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The governor's mansion sits on a hill above Port Royal like a silent, authoritative sentinel.

In her former life as lady of the house, Elizabeth had rarely appreciated just how high that hill could seem traveling on foot and not in a fine carriage, especially when one's movements are, out of necessity, furtive. Twilight saw Elizabeth, Tai Huang and a small group of pirates moving through town like shadows, and after their lengthy, tense climb, they arrive at the wall to the side of the house slightly out of breath, momentarily safe in the growing darkness. The herb garden on the other side smells achingly familiar. Elizabeth closes her eyes and breathes in the scent, then issues a sharp order and motions to her second in command.

Silently, the pair moves several paces to the left and scales the wall with the help of a tree and its low hanging branches. She'd often studied the tree and plotted how it might be of use; never had Elizabeth considered that she might one day use it to gain entry, not escape.

A large, dark and rectangular object is passed easily between them, as if they've practiced the maneuver, and Elizabeth presses it into her companion’s hands with a meaningful look before leading the way toward the house, the soft soles of her boots quiet on the garden path.

It's absurdly easy. A wave of resentment washes over Elizabeth at the need to sneak into her own home. She knows the schedule, knows the movements of the staff who still live here -- she presumes -- and there's an arrogant, angry tilt to her head as they approach the northwest corner of the house. Raising a hand to halt Tai Huang, she peers around a tall hedge; dying, she notes absently. "Wait here. I'll get what I need from the study first," she whispers, knowing they'll have better access to the second floor from another point of entry.

Someone is obviously in residence, judging by the number of lamps lit. Elizabeth ponders who that might be, while darting like a ghost along the side of the building to the wide double doors and the study beyond -- her father's study, or perhaps already the study of another Company agent. The thought bolsters her resolve as she slips into the room and crosses to the heavy desk. Allowing herself a quick glance at the remembered bookshelves, paintings and maps, Elizabeth quietly opens a desk drawer and begins searching for the first item she means to repossess.

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He nods once, solemnly, then crosses to the desk and picks up a single sheet of paper that had been partly hidden beneath a large ledger.

'From what I have been able to determine, Lord Beckett had more interest in keeping up a pretence of your father's return to England than in making any attempt to acquire his assets.' He makes a small gesture with the hand that is not holding the paper, indicating the room they stand in. 'This house is the property of the Crown, of course, but your father owned land on the island in his own right. There is also the income from various holdings and investments in England -- none of which, I hasten to add, appear to be in Company stock -- as well as the money from his most recent yearly salary and from accumulated savings.'

He moves away from the desk, and holds the slip of paper out to Elizabeth. 'I took the liberty of performing some rough calculations. The current amount is circled, and the expected annual income underscored. You are of course welcome to examine the necessary documents yourself, should you wish to check my figures.'

On the paper are two neat columns of figures written in a precise and professional hand. A sum has been circled at the bottom of one column and a second, smaller sum has been underlined twice at the bottom of the other. Royal governors are paid well, and Weatherby Swann was always careful with his finances...but even so, the figures might be higher than Elizabeth ever expected.

Much higher, considering Elizabeth hadn't hoped to claim much of any inheritance at all.

Holding his gaze, she takes the paper and presses her other palm to her stomach. It's daunting to think about this when there's still a concern over the warrant for her arrest, and a long moment passes before she looks down, coolly assessing the indicated sums.

Sadness is to be expected. What Elizabeth isn't prepared for is the accompanying sense of freedom, a rush equal to captaining her own ship, which makes her next question all the more difficult.

"No, I'm satisfied with your calculations. Commodore," she says slowly, unable to tear her eyes away from his figures, "is there a reason I would not be able to draw upon this?"

She pauses, forcing herself to look up.

"Beckett came to Port Royal with a warrant for my arrest."

'Ah, yes. The warrants.' Said with only a faint emphasis on the plural form. 'I came across the records in London, shortly before I sailed.'

Carefully, so as not to prompt any sudden reaction on her part, he reaches into his uniform coat and produces what appears to be a folded and sealed piece of thick parchment. Yet once the document is in his hand he deftly fans it out, revealing that the single piece of parchment is actually three separately sealed documents.

