Prizes Over Discovery (III)
by Keiko Kirin

Stephen Maturin returned from the Royal College lecture in a pensive mood, brooding on tar-water and accepted forms of quackery. He met his landlady, who handed him his letters, saying, "And oh, doctor, your dear friend Captain Aubrey is here. I showed him upstairs, if you please, he looked so cold and starved." Stephen did not run up the stairs, but he took them two at a time in measured strides, and opening the door to his rooms he found Jack, sitting in Stephen's great copper tub in front of the fire, smoking a cigar and reading the Naval Chronicle. Padeen stood over him, pouring steaming water into the already steaming tub.

"Ah, Stephen, there you are," Jack greeted, smiling. "I hope you don't mind: I took the liberty," he said, indicating the tub with a sweep of his hand. The edge of the Naval Chronicle caught in the water, and he lifted it up with a softly muttered curse, shoving the cigar between his teeth as he tried to wring the water from the paper.

Stephen quietly dismissed Padeen, locked the door, pulled a chair next to the tub and sat down. He took the Naval Chronicle from Jack's hands, saying, "I heard you were in town. I was given to understand you were staying at your club." He spread the pages flat in front of the fire.

When he turned around Jack was watching him, his look so tender and open and amused that Stephen's slight annoyance ebbed. Jack said, "I arrived so late I stayed there overnight." He tossed the very last of the cigar into the hearth. "I didn't want to wake you."

Stephen imagined being woken up in the darkness by Jack climbing into his bed and kissing him, smelling of the fresh air of the journey. He sighed regretfully and watched wisps of steam rise from Jack's bare skin. "So you have seen fit to use my tub and my servant for your own ends, I see," he said with a smile.

"Yes..." Jack glanced thoughtfully at the closed door. "Padeen: does he know?"

"I have not asked him," Stephen replied, pulling the letters from his coat pocket and opening one.

"Oh," Jack said and, seemingly mollified, dunked his head in the water and scrubbed his hair. Stephen read through one letter and the next with half of his attention distracted, lazily watching Jack bathe and soak. Jack pulled his wet hair back and twisted it into a long, loose plait, and sank lower in the water.

"You are falling asleep," Stephen said.

"No," said Jack with his eyes closed and hands clasped over his breast.

Stephen worked loose the seal on his last letter, murmuring, "I should so like to see a whale one day." Jack opened one eye, squinted at him, but made no response. Stephen held up the letter and frowned at the code. It was not very sophisticated, and he had deciphered the first few sentences when Jack interrupted his thoughts by sitting upright, splashing water here and there.

"Be a good fellow and give me a shave, would you, dear? You are so handy with a blade." Jack rubbed the coarse whiskers on his cheeks and chin, looking at Stephen brightly. Stephen was about to refuse -- he should finish the coded letter, although the first lines had not indicated urgency -- but Jack's look was expectant, appreciative, and rather flirtatious. Stephen went to retrieve his razor and soap, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and knelt beside the tub. He put on his spectacles while Jack soaped his beard, then bent to the task.

Jack gazed at him as he carefully glided the blade over the curves, hard and soft, of Jack's chin. Jack moved and tilted his head in perfect anticipation of Stephen's strokes, and although Stephen could detect the hint of Jack's natural smile, Jack remained studiously still until Stephen lifted the blade away.

Stephen rinsed the razor in Jack's bath water and set it aside. He sat back on the floor and picked up the coded letter. Jack touched his cheeks. "Very well done. As smooth as a midshipman." He ran his fingers along and under his jaw. "Am I pretty?" he asked with teasing smile and a glint in his eyes.

Stephen lowered the letter and looked at him: his round face and jovial expression, his skin steamy moist and pink, the various scars Stephen had known from their births. His gaze and smile lazy and happy; his hair a gleaming braid of gold falling over his shoulder; his wet naked body filling the tub. "No, my dear, you are not," said Stephen. You are beautiful, he thought, but did not add.

"Ah, well," said Jack good-naturedly. "I suppose I am rather chewed and mauled, at that." He sank lower in the water with a contented sigh strongly reminiscent of one Stephen was intimately familiar with, under quite different circumstances. A bloom of warmth flushed Stephen's skin, and he lifted the letter in his hand. He had read no more than two lines before Jack rose in a cascade of water, stepped out of the tub, and picked up a towel Padeen had left. Drying himself off briskly he said, "The water is still quite warm, should you wish to bathe."

