less weight than that of the permanent citizens, they were still required to be heard. And to Weatherby’s great distress, any Shipwrecker who wished might also attend. He was certainly keen on hearing the state of things himself, but he thought he might have preferred being banished with the masses.

It seemed to have already started, since he could see the representatives talking amongst themselves, but the low drone of conversation in the crowd kept him from hearing a thing. Evidently the captains couldn’t hear either; Teague suddenly turned, cupped his hands around his mouth, and bellowed for quiet. The worst of the noise receded.

“Like I said, there be no point in callin’ the Brethren – they couldn’t reach us in time,” said a blond captain with a heavy Irish accent.

“Aye, an’ wouldn’t do no good if they did come,” Belle muttered on the platform, sharing a dire look with Tia Dalma.

Elizabeth grumbled in frustration, still trying to see. “Who are the Brethren, do you think?” Weatherby shrugged and shushed her.

“It’s to be a siege,” said another captain, a Creole with a brutal scar slicing the right side of his face. “Roberts’ man heard the English officers talking before he was released. They have made a peace with their neighbors –”

“Peace, my arse!” came a derisive shout from somewhere in the center of the crowd. “They’ll be killin’ each other again before the year’s out!”

“That's as it may be, but for now we’ll have to hole up like ants,” said a blacksmith on the platform – Weatherby thought his name was Ewell. He stood up to make himself better heard, his wooden leg tapping on the platform. “Maybe for months.”

The crowd did not like the sound of this, and neither did the captains; Weatherby wondered if they were not allowed to leave, or whether they were not allowed to return once they did. But one man spoke out for Shipwreck.

“Then we hold,” said Teague, his deep voice echoing off the far corners of the chamber. “Whatever th’ English send after us, we hold this Cove even if they’re followed by Spanish, Portuguese, French, or Old Hob himself.” Weatherby hid a smile behind his hand as a general murmur of approval swept the crowd. Teague always did have a way with words.

“We’ve got stores,” shouted Belle with grim determination. “We’ve got stores, fresh water, and only one way in. They’ll give up long before we will!”

Weatherby was surprised to hear the mild-mannered innkeeper let out a stirring whoop, which was taken up by her fellow representatives, the malleable crowd, and not a few captains. And nearly as quickly as it had begun, the meeting seemed to be over.

Elizabeth blinked as their neighbors began to shuffle out the doors. “That’s it? That’s the solution to this great trial?”

“I suppose so,” said Weatherby, no less perplexed.

“Is Parliament anything like this?” she wanted to know.

Weatherby glanced back at the platform, where the representatives were setting the chairs back against the walls. “They don’t usually get things done so quickly."

When the hall was mostly empty, with the captains and those on the platform turning to go as well, Tia Dalma spoke.

“Wait.” Her voice rang out, as clear and loud as any man’s. “What of de Code?”

Elizabeth took the opportunity to sidle nearer to the action. The girl Anamaria, clad in trousers and a shirt, was also picking her way to the front.

“The Code?” said a Chinese captain with a frown. “Is it not here? Is it not safe?”

“Aye,” said Tia Dalma, gracefully inclining her head, “but Roberts is dead, an’ he was Keeper.”

Elizabeth whispered a question to Anamaria, who shook her head and did not answer. Her eyes were fixed on her aunt, as if trying to puzzle her out.

“She’s right, you know,” said a young woman with thin black curls piled atop her head. “There must always be a Keeper, ‘specially if we’ve got a battle on our ‘ands.”

Tia Dalma walked slowly forward, lifting her skirts as she descended the four steps to the floor.

“I name…John Teague,” she said, locking eyes with him after favoring the girls with a wink.

Teague stared her down. “No,” he said flatly. Weatherby wondered at his reluctance for this task, whatever it was, when he had been so forthright regarding the impending siege.