He selects one of the documents, studying it for a moment before looking back up at Elizabeth.

'It requires no other signature or seal,' he says, holding it out to her. 'Though I will confirm in writing that it has reached its intended recipient.'

A royal pardon, for all of the power and majesty attached to it, is a somewhat unimpressive document when seen up close. No fancy border, no grand lettering, no choice use of fine inks. But the overall appearance is far less important than the official wafer seal (unable to be tampered with), and the looping signature of George III at the bottom -- and, of course, the name Elizabeth Swann written on the parchment in a clerk's clear hand.

How strange to think that her life could be made forfeit and then not by such deceptively simple documents. Finger tracing the seal, Elizabeth swallows, nods and glances helplessly at the two remaining documents in his hand.

This might yet be news, and she plans to approach the subject of Will with caution. Even so, emotion flickers across her face.

"James Norrington and Will Turner?" One eyebrow arches in question, though it's a natural assumption. "I regret that they will not be able to collect theirs," she tells him in an even tone, like she's declining an invitation to a party. "James was killed. And my husband-"

Undecided as to what to say, she thins her lips and looks down, eyes grazing over the surface of the desk.

'I heard of James Norrington's death.' Again, regret is audible in his voice, however quietly he may speak. 'A posthumous pardon will neither bring him back nor avenge the wrongs wrought upon him, but I hope that in some small way it will restore his honour in the eyes of the world.'

He places one folded bit of parchment on the desk, beside the ledger he had moved a few moments ago. The other piece of parchment remains in his hand as he moves away from the desk, crossing the room to stand by the door that leads out to the gardens.

'As for your husband, Mrs Turner....' A pause, before he continues. 'Well, I shall leave it up to you to decide how much you believe I ought to know. Though I should mention, before you come to a decision, that I am willing to be as forthright with you as you are with me.'

And as if to punctuate his statement, the unlit candle on the governor's desk flares with sudden light, a little flame that burns with the same unwavering fire as its nearby twin. No match or tinder is in sight -- and neither Elizabeth nor the commodore happens to be standing near enough to the candles to light them.

Several years ago, the sudden illumination might have given Elizabeth a bad start or provoked a startled cry. Now, however, having grown used to occurrences she once thought impossible, the flame is met with an interested -- if surprised -- look while she quickly weighs her options.

The tale of Davy Jones and Beckett's deaths will carry far and wide, of that she is certain, and the identity of the man now captaining the Dutchman will hardly be kept secret. For all she knows, the Commodore is already aware of Will's fate; he seems well-informed.

"If you stab the heart, yours must take its place. The Dutchman must have a captain," is all she says, gravely echoing several of her father's last words. "How did you light the candles?"

'Magic,' he replies simply, as if it is the only reasonable explanation. 'Though not magic of the kind that ensures that the Dutchman will always have a captain. Mine happens to be particular to who I am.'

He turns round to face her, standing with his back to the open door. 'I suspected that something had happened regarding the Dutchman, but I did not know that an actual transfer of command had taken place. Your husband is now her captain, then?'

Elizabeth confirms it with a nod. The numbness in which she'd gladly taken refuge and the affected detachment she'd shown her crew begin to flake away like rust, leaving an open wound and unwelcome thoughts of ten years alone.

"We'd just been married. Will swung across to the Dutchman -- I think he still hoped to save his father -- and Davy Jones stabbed him. He was dying-" A quick glance over Merriman's shoulder, and Elizabeth, unhappily aware that the minutes are ticking by, wonders how much longer Tai Huang will wait. It's a risk she'll have to take, as she is unwilling to end this conversation just yet. "Jack meant to stab the heart himself. Instead, he helped Will do it."

With great care, she folds both financial statement and pardon, and slips them between her shirt and wrapped jacket, tied firmly at her waist.

"And who are you, then, Commodore Lyon?" she asks, returning to the former subject with a haste that likely betrays her continued wariness. "Don't say an ancient god bound in human form. I've had quite enough of that for a while."

There's a smile, but it's small and brittle.

