A/N: This chapter is long. This chapter is also boring. I'm sorry for that; and I'm also sorry for the delay in posting: school has just started up again and it has been eating up my spare time. Accordingly, I'm posting this un-beta'd, (because I figure I've waited long enough to post something) and I will reupload later with the beta'd version. This chapter was originally two chapters, but I've combined them to speed up the narrative a bit. (10,000 words in and the main plot hasn't even started up yet. Something had to give.) Rest assured, however, that the next chapter has all the action that didn't make it into this one (and more of Beckett as well) :)

Thump. Thump.

I cover my ears, but the noise comes through, to no avail.

Thump. Thump.

Why in seven hells did I ever give him that wretched walking stick? I think angrily. If I'd known all he'd do with it was bang it against the floor at all hours of the day…

Thump. Thump. Wincing, I half-stand from the kitchen table, leaving my mending in mid-stitch. Suddenly the noise cuts off. Slowly I lower myself back down onto my stool, hopeful for the moment that Beckett has found some other means of entertaining himself.

Ten minutes pass without the dreadful noise, and then-

Thump. Thump.

That's the last straw. I stand, shove my half-hemmed soldier's pants onto the table, and stomp into Beckett's room.

"For the love of Calypso! Put that wretched stick down!"

One last thump, and the cane is still. Beckett is sitting up against several rolled rags and my only spare pillow, his right arm dangling over the side of the bed, the silver-topped stick held loosely in his hand.

"Am I bothering you?" he asks innocently. A flick of his wrist sends the walking stick into the air, and he catches it, deftly. I blink, marveling at the act. I don't believe I could have done it with myself with both eyes open.

"Aye." I move from the doorway and into the room proper. "A good bit."

As I walk, Beckett turns his head ever so slightly, following my movement. I stop for a moment and then continue my steps as silently as I can. His gaze stays focused on the place where I stopped.

"It's a good trick, that," I say casually from right next to his arm. He turns so fast I swear I hear his neck crick, and once he recovers from his surprise he smiles ruefully.

"A small skill I've been developing. Obviously I need more practice."

"So…." I take a few steps away, quickly, making no move to disguise their sound, and then cross around the bed and to his other side. His head changes direction smoothly, the illusion almost complete: if not for the bandages encompassing the upper half of his head, I can almost believe that he can see me. "You can tell where I am by listening?"

"Something like that. My hearing has not improved; I have simply… improved at hearing." There was that smile of his again: as if sharing some inside joke with himself.

"You'll lay off the thumping, then?"

The smile slips away. "Shall I sit quietly and contemplate the meaning of my existence instead?"

"No call for getting defensive. Just find some other way to entertain yourself," I say.

"Please, suggest an alternative. I am all ears."

I run through a few suggestions in my mind, but I quickly realize that they are all impossible for a blind man. But that's not my problem, is it? Does he expect me to be entertainer as well as nurse and caretaker? I have mending that needs doing. I have no time for this, and the silence has stretched too long.

"Contemplate life, twiddle your thumbs, or do whatever- as long as it's not distracting me from my mending."

Pressing his lips together, Beckett lets the walking stick fall to the floor with a clatter and returns his unseeing gaze to the opposite wall. It smacks of dismissal.

I stalk from the room, unable to stand being in his presence any longer. I briefly return to my mending, but I have no patience for it. Shoving it aside, I walk out the door and onto the sands of the beach.

Waves wash gently up on the shore some thirty feet to my right. My bare feet sink into the hot sand, my boots abandoned by the door. I squint up into the midday sun as a sudden desire to stretch my legs runs through me. With no further ado I break into a headlong sprint, the tension running off of me like seawater off an oar. I stop when I run out of beach.

The hut, my mending, and Beckett are far in the distance. I double over, chest heaving. Catching my breath for the walk back requires a moment. I take my time, gauging the distance with my eyes. A kilometer? Maybe less? My feet burn on the hot sand, something I did not notice when I ran, so into the surf I go. The water cools the soles of my feet instantly and brings a smile to my face. One deep breath and I am calm again, Beckett's petulance and my annoyance finally fading.

I amble back. The mending can keep after all, I decide. Nothing else presses: the fish await port all prepared in their three barrels, and if the weather holds I shall possibly make the day-long trip to resupply tomorrow.