“Why not?” asked a tow-headed young man in a green frock coat. “You’ll pardon my saying it, John, but you’re out a ship at the moment, and you’ve more years than – ah, a great deal of experience,” he amended when Teague’s eyebrows dropped dangerously.

“Certainly more’n most of these fine boys,” Belle purred, stroking the captain’s short beard with a fingertip. He bared his white teeth in a grin and patted her ample rump.

“Watch your mouth, Jan,” Teague muttered. “I don’t want the damn thing.”

Weatherby was amazed to realize that this was the elusive Mr. van Doorn – twenty years Belle’s junior by the looks of him. Elizabeth had the same thought, and her eyes widened before she was able to compose herself.

“Say we put it to a vote,” Ewell suggested. “All in favor of Captain Teague takin’ up the Code, it being both logical and convenient – say aye.”

The room chorused with ‘aye’s. Elizabeth leant her eager voice, though Anamaria crossed her arms over her chest and looked skeptical.

“All opposed?”

Teague didn’t bother voicing the single ‘nay.’ He just sighed and tugged his hat further down. “All right, all right. Where’ve those bloody clerks hidden it now?”



It took three weeks for the first ships to converge on Shipwreck. In that time, Weatherby gave up each opportunity to slip out before the siege started. He told himself that there had been no word of the Black Pearl yet, pointedly ignoring the fact that it wasn’t likely to come when no ships could enter the Cove. For her part, Elizabeth never mentioned leaving, and seemed to have forgotten that they were ever bound for Jamaica in the first place.

She was in fact one of the first to spot the approaching men-of-war. On her hasty way down from the Wall, she tripped on the hem of her gown and fell into some rocks. When she came limping through the door of the Crown, skirt soaked with blood and apron tied around half her head, Weatherby thought his heart would stop. To his great relief her injuries were fairly minor, though it took Tia Dalma half an hour to pick all the gravel out of her skinned knee. She was quite proud of the small scar on her right cheek, an inch below her eye. Besides which, the incident worked entirely to her advantage: Weatherby finally bought her a set of boy’s clothing.

For three months, Shipwreck Cove held up against intermittent attack. Teague frequently remarked that the Navy was simply bored, for none of them were putting their hearts into it. Still, the siege did restrict movement, and their diets soon began to suffer from a great lack of variety. Belle used some of her precious remaining sugar (and liquor) to bake a rum cake for Elizabeth’s fourteenth birthday. She seemed to appreciate this more than a formal gift. Weatherby, however, felt the need to mark the occasion anyway.

“This is – well, rather a silly gift,” he said with some clumsiness, handing her the crudely wrapped package when the Crown had finally cleared out for the night. “I saw it in the shop window and thought you might find it useful, but it’s not very pretty…”

Her eyes were bright from watered wine and the soaked cake, and she quirked her eyebrows at him from beneath the brown felt hat Teague had given her. “Oh!” She plucked the little brass spyglass from the box, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s perfect for the Wall! Thank you, Father.” She threw her arms around him.

Weatherby held on a bit too tight, a bit too long, his chin on top of her tousled head. To her credit, Elizabeth didn’t squirm like she normally would. For some reason, this made Weatherby’s eyes fill with tears. He tried to blink them back before releasing her.

It wasn’t simply that she was growing up. It was that she was growing up here, in this strange little town with its secrets and its mysteries. If he had been told what would happen over these past few months, he never would have left England; and perhaps he never would have seen her so happy.

“Your mother,” Weatherby said thickly, brushing his thumb over the scar on her face, “would be very proud of the woman you are becoming.” He was a bit embarrassed over his own sentimentality, but that didn’t make it any less true.

Elizabeth brushed the back of her hand over her eyes, then smiled and squeezed his hand. “You needn’t worry, Father – I’m not quite done growing yet.”

Though he was touched by this claim, a few scant weeks brought a sure sign that she was indeed growing up faster than he would like to admit. The Black Pearl returned, captained by Jack Sparrow once again, to make a daring run through the sluggish blockade into the safety of Shipwreck Cove.

