Late "Christmas" fic is late.

[life_of_amesu]

Just like the snow up here.

It's not finished, hopefully I will finish it. Along with the fountain of youth fic thingie.

Title: Jurassic Hall Red Rose Hall. 1/?
Characters: Norrington, Beckett, Mercer, Barbossa, Elizabeth, and Gov. Swann.
Pairings: Meh, none really. Implied Meckett if you want it. If you don't want it it's just Mercer and Beckett bickering like an old, drunk, married couple.
Rating: PG maybe PG13.
Summary: The above mentioned characters are back in England heading to the old Norrington manor house in order to retrieve a much needed map. While there they get snowed in and strange things begin to happen. Oh, and Mercer and Beckett spend most of their time there helping themselves to Norrington's extensive liquor collection.
Notes: It's really just my excuse to write Mercer and Beckett drunk. And taking the piss out of everyone. Also, I know cheese on toast didn't exist back then, or most likely didn't exist, but I don't really give a flying fuck now do I?
It's Disney - historical accuracy died a slow painful death years ago.
Also. Puns. So. Many. Puns. All the puns!



There is a forest they are riding alongside. It's night, he can see his breath, frost is forming on the ground. There is a forest next to them, looming darkness and shadows. He shifts in his saddle, pulls cloak around himself but the chill is eating away at his skin. His lips feel thick, his jaw hurts and he knows if he tries to speak he will slur his words as his mouth refuses to work. The forest next to them seems darker, seems thicker, oozing the black of this winter night over them. It hits him, the contrast, here and Jamaica, here and Tortuga, here and everything that is the Caribbean. Here there is cold, there is frost, he can smell snow in the air, it is a wicked sharp humidity that seeps past wool and fleece. Here it is a sterile night, there is no noise, no crickets, lizards, animals crying out in a midnight thrall. Here it is cold. It is silent. There will be snow, and it will be thick and deep and beautifully pure white.

His master rides ahead of him, white horse blending into white ground. They seem to connect, he and his master, so the younger turns around as he trots up. Master is pale like England and he, himself, is dark like England. Sometimes, when he can't sleep, he thinks that they look like England. Opposite halves of the same damned, bloody, country. His master, whom he thinks of as Sir, looks at him, seems to guess something and shakes his head. 'No,' he says. Oxford accent. It's crisp, sharp, and his vowels are something to behold. 'If you give me one more blasted fable from your blasted northern family I'm going to hit you.'

'I wasn't going to give you a blasted fable from my blasted northern family, sir. I was merely going to offer you my coat.'

Sir laughs, it gets caught in his throat so he coughs instead. There are three more men ahead of them: Norrington, Governor Swann, and Barbossa. A woman, Elizabeth Swann, rides behind. It is a silent ride, across the midlands. Silent and still and dark and there is this forest next to them. And yes, yes it reminds him of stories from his family, yes it reminds him of things that are best left on their own (a lesson Sir has never learned and never will learn, no matter how hard he tries to teach it to the younger one), and yes, yes, it was the only thing really that could instil anything close to fear in him. The dark. He had told Sir once, when you're in the dark you are alone.

They arrive at Red Rose Hall, the young Admiral Norrington says, 'Please excuse the name, my ancestors enjoyed the dramatic.' The bare minimum of staff are present and only two appear to great the guests, take coats and hats, and offer excuses of - we didn't know Master James would be here. If we had known, sir, if we had known...

'It's of no matter,' Norrington brushes it off. 'We are only here for one night. Please, see that rooms are made up for my guests.'

The butler and maid bow. There is a quick glance about the group and Beckett could feel their analysis of each member. They linger the longest on Barbossa, the only one of the present pirates who still has the appearance of a pirate. Miss Swann, he had noted, at least had the presence of mind to change in London.

'We can have supper ready in an hour,' the butler says. He gives another bow before disappearing down the hall.

Norrington leads them through the entrance hall into a long corridor, 'I'll give a quick tour, though my apologies that the house isn't open. It's ah, it's quite something when it is. We're in the statue gallery at the moment. My great grand father was an art collector.' They moved through, peering at looming shapes and twisted marble forms. Occasionally Governor Swann ooed or ahed, gave a pointed look at his daughter, and moved on. 'We'll take drinks in the music room, it'll be the warmest room once we have a fire going.'