Stephen, openly watching him with no detachment whatsoever, pursed his lips. "No, indeed. A cold bath for me, if you please. And I may say," he added, dividing his attention between Jack getting dressed and the letter in his hand, "that if you will insist on this sybaritic soaking in a hot bath, a man of your constitution, you will bring on an apoplexy. It is a blessed wonder of the ages that you did not expire before my very eyes... Oh! My dear, we must go to the opera."

"The opera!" cried Jack through his shirt. It fell to his shoulders, and he frowned at Stephen. "Not tonight, dear Stephen, please."

Stephen rose from the floor, tossing the letter into the fire. He watched it burn and straightened his shirtsleeves and cuffs. "Tonight it must be. As you are so fond of saying, there is not a moment to lose." He put on his coat and went over to Jack, who was buttoning his waistcoat in a surly, obstinate manner. He tied Jack's neckcloth for him, and Jack touched his fingers, taking them and kissing them.

"But, you see," Jack said very low, looking into Stephen's eyes, "I had so hoped that tonight we would..." He did not finish the sentence, but his blush completed the thought.

Stephen kissed his brow and murmured, "Tonight we shall." At Jack's predatory look, he added, "After the opera. It will be diverting enough: I Due Baroni di Rocca Azzurra." He helped Jack with his coat and tied his hair, and patiently waited while Jack changed into silk stockings and rubbed his silver buckle shoes into a shine.

"Pretty at last, my love?" Stephen asked, straightening his own waistcoat.

"There are stains on your neckcloth, Stephen. Good God, is that blood?" Jack plucked at the cloth.

"It is only wine," Stephen protested, trying to recall if this was true. He allowed Jack to wrap him in a new one, and made only moderate complaints when, seized by a fit of corrupt authoritarian power, Jack insisted he change his waistcoat and coat as well.

"There," Jack said, buttoning Stephen's coat and smiling at him. "Quite presentable." He looked him over, slowly and appreciatively, and kissed his cheek and murmured in his ear, "Quite presentable indeed." Stephen, controlling his ridiculous flight of breath, handed Jack his hat and opened the door for him.

-----

The opera was pleasant and amusing. Jack found himself humming from time to time, until Stephen happened to bump him with his knee. At the touch of Stephen's leg against his, Jack's attention shattered, and he lapsed into thinking about Stephen's legs: their length, their shape, how very warm and strong they were, how they moved under Jack's hands. He was disturbed from his musings by Stephen saying, "That woman in the green -- how striking!" and handing Jack the glass. Jack directed it at the box, difficult to see into from his angle, and saw the lady's arm, then her bosom -- rather nice -- and at last her face, partially turned toward him. "Oh God," he muttered, lowering the glass.

Stephen took it from his fingers and resumed watching the lady, openly and boldly. Jack stared at the stage, wishing the performance to come to a hasty conclusion. It was not so hasty, however, and after a while, Stephen handed him the glass and said, "The man with her: a naval gentleman?"

Jack reluctantly looked into the box again, and saw the man: tall and narrow with his grey hair combed in the fashionable style. "That's Admiral Garrett," he said, surprised. But as he watched, he considered the couple, and found he was not very surprised at all. The lady turned toward him, laughing at something the Admiral was whispering in her ear, and Jack thrust the glass back into Stephen's hands.

"Who is Admiral Garrett, please? I have not heard his name before," Stephen said.

"He's a yellow admiral. Spent most of his time on the West Indies station."

Jack glanced at Stephen, whose attention was singularly directed at the box, and felt a sense of foreboding -- deepened when Stephen asked him, "Is he a wealthy man? Influential at the Admiralty?"

"No," Jack said, pausing. "I don't believe so. Although he does have money. A thumping great estate in the north somewhere, and some sort of plantation on Jamaica."

To Jack's great relief, Stephen refrained from asking further questions, and they enjoyed the conclusion of the opera in companionable quiet, although Jack's thoughts remained distracted. They spoke little during the walk home, both men taken up by their private reflections, and it was not until they had returned to Stephen's lodgings and were undressing in the bedroom that Stephen said, "Tell me more about Admiral Garrett, please. It is important."