Commodore Lyon listens attentively as she speaks. One corner of his mouth twitches when she mentions Jack Sparrow, but that is his only visible reaction until she finishes speaking...when, at her question and statement, he lets out a low huff of breath.

'Nothing quite so theatrical as that.' He gives Elizabeth a formal little bow, as if newly introducing himself to her. 'I am merely an officer of the East India Company, who also happens to be the first and oldest of a race of immortals -- Old Ones, as we call ourselves. And in that capacity, I have very definite interest in ensuring that the future as I know it will come to pass.'

He takes a few steps towards her, and as he comes closer to the candlelight the bright glitter in his gaze seems to have an ancient and yet somehow ageless radiance. Cold and judgmental, perhaps, but it is clear enough that Elizabeth Turner has not been found wanting.

'There is a good deal more to it, of course,' he adds as he holds out her husband's official pardon, 'but you are no doubt pressed for time.'

Mesmerized, Elizabeth doesn't blink and fails to breathe until she manages, "The future as you know it?"

Her large, dark eyes are bright with interest. She rests her fingers on the document, but does not yet take it from his hand.

"My man is outside, and currently in possession of something very dear to me," she reveals, voice low, suspecting he is at least peripherally aware of this. "I would not want him to think I've been forcibly delayed."

Slowly, she takes the pardon and lifts her chin.

"Nor do I wish to depart at this moment. There are things I wish to collect." A shrewd glance. "And things yet to say, perhaps."

'Without divulging the complete details, it may interest you to know that the Honourable East India Company will soon lose a great deal of the autonomy that allowed individuals like the late Lord Beckett to operate with impunity, outside the control of the Crown.' The thought prompts a hint of a smile, though his gaze has slid out of focus, fixed somewhere in the middle distance on something only he can see. 'And that loss of autonomy will play a crucial part in events to come -- events which, in a manner of speaking, will turn the world upside-down.'

He clasps his hands behind him once again, and the change in posture brings his gaze back into the present and restores his brisk, professional manner: Acting Governor Lyon addressing a matter of official business.

'Once you have spoken to your man, you may have the leave of the house and as much time as you need to collect that which is yours. Your rooms were searched at some point in the past few months, and not with the most care for your possessions. To the best of my knowledge, nothing was taken, and they have not been disturbed since I have been here. For that matter, you may of course look around and see if there is anything else here that you would not wish to leave behind for my eventual successor -- anything that belonged to your father, for instance.'

He's keenly aware that Elizabeth is in an awkward position here, as an uninvited guest in the house that had once been her home. And so his tone is a little less professional and a little more cordial as he adds:

'I was wondering, perhaps, if you might do me the honour of dining with me this evening? The staff know that I am accustomed to keeping odd hours, and a late supper is simple enough to arrange.'

"It interests me very much," she tells him, expression solemn as his mention of a world turned upside down brings to mind her return from the Locker.

He's given her much to think about, but it's more than that. It's more than information or peace of mind, or even the time to retrieve her things.

Gaze wandering, Elizabeth takes in the wood paneling and comfortable furnishings in the warm, classic colors and patterns her father had preferred. There's the chair where she would sometimes read while her father conducted his correspondence, and there's the freestanding globe he'd often used to illustrate his stories or their discussions of current events. Mounted on the wall is her grandfather's sword, not far from a modest portrait of her mother's profile. All around are the books and maps her father had collected in his lifetime.

Merriman Lyon has given her much to think about, yes, but he's also offered her the chance to say goodbye.

"I will," Elizabeth answers at last. "If you'll allow me to direct my men" -and there's a faint smile at the plural- "to the kitchen?"

Without waiting for an answer, she starts out the garden door, but hesitates long enough to add: "You've been kind to me, Commodore, when you needn't have been. Thank you."

'Any small kindness I am able to do goes some way towards setting things right, Mrs Turner.' He inclines his head to her. 'It is the least that I can do.'

Once she has left the room, moving silently over the grounds, he crosses to the desk and picks up James Norrington's pardon. He traces the royal seal with the tip of his finger, then slips the folded parchment back into his coat.

Murmured quietly, to himself:

'The very least that I can do.'

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