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Fog Bound

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[06 Apr 2009|10:01pm]

[ mood | cheerful ]

It had been, in every respect, a perfect day. Perhaps it was the snowball fight with Will in the morning, or the fact that the very snow itself reminded her of half-forgotten childhood joys back in England, of sledding with Edward's arms clasped around her waist and the big hill in the estate's park stretching down below them forever, white and perfect and thrillingly steep. (There had always been hot chocolate in the kitchen afterward, made especially for her by Rosalynn, the cook, and if her governess scolded her about wet stockings and ruined shoes, well. It was worth the chastisement every time.)

Or, perhaps, it was being entirely out of sight and earshot of James Norrington for one complete day. And Caro, for that matter - both were developing a disturbingly apt ability to throw her into a foul mood, and she'd found herself apologizing to Will and Jack too often for sulking or snapping. It wasn't quite so bad as it had been, perhaps, but she was still irritated with James, and Caro...well. Caro was Caro, and Lizzie was beginning to suspect that there was not going to be a reconciliation there. In any case, a day without them had no doubt contributed to her mood.

Tired but elated, all bright smiles and loose limbs, Lizzie had returned to the Pearl with little Danny an hour or two before sunset. She was sitting now on the capstan with a pomegranate and a book, entirely at her ease as she waited for Jack and Will to return. There was no way it could've taken them this long to do whatever business Jack had at the monastery, and she assumed they'd spent the day as she had, sight-seeing and enjoying all that Venice had to offer.

She was surprised, then, to see only one of her companions returning in a longboat. Unaware of what had passed between the two of them, she waved cheerfully, if mildly puzzled, and set her book aside as she waited for Will to get there.

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In Venice . . . [17 Aug 2008|08:16pm]

[ mood | cold ]

Kitty Turner had been a practical woman. For every romantic notion in her pretty head there were two sensible ones to flank it: love for your God was all well and good, but it didn’t put food on the table or money in the landlord’s hand; Will had therefore received only a rudimentary upbringing in the church. Oh, he knew the commandments and a handful of soporific hymns, and could recite most of his catechism without stumbling or getting lost, but those things had mattered less in Port Royal than they had in Bristol, and these days he was severely out of practise.

Now, he had explained this to Jack – at least three times – emphatically – but for some reason, Will still found himself held captive in swirling bathwater, scented with the rosepetal soap Caro had so thoughtfully donated for the occasion, while his captain laid out his plan; something to do with deceit and swag and general lawlessness amidst the gilt and finery of Venice.

Will readjusted himself for the umpteenth time in Jack’s underused tub, his exposed knees sudsy and flush with goosebumps as he struggled to keep his chilled shoulders beneath the waterline, envying Jack his coat and Caro the steaming bowl of coffee she gripped with both hands and sipped at delicately as they discussed (argued over) the deceptive merits of rosaries.

As previously stated, Will did not consider himself given to ecclesiastical superstition, but was altogether too English to keep his misgivings regarding Catholicism completely at bay, and somehow the thought of that specific strand of beads jittering inside his pocket wasn’t precisely a comforting one. To pretend at popery wasn’t something he felt entirely qualified to do, and his sense of foreboding could only increase.

“So why,” announced Will finally, interrupting the easy bickering, “is my presence required for this particular escapade again? Why can’t she go?”

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[18 Mar 2008|08:06pm]

[ mood | shocked ]

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[17 Mar 2008|11:07pm]

[ mood | pissed off ]

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Some time later, somewhere in the Indian Ocean . . . [13 Jan 2008|11:41am]

[ mood | apathetic ]

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