"Stephen," Jack said wearily, sitting on the bed and unbuckling the knees of his breeches. "I know very well not to question you on these matters, but for all love, could you not have asked me plainly? Why did we have to go to the opera?"

Stephen folded his coat and waistcoat over a chair and untied his neckcloth. "I wished to observe him, and I wished to see his companion."

Stephen's voice was not cold, but it was impersonal, and it chilled Jack all the same. He watched Stephen strip from his clothes and wrap himself in a dressing gown before answering, "I met him when I was in the West Indies. He was captain of the Triumph, an ancient forty-four. I don't believe I spoke to the man but once or twice. He had had some great victories. Had taken two French frigates in a famous action." Jack paused to remove his breeches and stockings.

"And--?" prompted Stephen, sitting at the foot of the bed. "Your assessment of the man?"

"I hardly knew him," Jack said, but seeing Stephen's look of cross impatience, he continued, "But there was something. His officers. They were unhappy, miserable souls. I believe they hated him, but I don't know why. In truth, Stephen."

Stephen nodded, his manner remote. Jack looked away and down at his hands resting over the bedcovers. "What did you suspect to be the cause?" Stephen asked. "Or, if not suspect, what would you guess?"

"I am not sure. Cruelty, I suppose. He was known to be a friend of the cat. But his men did not seem oppressed, although to be sure, most of his men were brutes. I never heard rumours of mutinies; only his officers seemed to be suffering." Jack frowned, cast back into the seas of the West Indies station, sometimes bright and brilliant, sometimes dark and ominous. He was brought out of them by Stephen's hand on his shoulder, and Stephen's voice, quite changed now, soft and gentle: "Thank you, dear. I am sorry for asking, but I needed to know."

Jack nodded and brought Stephen's fingers to his lips. He pulled off his shirt and settled under the bedcovers. Stephen slid into bed next to him and blew out the candle. Jack sought him in the dark, and wrapped him in an embrace. Stephen kissed his brow and pulled the ribbon from his plait and combed his fingers through the waves of hair. "There is one more thing I must ask," he said, but his voice was still low and gentle. "Did you recognise his companion tonight?"

Jack sighed. "Mrs Keneally. Her husband was a lieutenant on the West Indies station, under Captain Cotes. He died of fever after a horrible wound. I never knew the fellow," he added, for he could sense Stephen's next question, which was: "But you knew his widow?"

"Yes. I knew her," Jack said, shifting uneasily. "In England. Before I ever met Sophie," he added, then, reflecting: "Before I ever met you, in fact." He fell silent, sinking in memories.

"She is a striking woman," Stephen observed. "Rather young for the admiral, but no doubt the admiral would disagree."

Jack frowned a little. "Rather old for the admiral, I should have said. He liked them young. Had five or six girls around the station, none of them above twenty. All blacks." The memory, clear as yesterday, rose up: Captain Garrett, as he was then, sitting on a verandah in Kingston with a black girl barely twelve on his lap. Jack shifted again, breaking the embrace to lie on his back.

Stephen caressed his arm and cheek and said, "Ah. Then perhaps his taste in European women is more mature." After a pause he added, "She did not appear to be very girlish at all. Quite the woman."

Jack took Stephen's hand and rubbed it, at war within himself, for he felt compelled to tell the rest of it, and yet it was such a blackguardly thing to do. "Stephen. Is this very important?"

"It is." Stephen's voice was very calm and serious, and convinced him of the necessity, though he was loath to do it.

"Then... I should never tell anyone but you of this, and even so, I hate that I should speak of it at all. When I knew Mrs Keneally -- when I was with her, if you understand my meaning, she..." Jack hesitated, feeling very low and very much a scrub. Stephen stroked his hair, and he calmed. "Well, you see, she wanted me to hold her and... I suppose the way of saying it is that she wanted me to act as if she were not willing. But she was, you must believe me. Most willing. I was that surprised, I don't mind telling you, and somewhat put out, which I suppose she saw, for she laughed, and it was like a game, really. Silly nonsense. But..."

"But you suspected that she had not intended it to be a game," Stephen said gently.