The walls are a dark green with uncovered wooden floors. The green was appalling and the wood too light for the room. Around the room hung various paintings, mostly seventeenth century and of mediocre quality. The servants had been in to dust and put the furniture in order. Elizabeth took a seat with a sigh, finally feeling some sensations flood back into her fingers and legs. The rest of the group sits with equal exhaustion and relief, admiring the room, the fire, and the warm drinks being poured for them. Norrington explains that he only has bitters, scotch (of dubious ancestry), and gin. Mercer opts for gin and Beckett tells him to stop making the liquor his primary diet.

'I can't very well drink the water in London, now can I, sir?'

'We're not in London, Mr. Mercer.'

'Don't matter much.'

There is a brief glare between the two before Beckett sighs, asks the name of the scotch, hears it, and opts for the gin as well.

They sit in silence, the six of them. Even the fire appears to have gone mum. At one point the governor doses off in his chair before Mercer kicks him in the shin. He wakes with a start, spills his drink, tells Beckett to teach his pet monster manners. Beckett shrugs and says Mr Mercer is more entertaining when he misbehaves.

Then there is silence again. Barbossa grins, 'well, I say this is awkward, isn't it?'

The meal is a simple affair. A watery soup everyone declares delicious. Mercer leans in to Sir, 'I've tasted better in sweat shops'. The wine is poured and no one stands to make a toast, though the governor is the only one who seems to notice. Sir leans in to Mr Mercer, 'I'm sure the sweat shops had better wine, too.'

The meat and vegetables are soon brought in and choice pieces given to Miss Swann and her father. The rest is passed out in a half hazard manner to those remaining, with Norrington ensuring that Beckett received the worst piece. Or so Beckett is convinced as he nibbles on yet another bit of gristle. He mutters that it's unfair that his clerk receives a better piece than he does. Mr Mercer offers to trade. A belated fish arrives at the table, cut and served. Barbossa pokes it with his knife, frowns, leans across to Mercer.

'D'ye know fish this purports to be?'

The clerk shrugs, 'I was attempting to figure that out myself.' He takes a bite. 'Well, it's not alive.'

'I hope not.'

'Never been to Japan, then.'

The plates were soon removed and a desert tray appeared with preserves and tartlets. More wine was poured with promise of stronger spirits later.

'I think there is port in the library, I'll send Thompson to take a look.' Norrington explains as they slip from the dining room back to the music room. 'We might also have a bit of whiskey if anyone is interested.'

'Whiskey would be simply divine,' Barbossa leers with a mock bow. 'And after that I would like to see this map ye have. To satisfy me own curiosity, savvy?'

'Of course, I'll bring it down from the study.' Norrington made to leave but is caught by the pirate. Oh no, oh no, the little Admiral will take us all along, savvy? None of us here trust each other, we all want to make sure we're playing faire.

The library looks as all fine old libraries ought to look. Dark wooden panelling, old portraits of deceased relatives staring down, looming backs of old chairs. And shadows. And dust. And a creeping feeling of being watched. Beckett coughs as dust flies up when the map is spread out on the desk. It is beautiful vellum, well aged and no longer the once clear white. Norrington says, look if I hold it to the light you can see where the spine had been.

'Striation.' Beckett gives the word and sneezes. 'Now what good will this map do us in the Caribbean?'

'There are worlds within worlds. Sparrow says he wants to find the fountain of youth, it's on this map. Or my grandfather said it was. He said that you have to take the course of the dead, go to where they go, and then you will come to this place and here,' his finger lingers on one of the islands. 'Here is the fountain of youth.'

Elizabeth is looking at the map with care, she is fingering the old inscriptions in a handwriting she cannot make out. 'What does it say?' She asks. Norrington shrugs. He says he cannot read it, Latin most likely if one could make out the handwriting. It was made in the ninth century. Ordered by the Emperor Charlemagne on the even of his coronation. They say that the first words were written at midnight on eve of the birth of Christ. We keep it in the dark and away from the damp and the heat.

'We'll need to transport it carefully, especially back to Jamaica and only open it away from the sunlight. But, I think this will get us there.'

Barbossa finishes his drink, slams the glass on the table and says, 'so we bloody well traveled this far north to dirty England for this. It doesn't take six people to collect a map.'

Norrington shrugs, says half of them came along because they didn't trust each other, and the other half came because there was nothing better to do.

'I have plenty of things I could be doing in Jamaica,' Mercer clarifies. 'But apparently most of you don't want Sparrow dead.'