“That was brilliant!”

Elizabeth pelted down the dock as Jack looked smug, then somewhat insulted as she passed him to fling herself at Will Turner.

The boy laughed and only blushed a little when she hugged him. Weatherby started forward, but Teague shook his head slightly.

“You’ll only make it worse,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, looking at his son. Jack straightened his shoulders and strode forward, eyes wary. He stopped with some three feet between them.

“Captain Teague,” he said with a nod, which Teague returned. There was something uncertain about the set of Jack’s mouth, despite his appearance of confidence. “I’m terribly sorry to say that the good Minstrel was lost in our endeavors.”

If Weatherby understood pirates correctly – and he liked to think he did, having spent nearly six months in their company – the loss of one’s ship was quite a blow. It was, after all, what had led Jack so perilously close to ruin to begin with. Weatherby thought he was being awfully cavalier about returning without the ship which had enabled him to get his own ship back. Also, he didn’t know what was so special about the Black Pearl, now that he had finally seen it.

But Teague simply ran a critical eye over both the ship and Jack, and said, “Well, boy, I s’ppose you owe me.”

“Will a hold stuffed with fruit, grain, and fresh meat make a start?” Jack plucked an orange from somewhere on his person and tossed it to Teague.

“We heard about the siege and took on extra stores,” Will explained to Elizabeth. He grimaced over his shoulder at a loud, agitated moo. “Lots of extra stores.”

Jack closed his eyes in apparent pain as a chicken came fluttering down the gangplank, clucking to itself. “I put livestock,” he said through gritted teeth, “on my ship.”

Teague opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by a shout of “Cap’n – god’s teeth, catch ‘im!”

The whiskered man who’d spoken appeared at the rail alongside a slender youth not much older than Will, who dodged his grab.

“Pirate filth!” he shouted, eyes blazing. He held a loaded pistol in each hand.

Jack swore and shoved Will down, flattening them both on the boards. Teague pushed Elizabeth behind him with his free arm. She turned to face Weatherby, calling for him. He shouted for her to run and, for once in her life, she obeyed without question.

Teague was talking in a low, calm voice. The boy’s chest was heaving, his eyes rolling. Jack sprang into a crouch, sword and pistol appearing in his hands as if from nowhere. He planted one foot on Will’s sheathed blade, and Will growled as he tried to get it free.

Weatherby hesitated, taking one step after his daughter. She was running pell-mell up the slight incline to the town, yelling for help. Even for a good shot, she was already out of range. So he held up his hands in supplication, as Teague was doing, and said, “Easy, son –”

There was a crack of gunfire and the acrid scent of powder. Weatherby knew they’d done no good after all, but Elizabeth was safe. Elizabeth was safe.



Will hit Jack in the back of the shin, hard, furious at being held back like a child. Hadn’t he seen worse, much worse than this? Hadn’t Jack spent these long weeks training him to fight? Hadn’t he killed men at Jack’s side?

But he didn’t kill the lad they had picked up in Tortuga with half their current crew, who had been quiet and unsociable but seemed normal enough until now. Jack stumbled from Will’s blow, then still managed to run Lewis though after he’d got off two wild shots. His aim was true; Lewis twitched, gurgled blood from his mouth, and lay still within seconds.

Jack hauled Will up by an arm, jerking unpleasantly. “What the hell’d you do that for, whelp?”

“Don’t you ever –” Will began hotly.

“Shut up.”

Weatherby dropped to his knees, his face an expression of polite surprise. Teague caught him before he fell, and he touched the blood on own his chest curiously.

“Oh God,” Will whispered, starting forward; but Jack grabbed his wrist and held tight.

Teague laid the other man gently back, taking his hand from the wound. “It’s all right now, Weatherby, my old friend.”

“Elizabeth –” Weatherby said, comprehension as well as pain beginning to twist his features.