Jack sighed a relieved breath. "Exactly so." He took Stephen's hand and held it. "I blush to admit it, Stephen, but I never saw her after that. Though indeed, she did not send me any letters, either. I had not seen her at all until tonight, and then to see her with Garrett. Quite disturbing. Although, you know, they are as you might say two sides of the same cloth."

"Indeed," Stephen said, and was quiet for a while before he slid into Jack's arms and embraced him, resting his head on Jack's shoulder. Jack caressed him through the slippery silk of his dressing gown. "I am sorry for making you talk of such things, my dear," Stephen said. "I know it has pained you. And more than that, I am sorry for spoiling your plans for us tonight."

Jack hugged him close and smiled softly. "Why, as to that, I believe my plans will wait until the morning." He kissed Stephen's brow and closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

It was not quite morning when Stephen woke him up with a slow, deep kiss and a long, careful stroke of his hand down the length of Jack's body from head to thigh, and, when Jack raised his knee, from thigh to foot. It was dark yet, and Jack blindly reached for him, amused and aroused by each discovered touch: short soft hair; warm silk sliding over a bony shoulder; the straight point of his nose and his moist lips yielding and eager; and at last his body, firm and uncommon hot. Jack felt somewhat dizzy and intoxicated and very, very impatient. He read Stephen's mood from his kisses and touches, and it matched his own, and they joined fiercely and fast and with perfect shared joy. Jack was left breathless and pleasantly tired afterward, and smiled at the immediate remembrance of Stephen's dressing gown against his skin, its silk rubbing between his thighs. While Stephen slept, Jack watched the grey light of dawn spread into the room, and was content and happy, and yet with a small shadow of uneasiness, the foreboding he had felt at the opera.

-----

Stephen woke to the sight of Jack, dressed and in his boots, sitting on the edge of the bed and plaiting his hair, holding his ribbon between his teeth. His fingers worked swiftly and, indeed, more nimbly than Stephen would have supposed. When at last the braid was done, its tip touching Jack's back, he tied it off with the ribbon in a charmingly lopsided bow. Stephen smiled, still rather drowsy, and was unable to check his impulse: he grasped the plait and tugged it. Jack turned around, smiling and jolly, and kissed him with a, "Good morning, Stephen."

Stephen stretched, held him by the braid, and returned the kiss, somewhat slower. "I may be late tonight," he said. "Will you stay?"

Jack touched his fingertips to Stephen's throat, smiling softly. "Yes, if it ain't a bother. I have such a number of things to do. If you will be late, I'll dine at the club. I need to meet some fellows there."

His smile as he said this had a disingenuous quality, leading Stephen to come to some conclusions about the fellows Jack was meeting. Stephen sat up, saying, "If you need money, my dear..."

"Oh, no, no, no," cried Jack in a protesting voice which caused Stephen to increase his estimate of how much money Jack needed. "But I am very much obliged to you, Stephen."

While Stephen dressed, Jack went downstairs and charmed a prodigious breakfast out of the landlady so that when Stephen stepped into the parlour he found Jack sitting down at the small table which groaned under the weight of coffee, eggs, kippers, bacon, mutton chops, and toast. Jack briskly buttered a slice of toast and said, "I shall not mention it to Sophie, but it was rather shabby of you to put her best marmalade between that jar of toes and the two-headed unborn lamb. I only spotted it because I thought the toes were eyeballs." Stephen decided he was not yet awake enough to decipher the logic in this last statement, so with a passing tweak to Jack's plait, he joined him at breakfast and found his appetite to be unusually great, almost a rival to Jack's.

As he walked to his first appointment of the day in the sunny, cold morning, he reflected on the relationship of appetite to happiness, wondering if the balance could be calculated before it became unhealthy. It would require a different calculation for the individual, he decided, and he considered Jack's great appetites which, though often perilously close to overindulgence, were in the man a sign of health. He had seen Jack reduced in times past, and a sore and pitiful sight it had been. Jack's nature was one of indulgence and generosity -- to others as well as to himself.

This thought made Stephen slow his steps as he examined, with as much detachment as he could, this aspect of Jack's nature in relation to their carnal congress. At times he feared it was merely an indulgence on Jack's part -- a generous offering to Stephen. And yet, it did not appear so from Jack's eagerness and demonstrated satisfaction. But, Stephen wondered, might he be blinded to Jack's desires by his own? It was possible, he decided unhappily, and here all pretense of detachment left him: desire, lust, joy, tenderness and worry took its place.