'Talk to me when we're back in the warm waters,' Barbossa says. 'But as it is, I'm knackered. I'll be seeing all of yer ugly faces in the morning.'

'We'll ride back tomorrow,' Norrington says. 'Catch a ship from London then make our way to Tortuga.'

The group disperses in the hallway, drifting through old walls and over old floors. There is wind picking up and outside it is snowing.

Mercer wakes and finds Sir crawling into the bed. He thinks it's certainly big enough for both, but this isn't like Sir. Sir likes to sleep alone. There is stillness in the night air. He can see shadows moving on the walls, tree branches blocking moonlight. They are gnarled and grasping, reaching into the safety of the room.

'Couldn't sleep, too cold.' It's a muffled excuse. He feels Sir shift closer. 'Easier to keep warm if there are two people sharing a cover.'

'Sir,' he acknowledges, moves to look at the younger man. There are dapples of grey covering both their faces. Mercer had tried to close the curtains but they had not budged and so he had left them. Now he wishes he hadn't, he wishes he didn't see Sir's expression. It's an expression he has never seen before and never wants to see again. It's something like fear.

'Your face,' Sir says suddenly. 'It was once perfect symmetry.' He pauses. He is looking for something and Mercer can do well enough at holding his master's gaze. 'I prefer it this way.'

'Whatt, sir? Broken symmetry?'

'More fitting.' He shifts closer, it's warmer this way. There is a choked laugh as he says, 'it wouldn't do for my pet monster to have a pretty face. Don't you think?' He hums a bit, he is tasting the words Mercer can tell. The older man remains still and watching. Sir has darkish eyes at night, they remind him of himself. 'Pet. It's funny, I've never thought of you as such though it's an apt description. Christ you can hold a poker face.'

'You're drunk, Sir.'

'Maybe. It's irrelevant, either way.' Sir pets Mercer's hair, says that he ought to come up with a pet name for him. 'Mr Mercer' just isn't cute enough. 'Do you even have a Christian name?'

'Could do.'

'Fine, play that game.' A huff, Sir settles back down under the sheets. 'I cannot wait to leave tomorrow. I don't much care for this house.'

Mercer smiles into the darkness, Sir looks confused. There are shadows moving across the walls. 'I don't much care for this place either, sir.'

Breakfast is a tense affaire. Elizabeth can almost feel the sparks in the air, ready for the slightest hint to flare into something big. There are fried eggs on her plate, a depressed tomato and soupy mushrooms. She looks across the table to her father who shrugs in resignation.

'Is this blood pudding?' He asks as he pokes a lump of something black on his plate. Norrington blinks, looks at the black mass on his plate for the first time and shrugs. Beckett ignores them. Barbossa just laughs and Mr Mercer says 'I hope so.' And eats it.

Snow is piled up against windows and one of the maids steps in to whisper something to Norrington. He nods, sends her off, says another pot of tea would be lovely. Beckett suppresses a shiver as he nibbles at the toast. There are preserves in front of him but Mercer said he wouldn't touch them.

'I think they've fermented, sir,' he murmurs. Beckett scowls, well that's just lovely. 'Didn't know jams could ferment.'

'They theoretically don't have time to. Tell me, Admiral,' the lord smiles as Norrington winces. 'When was the last time anyone stayed here for any length of time?'

'We came when I was young, but I haven't been here in over twenty years.'

'Quite.' Beckett pauses, butters another piece of toast. 'When are we leaving today?'

There are glances to the window, to the Admiral, to the two members of staff present. Norrington manages to look annoyed and says, About that. We're a bit snowed in.

'Not to quibble, Admiral,' Beckett all but purrs. 'But one cannot be a 'bit' snowed in. Either we are snowed in or we aren't.'

Norrington blinks, turns to the governor and says with an Irish whisper, God I hate that man.

Barbossa and Norrington disappear after breakfast to the music room to play cards and get drunk. 'Not much else to do,' the younger man had said with a sheepish look towards the disapproving governor. Elizabeth soon followed them and Beckett was contemplating the choice between whiskey or gin.

'Apparently there's a life time supply of the stuff in the cellar,' he says to Mr Mercer who nods. 'Gin, that is. Lord only knows why.'

'It's all right, sir. I don't understand your aversion, personally.'