“Safe,” said Teague at once, palm on Weatherby’s chest. His fingers flexed near the wound, but he didn’t try to stem the flow of blood. It was spreading in a dark pool beneath their bodies. “Now and always. I’ll see t’ that.” His voice was hoarse but, Will thought, just the sort of steady, comforting voice he’d want to hear when –

Jack’s fingers tightened painfully around his wrist, but he didn’t pull away.

Weatherby’s face relaxed past the point of relief. Looking over Teague’s head, he whispered another name – “Lydie…” And then he was still.

Teague put a hand down to steady himself, in the blood, and closed Weatherby’s eyes with the other. For long moments, none of them moved.

“My word,” said a woman’s voice, short of breath. Elizabeth pushed past Belle and came to a dead halt, staring down at her father’s body.

Will knew that if anyone there should go to her, it was him, but he couldn’t make his feet move. Instead it was Teague who reached out to her, his shirt and skin stained red.

“No,” said Elizabeth, eyes blank, then louder – “No!” She pulled away from Teague’s grasp and turned away, toward the Pearl. Will wasn’t sure if she meant to reach the water or Lewis’s corpse.

Teague’s gaze followed her and he saw something that Will couldn’t see. It happened to be a grenade that had rolled away from Lewis's prone form, its fuse sparking. As she took a stumbling step he threw her down, covering her with his body. The blast went off almost directly in his face.



Afterwards, Elizabeth moved through water. Her limbs felt heavy and cumbersome, drifting without her permission. When she stopped weeping, she felt too dry to move.

She couldn’t go to see Teague, not with his face wrapped in white linen. Even in the water, she thought that it might have helped; nonetheless, she couldn’t do it.

Will came to her, in her room in the Crown. She hadn’t been alone with a boy since she was very small, and she noted hollowly how tall he had gotten. He sat at the foot of her bed and didn’t know what to say, and his not knowing what to say was irritating to her skin and her ears. She asked him to leave. He came back again, several times, and tried to tell her about the Pearl, and the curse, and her cousin Jack, but she didn’t care. He asked her to come with them on their next supply run, and she didn’t care.

She finally had to leave the room to escape them all – Will, Belle, Isaac, Teague even though he was still bedridden. So she climbed the Wall even though she wasn’t supposed to, even though it might be dangerous when there were still ships besieging the Cove. She took the spyglass with her and turned it over and over in her hands, but she didn’t look through it.

“Now that’s a nice glass,” Jack said, taking it from her numb fingers. He had sneaked up behind her, as pirates were wont to do. He held the glass to one eye and squinted into the sea below, then grinned. “Looks like the Spanish midshipmen are takin’ a bath, want to see?”

“No.” Elizabeth snatched the glass back, put it in her pocket, and started to walk away. Jack followed.

She walked to her favorite spot, a steep drop overlooking terraces growing lemon trees. Jack sat down beside her, legs dangling. Shipwreck Town went about its business below their feet.

“Lizzie,” said Jack very quietly, brushing his hands off on his thighs. “I know your father was your world. I know what that’s like.”

“You don’t know,” she snapped, finding comfort in malice.

“All right,” said Jack amiably.

He shooed away a goat that had come wandering over in hope of treats. When it proved intractable, he sighed and extracted a hard sweet out from his waistcoat pocket. The goat nibbled it happily, breathing the scent of molasses all over them, and nosed at his clothing for more.

“I don’t know this world,” said Elizabeth suddenly, digging her fingers into the grass and the earth. “I didn’t make it, it’s not mine. I don’t want it.”

“This is Shipwreck, love,” said Jack. “Most people here’d say the same thing.”

Baring his teeth at the goat, he pulled a flask from his faded sash and offered it to her. Even without having tasted rum, she knew it was bad rum. But she drank anyway – two long swallows – and traced the burn with her fingertips, from her throat to her belly.