The labours of the day overtook his thoughts, though ever on the edge of his awareness there lurked distraction, and in quiet, solitary moments he found himself musing on Jack: his jovial nature, his great appetite, his desires. And wondered that he had a place in them; though he did not doubt that he did, knowing of it touched a spot deep inside him -- a spot that not so long ago he had assumed to be withered and dried from pain and the thebaic dulling of pain.

After an early dinner with a learned colleague whose distillate of saxifrage and valerian appeared most promising, Stephen visited the residence of Sir Joseph Blaine, his friend and trusted patron within the naval intelligence service. Blaine had just finished his dinner and he poured two glasses of port as he invited Stephen into his snuggery. Stephen shared what he had learned of Admiral Garrett and Mrs Keneally, omitting the details so painfully entrusted to him by Jack; Blaine listened gravely.

"This is a very bad business," Sir Joseph said. " And damned awkward timing, too, if our news from the Continent is correct."

"Indeed," agreed Stephen, sipping his port. Sir Joseph begged his pardon to dash off a note, and while he wrote, Stephen rose and perused the assortment of lepidoptera and pornography on Sir Joseph's walls; Sir Joseph was an assiduous bachelor. One picture held his attention: in it a young woman in black crepe reclined on her bed, holding up her skirts while a short, bent man dressed as a physician pleasured her with his walking stick. The caption read, The Widow's Relief, and under it were the widow's words: "Oh, yes, doctor! I can feel the spirit of my husband now!" The face of the young woman bore a remarkable resemblance to Diana Villiers. The doctor, depicted as old, had a hooked nose and pointed chin -- details frequently used to caricature foreigners. Stephen stared at the face of the young widow, and a bilious anger overtook him so fearsomely that he shook with formless hatred when Sir Joseph unluckily asked his next question: "I do not suppose that your anonymous confidant could be impressed upon to renew his acquaintance with Mrs Keneally?"

Stephen turned and glared at the man, barely aware of the sharpness of his tone as he replied, "No, he would not; and even if he were willing, I would not impress such a vile prostitution of his friendship upon him. I wonder that you would ask it." As soon as the words were uttered, however, and he perceived Sir Joseph's surprised curiosity at them, Stephen's anger died as suddenly as it had been born, and he turned away, looking again at the picture. It was signed and dated by the artist in one corner; the picture was over twenty years old.

I am brought into storms by my own navigation, Stephen reflected, sinking into his chair and holding out his glass to Sir Joseph's offered bottle. He found that he was too embarrassed to make an apology, and was filled with great tenderness and respect for Sir Joseph, who made no reply or observation on his outburst, and continued their conversation with grace and ease and no trace of awkwardness. Stephen relaxed, and by the end of their meeting, as they both agreed to their grave and unhappy plan, he had almost forgotten the event.

The hour felt later than it was, so Stephen was somewhat surprised to enter his lodgings and hear voices from the back room. He did not catch what the serving girl had said, but he heard his landlady's response -- her voice was such that it might almost have been crafted by God to be heard from back rooms: "Oh, he is a foreign gentleman, I grant you, but most polite and ever so useful, you know, whenever there's anything wanting cutting. And if he keeps a crucifix, what of it? At least he is worshipful, even if his God ain't ours." Stephen smiled, sifting through his letters, and wondered just what God his landlady presumed Catholics to worship. The landlady went on: "But his friend, now! I won't hear a word against Captain Aubrey, you cross little witch. Such a fine, distinguished gentleman, and such a dear friend to our Doctor M. If you had a-seen the doctor, when he was brought so low -- a lady, I mark, or less than a lady if you ask me, for treating him so -- why, if you had a-seen him, and how Captain A brought him back to life, you wouldn't be rattling your tongue like that, young miss, and speaking things you have no wit about." Stephen started up the stairs, thinking that he should be upset to hear his miseries and fortunes spoken of so plainly and ignorantly, but the woman's indignation at "the lady" and praise of "Captain A" were so unqualified and confident that he could not help loving her a little. As he took the next step, her voice was slightly lower: "If they share a bed, well, it's common hospitality and nothing more than that -- they being such fine gentlemen -- so you can hold your vicious tongue in your head and I'll hear no more about it in this house... Oh, you stupid girl! You have ruined the broth. Here, let me show you again..."