'Yes, well. I suppose I don't enjoy drinking pine trees.' They're wandering up halls and around corners, chasing away shadows with dim candles. The governor is trailing behind and Beckett wants to tell him to shove off, that he wants to be alone and yes having Mr Mercer around still counts as being alone. Instead he let's it go, there are windows on the first floor and he is amazed to see that the snow has reached all the way to them. It's going to be a while, he knows. Best keep on good terms with at least a few of the people present. 'Besides, I always get the worst headaches from it.'

'Fir enough, sir.'

'Oh lord, don't start that.'

'Wot, sir?'

'Punning.'

'Wouldn't be me, sir. Why wood you suggest it?'

'Times when I wonder why I don't fire you.'

'I may be going out on a limb, sir, but I think you like it.'

Behind them Swann is laughing, softly. He says that they're quite good, that he would ash fir more if the lord didn't object. Beckett stops, turns around and scowls. No. Not you. Mr Mercer I can tolerate. But you, no. Swann is about to say something, he is rallying himself, pulling up his height but then there is a breeze. They stop, the candles are out and Mercer frowns, funny that, sir. Windows aren't open.

Something brushes past Beckett's neck. He freezes, not sure if it was skin or fur or feathers. His mind, stupidly, thinks - oh, you could have made a pun. From the dim, barely there light of the sun, he can see Mercer. The expression on the older man's face is one of uncertainty. Right, Beckett remembers. I have an assassin who is afraid of the dark.

Governor Swann moves closer, his shoes tap on the tiles. 'Did someone just breath on my back.'

They both shake their heads, no. At least, it wasn't us.

Mercer shifts closer to Beckett, his eyes searching shadows but not seeing anything. 'There's something out there,' he mutters, 'I can see shadows in the shadows.'

'What is doing?'

'Can't say for sure, sir, but I think we're being hunted.'

There is a harsh whispered 'oh my sweet Jesus' from the governor. Then a breeze. Then whispers against cheeks, back of necks, over the palm of hands. Beckett's mind is screaming - do something, do something, do something. But his body is frozen. Somehow a part of him is rationalising the frozen movement saying - maybe if I don't move, it won't see me.

'Right,' Mercer is clutching his hand, yanking him back into the present. The older man's voice is a whisper, soft and against his ear. Warmer, than the other whispers. More human in the way that they weren't. 'When I say to, we're going to run back to the music room. Run like the hounds of hell are behind you.' He is looking around them, avid and eager. Beckett remembers that this is a man who has always enjoyed the hunt, regardless of what end of the metaphorical gun he is on. 'Do you know the basic rule of survival, sir?'

'Stick it with the pointy end?'

'No, the other one.'

'Keep your powder dry?'

'The other one.'

'Respect the power before it goes out?'

'No.'

'I'm afraid you will have to tell me, Mr Mercer. Preferably before we die.'

'Key to survival, sir, is always being able to outrun at least one person.'

They both look to governor Swann. It takes him a moment to catch the other man's meaning and when he does they are already halfway down the hall.

Elizabeth sits with her back to the two men, her eyes are on the snow which is still falling. Half the window is covered but she can see, faintly in the distance, the tips of trees sticking out from the white sea. When she stares long enough she thinks she sees things moving. White on white.

'It's the same that happens at sea,' Barbossa explains when she mentions it. 'Ye stare at the horizon then ye begin ta think ye see things that aren't there. When that happens, they say the end is near. And, check.'

Norrington curses, moves a knight, says Fuck I'm too drunk for this. Barbossa laughs, moves his last pawn. Elizabeth stares out the window, the sun is weak and there are long shadows. Shadows that come from no where. She frowns, says, Hector come here please.

'What is it, princess?' The sneer she ignores, she points to the horizon.

'Look at the forest there, watch it for a few minutes, you'll see them.'

'See what?'

'I don't know, something.'

A moment passes and Norrington joins them, tipsily staring at the blurring trees. He says he doesn't see anything, turns and sits back down with a sigh. The pirate is frowning, he glances to Elizabeth then back to the trees. Then, there is a shift. A slithering darkness.

The door slams open and Beckett is almost tossed into the room quickly followed by his clerk who slams the door and shoves a chair under the handle.

'What in the-' Norrington growls.

'Something out there,' the lord pants. 'Was chasing us. I couldn't see it but I could feel it.'

Mercer says nothing. Just takes a blanket and shoves it against the crack in the door. He is shaking, Barbossa can see. Mr Mercer never shakes.