With a sigh, I finally enter the shade of the hut. I peek around Beckett's doorway (there is no door, father never fitted one) and find Beckett just as I left him, staring at the wall and apparently deep in thought. Or perhaps sleeping. No- not sleeping, because his head swivels to face me, something like a question in its tilt. He looks quite serene with his hands folded in front of him. Perhaps I was too harsh, earlier. Perhaps I'd let myself become annoyed too easily. I'd personally go mad if I were forced to sit in a bed day in and day out and do nothing while I waited to recover from sundry injuries.

"Do you like Shakespeare?" I ask on the spur of the moment.

He appears to consider the question. "I prefer prose to poetry."

"Robinson Crusoe it is." I snatch the book from my room and then settle down in the chair by his bed, preparing to read aloud to him. A decision which has entirely nothing to do with guilt, I assure myself.

"The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe," I begin. It's of no use to leave off where I was when I read it to him during his fever; he will not remember the plot. "'Chapter One: Start in Life. I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York….'"

Beckett is an attentive listener. He cocks his head down and towards my voice and makes nary a sound. I read until my voice is hoarse and then I stop, setting aside the book and preparing to rise. Mending can be put on hold. Dinner, however, cannot.

"Better go fetch supper," I announce. Crossing my fingers, I hope for wild bird from one of the dogs.

I am out of the room when Beckett's voice comes from behind me and unexpectedly says, "You read most competently, Winnifred."

He hasn't thanked me, so I suspect that this mellow compliment is something of that nature.

"You're welcome," I say, and get on with the dinner.

We somehow make it through the night with no more altercations, which is fine by me. Beckett is even more thoughtful than usual as I help him through the meal, and says nothing. His stick rests against the wall near the bed.

Such a silly little thing to have argued over.

"I think I'll row to the mainland in the morning," I tell him that night. "My fish aren't getting any fresher. And I need the supplies."

"When should I expect your return?"

"If I leave early and port ain't too busy… erm…" I do some quick calculation on my fingers, muttering the hours I'll need under my breath. "An hour or two past sundown. I'll leave you some food here so's you don't get hungry, and the dogs'll take care of themselves. Will you be alright on your own?"

"I believe if the dogs can take care of themselves in your absence, so can I."

"Good. Because even if you'd have said no there would be no alternative. I can't very well take you with me."

"Yet."

"…yet," I acknowledge. In three months' time, when I next go to port, his leg will likely be healed and I will take him with me. Leave him with the brothers at the abbey, perhaps, and be alone again. I think about that for a moment. "Alone" suddenly seems a daunting prospect, and recalls feelings I normally associate with bad weather and sickness. And though he is of no use to me yet, it would also mean a lack of a future helpmate to aide me around the island. That is certainly a possibility I don't want to lose so soon.

"Winnifred?"

I snap out of my thoughts. "Huh?"

"I said 'Any bit of news you could gather of the world and the East India Trading Company's current state of affairs would be invaluable to me.'"

Ah, yes. Lord Cutler Beckett wishes news of his empire. It's easy to forget about the title he claims as his. He may have been a lord once, but as I see him now, he's nothing. Just a man. Just a blind, injured man.

"I'll keep an ear open-"

"Both ears, if you don't mind."

"Alright, both ears."

"Until the morning?"

"Aye." Obviously he's asked for what he needed and wants to be rid of me. I can't deny the man his privacy, so I stand. "Wait- no, actually. I'll leave before dawn, so you'll still be abed."

"In that case, a safe voyage to you."

I was just hoping the same thing.

No crow of a rooster, no liveried servant to wake me, just the fuzzy pre-dawn darkness and the slight non-smell of the ocean.

Everything is as silent as the locker, which puts me at ease. I've never been one for noise. Then I hear a shuffle of sheets rearranging, and a sigh: Beckett turning in his sleep. Which thankfully reminds me to leave him some food for the day. My pantry's paltry larder offers up some slightly stale bread and dried papaya from the jungle. That, along with a pitcher of water, will have to suffice for Beckett's rations.