At the top of the stairs, Stephen rested, clutching the railing and staring at the closed door to his rooms. We have been very blind and stupid, my love, he thought, and his whole body ached and sweated. He prayed Jack was still at his club; he could not face him now, feeling such despair. After an hour, he thought, or two, he would know what to say to him. With half of a bitter smile, he sent a blessing of thanks to Admiral Garrett, Mrs Keneally and Sir Joseph for gifting him with the opportunity for his salvation, as bothersome a task as it would be. It was remarkable, he reflected, how he had viewed it as an unwelcome chore which would take him away from England -- and Jack -- when he was inclined to stay close. Now for that very reason, he viewed the journey with something approaching an impatience to be underway.

He opened the door, fingers trembling ridiculously, and found the parlour empty, except for Padeen. His initial relief, however, faded as he stepped inside and noticed that Padeen was brushing Jack's coat. Stephen glanced at the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and behind it a candle's glow. Stephen's gaze clouded for a moment, his emotions impossible to name until he caught them and drew them forward in neat, distinct lines; unplaiting them. So composed, he opened his letters -- bills, nothing of consequence -- and spoke quietly to Padeen. Learned that Padeen had only a very vague idea of their relationship and was not troubled by it; indeed, it appeared that Padeen had formed the opinion that it was something natural among the English, especially seafarers. After he had dismissed Padeen for the evening and taken a glass of wine to retain his calm, he entered the bedroom.

Jack, large and solemn in the bed. In his shirt, and his hair spilling over the pillow. Fast asleep. An open book spread face-down next to his hand. Stephen went over and picked it up, expecting a tome of nautical arcana, and was surprised to see it was one from his own library: a description and account of Levantine birds, now grossly old but still quite accurate. Stephen closed the book, thinking sure, here was a powerful sedative, and looked at Jack. He set the book aside and sat on the bed next to him and without thinking he stroked Jack's hair back from his face. Jack woke up -- Stephen silently cursed both Jack's uncanny ability to fall asleep and wake up in immediate stages and his own lapse in remembering this -- and took his hand and gently pulled him forward. They kissed, and the words Stephen had prepared to say left him.

They kissed, and Jack was very gentle and uncommon silent, speaking as it were with his hands only: caressing Stephen's hair and cheeks and lips, unbuttoning his clothes and exposing him, layer by layer, until Stephen was naked before him. There was no fierce hunger or greed and there was no unquenchable fire -- just a slow tenderness and a warmth that filled Stephen entirely, travelling and directed by Jack's hands stroking his chest and legs and belly. Very softly touching the scar of Captain Howard's bullet and kissing it. Stephen clutched him and kissed him and was helpless against Jack's generous, gentle warmth and love and so was brought to completion.

Stephen lay in his arms afterward and imagined he felt the rocking of the ship around them: the dear old Surprise, of course; for Jack, she was always "the ship", and so for him as well. He imagined the creaks and groans of the wood, the scraping of the holystones, the bells and the shouts of the men; the swaying of the hammock and Jack snoring into his ear and the smell of Killick's coffee -- the discreet notice that they had a few minutes to wake and dress and so appear when the door opened, sitting away from each other. It had seemed so difficult at the time, and yet it was not; now it seemed frightfully simple, like picking up the book struggled over in childhood and finding it without art or complexity.

"I must go to Spain," Stephen said against Jack's cheek. He had prepared so many words, but found them all useless and deceptive; it was simpler to state the bare truth of the matter: the action and not his emotions.

Jack said nothing at first but embraced him closer. At last he asked quietly, "Over land?"

"No, not if it can be helped. I will begin the preparations for the journey tomorrow." He paused and added softly, "I will not see you until I return," and he believed this was not a falsehood, as long as he was able to return.

"Tosh," Jack said. "I'm going with you. And this is the damnedest and luckiest thing, you know, but today I met Tom Pullings, and he has been posted to an aviso for the Mediterranean. I'm sure he can fit us aboard discreetly. You know Tom: he won't ask any questions."

Stephen hardly knew how to respond, it was all so preposterous. "Jack, it is quite impossible." Impossible it was, and yet... The firmness and immediacy with which Jack had insisted on accompanying him stirred something inside Stephen: a deep longing for the impossible, for the reckless generosity Jack would give so freely and without hesitation.