'Stop this,' the admiral is on his feet and remarkably sober. Beckett's reply is a glare. 'I'm not in the mood to have the piss taken out of me so you two can sod off. And second, we've barely been here for two days, cabin fever can't have set in yet.'

'Sets in quicker when you're around idiots.'

'Lord Beckett, I'd appreciate it, at least while under my roof, that you at least pretend to respect me.'

'Problem, wit' that,' Mercer says. 'I don't think this is your roof anymore.'

There is a laugh from Beckett, 'and here we go with ye olde stories.'

'Oh shove off, sir.'

'Would if I could, pet.'

'Gentlemen.' The group startles, turns to Elizabeth. 'Please. This is ridiculous. James is right, we're all just tired and cooped up with the wrong people. A walk would do us all good. And we can find my father since you seemed to have left him in your haste.'

Mercer and Beckett exchange looks, the lord shifts back towards his clerk. Their heads bow together for a moment before Beckett straightens, clears his throat, his eyes are distant and remind Elizabeth of old memories of England. 'About that, Miss Swann. We're not sure where he is.'

'Actually, we're not sure if he is.'

She frowns, uncertain, she thinks in the back of her mind - the clerk's smile reminds me of the wolf in a fairy tale I once heard.

In the colonies there are stories that the natives tell. There is one that comes from the north in short gasps and whispers and glancing looks. From the fragments one hears of a creature of the snow and night. It is alone, born alone, lives alone, hunts alone. And it is bound to the cold north ward wind, its eyes are the colour of the northern lights. I have never seen them, the northern lights. But the natives speak of them. Say if you walk north long enough you can see them and they will drive you mad with beauty and silence.

In the colonies winters are silent. They are long and hard and lonely. White on white on white with grey and black mingled in as sleeping trees and wary animals. But with all of that there is never a sound. The waling of winter winds. The breaking of ice, sharp and hard. Yet for all that it is silent. Silence drive men to madness. The beauty of it all drives men to madness.

These shards of whispers that the southern natives tell, they are stories told to them by northerners. They tell of a creature that stalks the snow at night. It preys on those who are foolish enough to venture out to hunt at night alone. It devours them, blood, flesh, bone, and marrow. When the creature finds you, it is dark, always dark, and the only light that can be seen are its northern-light eyes, its wolfish, cold smile.

The halls are cold and the five of them are chatting about everything and nothing. Barbossa is telling bawdy stories of his youth. Some with names they know, most with names they've never heard of. He says. 'I remember when I was a lad in Charleston. I saw a hanging, a pirate ye know. Old Blackbeard. Hanged till dead he was. Ye know, it was the first time I had seen those fancy scaffolds. With the traps.' His hand does the motion of a trap door dropping. 'First time I saw a man snap his neck that way.'

'Oh, we've had those in London for a while now,' Beckett is musing it more than saying it. He is staying close to Mercer. Elizabeth had heard him say, as they left the music room, that he was just tired. That he hadn't slept well. Mercer had said, it's all right, sir. I understand. 'Weren't you in the colonies, Mr Mercer?' It's an honest question.

'For a while, sir. Some years ago. Up in Massachusetts, in a town outside Boston.'

'Anything exciting happen?'

'A few hangings, though none so fancy as wot they had in Charleston. Small town, sir. Climb up the ladder and push them off. The usual way.'

'What were you doing there?'

'Business, sir. Then got a bit caught up. The trials were a right riot. People screaming, speaking in tongues, rolling all about, saying witches were possessing them. Bloody mad they all were.'

Norrington laughs and says - so you'll believe in Davy Jones but not witches?

'Davy Jones I've seen, Admiral.' The older man replies simply. 'I haven't seen a witch. Or not to my satisfaction. The way I see it, if the devil is truly helping them and giving them all these powers, why do they die wit' such ease?'

'Devil is the father of lies.'

'Never seen him, either.'

'You're not a sectarian are you?'

Mercer shrugs, says he never paid much mind to all of that. And oh, I think this is where our candles went out. They look about, eyes searching shadows, tracing over soft edges of furniture hiding away. There are layers of dust filling noses and lungs, coating over eyes. Elizabeth thinks - this house was once alive. I wonder why they've put it to sleep. It's beautiful.

'Governor Swann?' Norrington calls out. The air feels dense. 'Governor? Are you all right?'

'Father?'