It was easier after Jack and Will left; she didn’t have to do so much pretending. She spent most of her time with Teague, who couldn’t see her pretending. They said he wouldn’t see anything again. But he was a merry patient, calling for Belle’s pies when his burns had healed enough to chew it, flirting with Sarah when she brought him his tea. He and Elizabeth didn’t say much to one another. He was still quite unwell and slept much of the time, while she read or drew poor sketches of the harbor through the window.

On an afternoon when the kitchen was particularly busy, Belle sent her to pick up the salve for Teague’s eyes. She walked into Tia Dalma’s shop for the first time in weeks, shaking her head in the wave of scent. The dark red paint on the walls made the day seem even warmer than it was.

Tia Dalma wasn’t in the front room, but Anamaria was standing in front of a rare clear space on the counter, working with a stone mortar and pestle.. She glanced up when Elizabeth entered, without much interest. Elizabeth approached her, ducking under Erzulie’s perch.

“What are you doing?”

“Grinding these up to make a paste,” Anamaria said without taking her eyes off her work. “It’s for toothache.”

Elizabeth leaned over and sniffed the mess in the bowl. “Smells funny.”

The older girl snorted. “Doesn’t taste good, either.”

She watched the rhythmic motions of Anamaria’s hands, steady as a drum, for a few minutes. Then she said, “Can I help?”

Anamaria paused, giving Elizabeth a long, measuring look. Her eyes were lighter than Elizabeth had thought, not much darker brown than her own. Finally she pointed toward a basketful of somewhat ugly purple-blue blossoms. “You can tear the flowers off the stems.”

Feeling like she had just passed a test of some kind, Elizabeth hoisted the basket up on the counter and went to work.

Twenty minutes passed before Tia Dalma emerged from the back room, sweeping through the ragged orange curtain and humming a strange tune. She smiled when she saw Elizabeth, perfunctorily, as if she’d expected to see her there. Elizabeth brushed petals off her hands, wrinkling her nose at the noxious scent of the blossoms.

“Come for John’s usual, aye?” She plucked a clay jar off a shelf and sniffed the contents before handing it to Elizabeth.

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth, who felt a powerful desire to get out from under her gaze. Just as she reached the door. Tia Dalma cleared her throat.

“A moment, Miss Swann.”

Reluctantly, Elizabeth turned around. She clutched the jar tight between her hands. “Yes?”

Tia Dalma put a hand on her hip and cocked her head. “Come back t’ me tomorrow, I’ll show you how t’ mix it.”

What Elizabeth wanted to say was I don’t need a mother, I don’t need an aunt, my mother and my aunt are dead.

What came out of her mouth, slipping past her lips like a clever fish, was, “What time?”



When she got back to the Crown, she found Teague sitting up at the room’s small desk.

“Belle will kill you if she catches you out of bed,” Elizabeth said, going to the bed to straighten the mussed blanket.

Teague managed a grin with his ravaged mouth. “Aye, but she’d have t’ catch me first. I’ve got my escape route all worked out – out the window, jump to the highest branch, and shimmy down the tree. I’ll be at the harbor ‘fore I’m missed.”

“And I suppose you’ll be taking that wretched thing with you? You’ll sink the boat.”

“I may have to sell it for passage,” Teague admitted. He stroked the faded lettering fondly, then lifted the cover of the Codex to close it.

Elizabeth crossed the room swiftly and laid her hand over his weathered fingers. “Shall I read some to you?” she asked, suddenly shy, curling her toes in her boots.

It was funny how she could still feel him regarding her, though his eyes were bandaged and his head turned down toward the page. “I’d like that very much, Elizabeth.”

“Well then, shoo,” she said, swatting his arm. “You know very well I can’t lift it.”

Teague chuckled low his throat as he reclined on the bed, against the pillows she had fluffed and propped up. Elizabeth tugged her boots off and sat cross-legged in the chair. She ran her fingernail down the page he had selected, but in the end she had to flip until she found a part that wasn’t in Latin.

“Every man has a vote in affairs of moment…”



(Formerly Blood Ties)