"You are not going with me," said Stephen as decisively as he could. "Shall I stride into Spain with a yellow-haired portly Englishman and endeavour to hide in the shadows? But since you are so kind as to mention Mr Pullings, I should be obliged to you if you would arrange the boat."

Jack touched his chin and kissed him. "Hair can be disguised or hidden. I am not portly. And you will need me to steer you ashore if for nothing else."

"Jack--" He was silenced by another kiss. Tender and slow enough that Jack's insistence had begun to make sense; it sounded very reasonable. It was true enough: the journey to Spain looked less bleak and wearisome if Jack were with him.

"Besides, was you to get knocked on the head in Spain, and Sophie found out I knew about your going, my life would not be worth the ha'penny I have in my pocket. You may protest all you like, dear Stephen," he said in an irritating but endearing captain's tone of voice, "but the matter is quite settled." And kissed him again.

-----

Aboard the cramped aviso, they had seen much of Tom Pullings, who had done his best at the dinner table until Jack was compelled to assure him that they would do quite well with a little hard tack and cheese. He did not mean for them to eat good old Pullings out of his entire stock. They flew from the Channel, past Brest, past Finisterre, and after a brief stop at Gibraltar, entered the Mediterranean, sailing somewhat closer to Spain than would have been expected of an English boat. Stephen remained solemn, which Jack credited to the very dangerous journey they were undertaking, although in more honest moments, he admitted that his insistence on accompanying Stephen probably held some hand in it as well. But it was perfect nonsense. They both knew very well the sorts of things which happened to Stephen the minute he was out of Jack's care and among foreigners. Stephen could take care of himself -- damned handy with a sword and pistol -- but where one man against all those French dogs -- Spanish dogs, too -- might effect a daring and close escape, it was quite reasonable that two men could effect the same, with less peril to themselves. It seemed quite reasonable, although Jack found that he was unable to explain why to his satisfaction, and so had wisely kept this thought to himself, and had offered no reasoning to Stephen other than the forceful assumption that, in course, where Stephen went at great risk, Jack went as well.

It was not until they were alone in a tiny fishing boat, procured by Pullings from one of Stephen's contacts, and rowing for the shore in the dark night that Stephen's mood changed, becoming keener, his silence more purposeful. As they stepped onto the black and empty shore, Jack reflected that here Stephen was the captain, deciding the course, and the master as well, knowing the waters and how to navigate them. He took heart in this, and yet could not rid himself of his natural distrust of land, especially treacherous land such as this. They walked for hours, Jack following the sound of Stephen's cape and the slight creaking of the case he carried. Jack wore a dark cloak and a dark knit cap to hide his hair, and despite his assurances to Stephen about disguises, he felt faintly ridiculous. They stopped at a desolate, empty spot on high ground, and the wind had shifted a point to east, bringing a chill. Stephen sat on the ground next to a short, prickly tree, and produced a wedge of cheese from his waistcoat and offered it to Jack. As they shared the cheese and waited, for the first time on the journey Stephen took him into his confidence.

"Admiral Garrett is known to have murdered one of our Spanish friends," he said, speaking quite naturally as though there was no need for quiet and stealth. "I do not know why, nor was I able to find out before we left London. His contacts and associates have been watched, and nothing was found. Mrs Keneally, however, moves in some very dark circles indeed, and the connection may be there. Did you know she spent some time in a French brothel before her marriage?" he asked conversationally.

"I had no idea of it," said Jack, at once shaken but also feeling that this explained a great deal about the woman. "Never."

"I doubt Mr Keneally did, either," Stephen said, tucking the rest of the cheese into a pocket. "The vexing thing about it all is that our Spanish friend had a great deal of valuable information on the state of the resistance to Buonaparte, but was killed before this information could come to us. And of course, his untimely death, at the hand of a British naval officer, causes us some embarrassment, which is why I must come here. It is a very tiresome business, however. There are times when I envy you your free and easy life, my dear." He spoke this as an afterthought, sounding distracted, and Jack wondered if he meant it. His life did not seem very free and easy at all: bills; how to please a wife who was hard to please; the mean but indomitable spirit of his mother-in-law; his sorrow and regret at having to let Killick and Bonden go as he could not afford to keep them in his service; his great craving for another ship; his great uncertainty on how to live happily on land. He was about to mention this, politely, to Stephen when Stephen said, "Ah, here is Monsignor Albi now."