There is no reply. There is darkness. There is snow outside and a setting sun. Barbossa frowns and says that it doesn't feel right.

'Father?' Elizabeth calls again. She walks a ways from the group, down the hall. Her candle flickers, flickers, blows out. Mercer notices it first, grabs Beckett's wrist and nods down to the black hall.

'Miss Swann?' There is no reply. 'Miss Swann?' It's a bit louder. The others notice her absence and Norrington is concerned for the first time in the evening.

'Elizabeth?' He calls.

'What is it? I'm fine.' Her voice is farther down the hall. 'Come on, it's not too bad. And I need to light my candle again.'

Mercer frowns, it doesn't feel right, Sir. He murmurs it to his master, head ducked against Beckett's. 'I think we best stay together.'

'Oh good lord, there's nothing there,' Norrington mutters as he walks ahead. Barbossa glances between the admiral's retreating back and the two men behind him.

'I'm staying with you two,' he decides. 'Are we going after them?'

A brief exchange of looks, Mercer shrugs. Beckett sighs, 'might as well.'

They walk, following Norrington, watching as the walls become a soft red with the dying sun. Ahead is Elizabeth standing by one of the windows, her dress is a light blue, her hair looks black, her skin a pale white but glowing red.

'Took you long enough,' she laughs as they cautiously approach. 'I swear you lot are the most fearful people I've ever met.'

'I'd like to point out, Miss Swann, that we still haven't found your father.' Beckett knows he sounds petulant, he decides he doesn't care.

'And I'd like to point out that I'm sure he just got lost and you two are both nitwits.'

Beckett shrugs, unaffected. Mercer, she thinks, needs to discover more facial expressions than the three he appears to know how to use. She mentions this and Beckett replies for him, Oh Mr Mercer knows plenty.

The group turns and heads down another hall, plunging back into the dust and shadows, away from the dying day. The arches above the doors have green men carved into the wood. Vines winding around the disembodied head, a noose of regrowth.

Barbossa hums a poem, Old, Old Jötunn, moves from the south, with the scathe of branches 'round his hair, his fair body 'twined about, and there shines from his sword, the three suns of Gods of the slain.

Occasionally there is a call for Governor Swann, or father, or Wetherby, or sir, or You Bumbling Oaf of a Governor. All that answered was silence. Silence and a creeping cold. Norrington says Christ, it's cold, shall we go back to the music room? He might be there, you know. Ships passing in the night.

The music room is empty when they return. There are covered dishes on the side board and a maid appears to say that if they wish they could eat in the dining hall. The admiral waves her away and says they'll look after themselves tonight, thank you. And, you haven't seen the governor have you? Older man, grey hair, fancy coat, a bit absent minded.

'No, m'lord, haven't seen him in at least six hours. Shall we send out a search for him, m'lord? Sometimes the house-' She shrugs. Looks elsewhere than Norrington's face.

'What about the house?'

'It's big, m'lord. Sometimes people get lost is all.'

The moon is glinting off snow and clouds drift softly away. Sir is walking along admiring the winter sky, he stops, Mercer pauses a short distance away. Sir is looking up and counting under his breath, he asks - Mr Mercer, how well do you know your stars?

'Not well, sir.'

The younger man gives a quarter-moon sliver of a smile. His face is pale, pale, pale white and Mercer wonders how he can keep that colour even after being in Jamaica. Sir's lips are a thin line, his face is round, his eyes some colour no one bothers to make note of. Or when they do it's inevitably wrong the next time they care to look.

'Did anyone think to check the governor's room, I wonder.' Sir is wandering off down the hall as he says it. Mercer watches for a space then trails after. He might have replied, he can't remember, and he knows Sir doesn't care. 'Did you share a bed as a boy?'

'Yes, sir. With my brother.'

'And how is your brother?'

'Dead, sir.'

'Shame.'

'Couldn't say, sir. Think he wanted to die by the end.'

Sir pauses in front of a door, he looks to Mercer. 'Is this it?' He knocks. There is sound from inside. A scraping of wood across the floor, something shuffling along.

'Who is it?' The governor calls from inside.

'Lord Beckett.'

Silence. Mercer can feel the governor contemplating his response. A minute passes and Sir is annoyed and about to leave when the door opens. 'Are you alone?'

'Yes, at least I think we are.'

'We? Who's with you?'

'Mr Mercer. You're alive.'