An ugly snort escapes me when the act of setting the food down on his bedside table reminds me of times when wildlife is scarce and I have to lay out food bowls for Tuck and Bull. But Beckett turns in his sleep and mutters something, so I clamp a hand down over my mouth and chastise myself for my thoughts.

He ain't a dog, I remind myself. For one thing, he's better company.

I slip out the door and don my boots, casting my gaze to the stars. The star I use for navigation is normally just above the tip of the mountain this time of year. It takes a fair few seconds to find it among all its shiny brethren in that region of the sky, but eventually I espy it. I like to navigate without a compass, when I can. It frees my hands for the oars.

The barrels of fish have to be rolled from the lean-to over the sand and then lifted into the skiff. Then I have to tie them down- tightly, mind you. More than one journey I've spent with broken ropes and a barrel threatening to roll right over the side at the littlest wave.

The skiff is thrice as heavy loaded down with the fish, but it will be even heavier upon the return toting sacks of flour, salt, miscellaneous fishing supplies and other goods. I even leave my nets on shore to save weight. All I have with me is a small coin purse that doesn't even jangle.

With a heave I shove the prow as hard as I can with my foot. A few grains of sand trickle into the waterline, but otherwise, nothing moves. I kick it again and this time it budges, enough for me to push it with all my might into the water, which comes high on the hull.

Already I feel that this is going to be a difficult day. I mutter a few words of a sea shanty to help cheer me up- "Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum… wink and a devil have done for the guest…" Wait a minute. Those aren't the right words. I shrug. I can feel the fatigue in my shoulders waiting for later in the day to pounce on me as I row slowly out of the bay, one eye on my navigation star and another on the barrels in front of me.

I don't know how many miles of open ocean separate my island and the mainland, but I do know that it takes four-and-a-half hours to row there. By that time I will be exhausted and have only the strength to drag myself to the abbey, find Brother James, and beg a meal from the only soul in the whole of that port town who I sometimes think to call "friend." Though, come to think of it, he was father's friend before he was mine. I suppose I have inherited him.

Eventually the sun rises and replaces my navigation star, and the hours pass as blurs of effort and waves. In books, people like to claim that things like this pass rapidly. I'd like to rip them out of the page and slap them upside the head, because they're dead wrong. I feel every minute that passes as keenly as every oar stroke I make.

When a small black speck appears on the horizon I sigh with relief and carry on rowing until the docks are in view, and then I keep on rowing, because I have no money with which to pay the toll for mooring. It seems as if no one else does either, for there are very few ships moored there: in fact, I have never seen it more empty. So instead I head for the mouth of the river that empties into the harbor, and row the last leg of my journey up its length, around the dirty port town, and straight to the abbey's mill.

A small child bringing two buckets to the mill sends up a cry when he sees my skiff and goes running off into the underbrush towards the abbey, dropping the buckets and sloshing his water everywhere. At least they'll know I'm coming, I think, imagining him running up to the abbey and babbling in the island's native dialect about a strange woman on a skiff. I laugh a bit.

The child does not disappoint. As I am tying up my skiff at its usual berth among the flat-bottomed dinghies the brothers use to transport the mill's grain to and from the town, I catch sight of Brother James strolling down the hill of the abbey towards me.

Stocky, balding, brown-robed Brother James, looking just like I left him three months ago. A smile breaks out over my face and I raise a hand in greeting.

"Winnifred! I'm thrilled to see you," he exclaims as he draws closer, bending to help me with my rope. Always the gentleman, he is, but gentlemen get in the way sometimes.

I step back and let him handle it to avoid offending his pride. The dark brown of his billowing sleeves dangle nearly to the water, and I wonder, not for the first time, how the monks can stand such oppressive clothing in this clime. Myself, I am soaked through with sweat, but being as that is my default condition on most days, I pay it no mind.

"You must be boiling, Brother," I say to his bent back.

"Ever wonder why we monks shave our heads, Winnifred?" he asks me, straightening and dusting off his hands, the skiff securely moored.

"Not really, no."

Gesturing with one hand at his bald pate, he announces, "It's so the heat can escape," and winks at me.

I laugh, a real good laugh- not the kind I laugh when I play with Tuck and Bull or when I read something amusing in a book, but the kind that only another person can pull out of me. This is why I call Brother James a friend.

