Captain Elizabeth Turner (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
try_corsets) wrote2007-08-30 04:34 pm
try_corsets) wrote2007-08-30 04:34 pm
(no subject)
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.
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.'