The door opens more and Mercer can see the older man is holding a poker. Stupid man, he thinks. Then unthinks it. The governor's clothes are shredded. Sir takes it all in but doesn't comment. Sir is polite that way. Too well bred, Mercer sometimes thinks.

'Whatever it was followed me,' Swann says with a shaky voice. His hands are unsteady and he keeps smoothing out the frays of his waistcoat. 'I got lost, came back here. Can they get under doors?'

Mercer shrugs, looks beyond the governor into his room. There are candles lining the walls. The man follows his gaze and gives a laugh and a shrug.

'Can't be too careful, eh?' He offers. Mercer is non-committal.

'I think there's more than one,' Sir says after a moment of thought. 'I'm pretty sure something followed us as well.'

'Could be, sir. Could be we were just over reacting as well.'

Sir owns this to be true, then adds that one can never be too careful, though. Bit difficult, he says. When you can't see the buggers, isn't it?

Sir leaves a candle burning on the bedside table. There is one on the desk as well. 'If they put out the lights doesn't that mean they don't like them?'

'Yes, sir. It also means they can put them out which makes it rather fruitless.' Mercer replies and Sir is burrowing down into the covers.

'It's too cold.'

'Shall I make a fire, sir? I think there's wood in the room.'

Sir shakes his head, no, no. Stay. It's warmer with two under the covers. Tell me, Mr Mercer, do you think it's real? Whatever it is we think we're seeing?

'Could be, sir. The governor's clothes were real enough.'

'True.' A beat. A pause. Sir's eyes are open and his face once again the painful uncertainty. Mercer wishes Sir would sleep elsewhere. He doesn't like seeing Sir at night, uncertain and afraid. He's never been good with that sort of situation. Or this sort, with Sir finding words and looking cold and distant but afraid all the same. 'What if it comes back whilst we're asleep?'

'I'll stay awake, sir.'

'All night?' The skepticism is evident. Mercer ignores it.

'All night.'

'What I have a problem with,' Mercer and Barbossa are sitting by a window in the music room. Norrington is asleep on the settee and governor Swann is looking worse for wear. Mercer looks around, finds Sir dozing with a book open in hand. Elizabeth is staring at the fire, occasionally dropping her gaze to the book in her lap but not reading. On the table is the map. It's open and he wonders what would happen if he stole it, grabbed Sir, then broke open a window and ran into the waist deep snow. Not get very far, was the answer.

'What d'ye 'ave a problem wit'?'

'This situation. I can handle undead sea-food creatures wit' still beating hearts in chests. I'm fine wit' skeleton pirate armies and lost chests of cursed gold. I can handle myself when fighting mermaids and Indians and pirates and dragons and whatever else is there. It's this inability to see what I'm facing.'

Barbossa nods, he downs his whiskey, pours himself another one. 'I know what ye mean. This whole business reeks of something fishy.'

'Sir clammed up last night. 'though I don't want to tuna this into something bigger than it is.'

There was a groan that sounded suspiciously like a 'No!' from the Sir in question. The pirate chuckled into his drink, I see ye both get on well.

'I like things I can stab, I think is what I'm getting at,' Mercer says it to the window more than Barbossa. 'I don't like it when it's invisible. When it could be behind you, or in a shadowed corner, under a chair, a desk. When you are alone in a room and it feels like something might be watching you and you don't know if it is or if it's just your mind playing tricks.'

Barbossa holds up a hand, shaking his head. Oh no, Oh no. 'I'm paranoid enough, don't need ye adding ta it.'

In the main hall there is a painting of Christ the redeemer. He is holding his cross and showing his wounds to the invisible audience. There is blood trickling from the five, trailing over limbs and pale flesh to finally fall into a cup sitting on the ground. Behind Him there is a carving of an Ancient performing a sacrifice. The bull's eyes are wild, its head is thrown back and mouth open with a silent braying scream. Blood is flowing from its wounds and into a carved up on a carved alter. Beside the Ancient is a satyr playing a double flute. There are vines and weeds growing up around the creature's feet. Behind the Christ and the Carving is a wild, untamed landscape. It looks cold, unforgiving, animalistic.

Governor Swann is surveying the painting with Norrington. They stand with candles in hand and an early morning light at their back. The older man says - it looks so barren, so wild. The countryside behind Him.

'We are doing our best to tame it, the land. Bring civilisation to those who do not have it.'

Governor Swann nods in agreement. There is silence as they stare at the painting and Christ's pale, dead eyes stare back. The satyr is laughing. The Ancient is smiling. The land scape is alive.