"I can honestly say it's good to see you, Brother."

"And you, Winnifred. I've been wondering when you would again grace us with your fine salted fish." We set off side by side towards the abbey, following a narrow dirt path that winds around the mill and up a hill that I've walked countless times before.

Shall I tell him why I was delayed? I think not. Brother James knew father, and knew of his death, and knows I now live alone on my island. And he worries about me, bless his good God-fearing soul. Better not trouble him with the knowledge that I'm keeping a man in my spare bedroom. I can imagine his shock at that: "But Winnifred! The impropriety!" he'd say. Or perhaps a stern "Men are not to be trusted!"

"The days got away from me," I settle on as my lame explanation.

"Ah." Brother James nods knowingly. Too knowingly.

"So," I interject, "are me and my fish still welcome here?"

"Always!" he exclaims, seeming to pass over my little white lie. "We will always be in need of your fish, And your company," Brother James says fondly. Yet I cannot help but notice his broad smile is a shade forced.

"Brother. Be straight with me now. Be I welcome?"

"By the abbey, yes," he reassures me, suddenly solemn. Hesitation, and then he continues with, "But I do not think you will find welcome amongst the townsfolk at this time."

"What's happened?" Disease, poor harvest, piracy, or any number of things can be enough to turn a small port towns' inhabitants against all those foreign to their waters. Father and I weathered the occasional deficits of trade well enough together, but nothing of the sort has happened to the town since his death- in fact, it has seemed to be booming with trade- and if the markets remain closed to me, I realize I may not be able to survive without its supplies.

I swallow, hard, and fight to hide a flicker of fear from Brother James. He licks his lips and takes several breaths. He is preparing to tell a long tale.

"Everything has happened, Winnifred: everything and anything that we who call ourselves free men dread. I know you don't get much news out on your island-"

Beckett's news, I remind myself. Don't forget about Beckett's news.

"-and you have every right to live as you choose, but we in civilization have to deal with civilization's problems. You are familiar with the East India Trading Company?"

"I've heard of it," I say carefully. "Many of my tools and spices bear its crest."

"As do half the tools and spices in this town. Much of our trade comes from company vessels, but this past week nothing has come into port."

"Naught?" I recall the dearth of ships moored in the harbor, and I believe him.

"Nothing," Brother James affirms. "There are rumors about, too: rumors that the pirates grow ever-bolder in their raids. Some even say," and here, he lowers his voice, "that it is because the Company has collapsed."

Now, father may have only taught me enough arithmetic to make sure I don't get swindled when trading, but I can still put two and two together and arrive at four. Nevertheless, an honest truth is always more valuable than a good guess, so I wonder aloud to Brother James as innocently as I can, "And what do they say is the reason an organization as powerful as the East India Trading Company has suddenly collapsed?"

"Pirates," he whispers simply. "It is believed that they've killed Lord Beckett himself."

My own jolt of surprise goes unnoticed as he suddenly takes a furtive look around him. "But you didn't hear that from me."

"Of course not."

He hides his hands in the sleeves of his robe and walks on. "I don't want agents of the company to hear that the brothers of the abbey have been spreading rumors."

"But you just said that they-"

"Rumors, Winnifred. Rumors."

"How bad?" Whatever this news be, it is not mere rumor. Rumors do not vacate a once-busy port's docks. Rumors do not drive trade from the same busy town. Rumors do not make an honest man of the cloth fidget and fumble uneasily like Brother James before me.

"Bad. What sailors still come to port bring tales from every corner of the West Indies: pirates everywhere, the company nowhere to be seen, trade routes disrupted, ports sacked, general chaos."

"All because of the disappearance of one man?"

"Yes, Winnifred. Apparently ships and guns and men amount to nothing when there's no one to give the orders."

And I felt as if we were speaking of the devil, for the very man was under my care. Lord Cutler Beckett will be much interested when I bring this news back to him. Yet perhaps he already suspects what I will tell him?

Ten to one odds Lord Cutler Beckett has a better approximation of his own importance than I ever gave him. Last time I'll ever harbor even a speck of doubt when a half-drowned man shows up and tells me he's a lord.