'Remind me again, Mr Mercer, why we are here.' Beckett is sprawled on the floor in front of the fire in the music room. Mercer is propped up against a leg of the settee, between them is an empty bottle of gin.

'Hmm...maps, sir.'

'Right. Um. Sparrow has that compass thingie. Use that shit.'

'Sir...we did? I think. Maybe. Barbarosa, barboa, the pirate knows.'

Beckett rolls to his side, frowns as the world spins. Mercer watches him with a bored expression.

'Thing is. I don't want to die. Mr Mercer I order you to not make me die.'

'I wasn't going to make you die, sir.'

'Wasn't saying you were. Was I? Fuck I'm drunk.'

'Yes.'

The door behind them opens, Mercer feels his head loll in the direction, eyes focusing on the empty hall.

'Sir, are we too drunk to run really fast to another room.'

Beckett sits up, blearily stares forward. His eyes are on the open door for a full minute before comprehension dawns. His head rolls to the side.

'This, this here, is why I don't get drunk in possessed houses.'

'I'll take that as a yes.'

The door to Elizabeth's room creaks open, a fraction, then another fraction, then another. She watches it, sitting on the bed with a fire poker in hand. The only memory she has of her mother is vague. It smells of lilacs and looks like a willow tree and feels cool but not cold. Her mother had said that a young lady always must be prepared for all possible situations. Elizabeth thinks that while her mother had meant something about handkerchiefs and perfume and hair pins, the general sense of the advise had been very good.

The hallway beyond the door is dark and she has only one candle in the room. She realises as she stares forward that she hasn't seen any staff in the past twelve hours. Maybe they know about this, she thinks. They must know. And maybe they know how to make it stop.

The door is all the way open. She tenses up, bracing for something though she doesn't know what. A part of her brain, sounding suspiciously like that clerk Lord Beckett has, is telling her that fire-pokers do little good against things you can't see.

A moment passes. The room feels warmer, too warm. The fire place is empty and all she wants to do is curl up under the covers because maybe if she can't see it whatever it is can't see her. It had always made her feel better, as a girl, to hide any and all limbs under the sheets when she was frightened of the dark. But now. Now she sits and sees nothing but swears to the angels above that there is something there in the room with her ohdeargod.

A shape moves, shifts forward, leans against the door. There are two of them. Shapes. A second then she glares.

'Next time don't bloody scare me,' she growls.

Beckett frowns. 'What do you mean, madam?'

'Don't open my door then hide.'

His clerk looks over to his lord then back to her. 'Think sir means, that is we didn't open the bloody door.' He stares at her. It's unnerving. She glares back. He says, 'you know fire pokers do little good against things you can't see.'

'Get out.'

Beckett shakes his head, slowly, blinking as he does it. 'No. No. Bad idea.'

'Are you drunk?'

'Maybe. A little.'

Mercer nods in agreement, he sways a bit, holding onto the door frame. 'That was mistake number one,' he says.

'And number two?'

'Not being able to find the kitchens to make cheese on toast. Oh. And evil ghost things.'

It's supper time and there's no food on the table. Norrington is grumbling under his breath and pulls the servant bell for a third time. Beckett is lounging, drinking some concoction Barbossa made from what was left in the liquor cabanet, and leaning against Mercer.

'Admiral, as a servant, I can safely vouch that repeatedly ringing the bells will not make anything happen faster. In fact it usually makes things slow down.'

Norrington glares at the clerk for a minute before giving the bell another defiant tug. They wait for another fifteen minutes before Barbossa says - bugger this all for a lark, I'm goin' ta go find the kitchens. Make meself somet'ing ta eat. Who's in?

Mercer pushes Beckett back into his chair and says he never did get his cheese on toast and wants it now. Beckett shrugs and declares his interest in seeing more than the five same rooms they've been in for the past two days.

'Besides, the servants might all be dead and we wouldn't know it. Mercer?'

'Sir?'

'Are you armed?'

A look.

'Yes, then. Very good.'

Another look.

'Oh stop looking at me like that.'

The look continues to look into the back of Beckett's head as they filed out after the pirate. A second later and those in the dinning room could hear faintly - if you don't stop looking at me like that I'm going to fire you. There is silence then - Not like I want to look at you, sir. You're just in front of me at the moment. Through it all Barbossa is laughing.