We come upon the abbey all at once, a big brown door rising over us and a bulbous green-tinted brass knocker bearing down on our heads. Brother James reaches up and knocks three times. A small side door opens after a moment, and we duck inside the courtyard. Other monks mill around, and a couple young servants dart between them.

I do not think Brother James will be eager to resume his discussion of rumors within the abbey itself, so I switch tack. "Can I still get what I came here for? I need flour, salt, some rope, hooks…"

"Most of it," he says, visibly relieved to be on safer conversational ground. "We have the flour and salt you need, but you'll have to go into town and try your luck there for the other things."

"Glad it wasn't all for naught."

Brother James nods. "Are you hungry?"

"Starved." I have forgotten my stomach in the midst of conversation.

He leads me to a small room off the courtyard, most likely a receiving room, as women aren't allowed in the abbey proper. An apple, some cheese, and delightfully fresh bread are waiting for me on a table. I eagerly tuck in.

When I'm sated we raid the abbey's stores. Metaphorically. I'll be paying for what I take. We don't rush, giving me a chance to recover my strength for the return still ahead as he searches out flour and salt of quantities just enough to suit my needs. And more, even: his allotment is very generous. I know for a fact that in town my barrel of fish would have gotten me half what Brother James claims he will willingly trade.

Given the dearth of trade reputed to be had in port I'm grateful to the depths of the ocean for what he gives. Charity, perhaps, but who am I to argue against it willingly bestowed? I'm no less in need than the brothers are.

I'm eager to be getting to town to try my luck at finding my fishing tack. Brother James asks to walk me there- playing the gentleman- and I agree.

We leave the abbey by the same way we came in, but as soon as I'm outside I can tell something is not right. The quality of the air has changed imperceptibly. The light has a curious, filtered tone to it. Dread fills me, for this can only mean one thing. I drag my eyes to the sky to confirm it.

A heavy curse slips from my mouth. "Oh, no." I stare upwards like a condemned criminal stares at the hangman, and I say it again. "Oh, no."

Dark grey clouds block out the sun, making it seem dusk when only an hour ago it was daytime. A pallor shrouds everything. Already rain begins to dribble from the swollen clouds, and the ocean, distantly seen through palm trees, tosses white about on the waves.

Brother James knows, or at least thinks he knows, what this spells for me, and tries to offer his comfort. "Perhaps the storm will soon pass," he says, folding his hands into his sleeves uncomfortably.

Not bloody likely. I know storms. I know the weather of this island, for it is the weather of mine: and tropical squalls like this sometimes do not pass for three days, and in the meantime merely worsen.

It takes a split second for me to make my decision. By the time I make it I'm already running. "I have to go, Brother James!" I call over my shoulder as an afterthought.

"Winnifred! Winnifred, it's madness! Stay the night in town- the dogs will survive a night on their own, your supplies will not go bad in one day-" Brother James follows me to the mill as quickly as his age and his robes allow, imploring me to wait all the while.

I say nothing as my boots thunder onto the docks and I begin to wrestle with the knot of my skiff, already tightening with water. I squint up into the sky and wince as rain hits my eye. Every second is crucial, and gauging by the wind and the clouds, I have about an hour of rough seas ahead of me. Then, depending on the direction and intensity of the storm, the waves will get choppy. And after that…

Well. I won't think that far ahead. I might lose my nerve.

Instead I think of Beckett: Beckett, who is patiently waiting for me and eating his measly bread and papaya and water. Beckett, who is blind and who cannot walk, and who will starve if I do not return to the island this night. Perhaps three days will not be long enough for him to die of hunger, but then again, who knows what state his weak body is in? Who knows what ugly fate might befall him? Perhaps he will start to grow hungry, and do his best to stumble around the hut looking for food. Perhaps he will fall and be unable to get up. Or he will wander out the door and lose his way on the beach, and lay in the rain until the tide takes him under. Maybe the thirst will finish him instead. I imagine him lying in the sand, mouth open to the torrential rain, being surprised by a vicious wave. Any one of a hundred scenarios play through my mind as I hurry to cast off, and if I do not make it through the storm tonight, they will all be my fault.

Brother James is still trying to dissuade me. I hear him dimly in the background, but I pay him no heed. He cannot stop me now. Only the sea herself can do that.