Jack did not actually see Monsignor Albi until the man -- only a shape and a hoarse thin voice speaking foreign in the dark -- had led them on another long and steep walk, up to a small and humble cottage, and followed them inside, lighting a lamp. Jack had imagined him to be very old and frail, and was surprised to see that he was not much older than himself and, though short, he seemed quite robust. He smiled kindly at Jack and resumed his conversation with Stephen as he bade them to sit down at his table. They spoke for a long time, at an almost unvarying tone, and Jack dozed, dimly aware that outside, the sun was rising.

His name woke him up: Monsignor Albi was speaking it, smiling at him. "Capitan Zhack Awbray," he said, and shook Jack's hand. "Zhovian mu-ens!" Jack, coming to his wakeful senses, blinked at Stephen, who was also smiling.

"It seems that our friend the Monsignor is an amateur astronomer, and is delighted to meet the author of the paper on Jovian moons he so recently enjoyed in translation."

"Why," said Jack, returning the Monsignor's happy grin. "Why, indeed!" And feeling awake and relaxed now, clearly among friends, he joined Stephen and the Monsignor in their breakfast of bread and cheese and watered wine. His happiness faded, however, when Stephen rose and put on his cape and hat, and took up the Monsignor's walking stick.

Stephen looked at him and stayed him from rising with a gentle touch to his shoulder. "I must go, and I must go alone. But you are quite safe here, with the blessing. If I am not returned by nightfall tomorrow, the Monsignor knows the way to the shore. He will take you, and our friends there will row you to the nearest English ship, if you give them this." He dropped a small purse, heavy with coin, into Jack's palm.

"Stephen--" Jack said, taking Stephen's hand and grasping it, the Monsignor momentarily forgotten. Stephen patted his hand, casually moving his gaze to the Monsignor and back, and Jack released him, saying, "Do be careful, old Stephen."

Stephen smiled at him and picked up his case. "I am always careful, my dear." With some parting words to the Monsignor, he left the cottage. Jack looked at Monsignor Albi, who had watched Stephen leave with a thoughtful, worried look. The Monsignor shared this look with Jack, who immediately loved and trusted him for it.

They spent the rest of the day and much of the evening attempting to communicate with each other. Monsignor Albi had much to say, it seemed, but almost all of it was in that queer sort of Spanish Stephen sometimes spoke. Jack abandoned English for French, but the poor fellow did not seem to follow this, either. Jack knew his Spanish was very poor, and most of it useless outside of a public house or bordello, so he politely listened to the Monsignor and drank his wine, picking up familiar-seeming words now and then. He was trying to make sense of "dog" and "candle" and "woman's behind," wondering with mild shock if the Monsignor had just told him a bawdy joke, when he recognised the Monsignor's way of saying, "Jovian moons." Jack sat forward, nodded his understanding, and waited. Monsignor Albi blinked and also waited. I am a-lee, Jack thought. He has asked me a question. But the good Monsignor, marking his consternation, got up, fumbled through a chest under the bed, and came back holding a crumpled sheaf of thin paper which he proudly presented to Jack. Jack laughed in delight, for here was his very own paper, looking somewhat disguised, it being in French.

He thought it odd that the man could read French but not understand it when plainly spoken, but it was of no matter. They could communicate using the paper, especially the diagrams, of which Jack was most proud. He noticed with some disgust that the French had reversed one of them, the dogs, and with great care he corrected it before Monsignor Albi's eyes, causing the Monsignor even greater delight. And so they passed a pleasant evening, pausing to dine on a very humble meal of bread, the rest of Stephen's cheese, limes, and wine. The Monsignor offered Jack the bed, but Jack, uncomfortably aware of how poor the man was, pretended not to understand his meaning and slept in the chair, using the other for his feet.

The following day did not pass so pleasantly. Jack awoke consumed with worry for Stephen, and although this made him feel uncommon womanish, he could not check himself. Monsignor Albi left him after breakfast -- a few slices of hard bread, no more -- with many signs and slow spoken words to bid Jack to stay at the cottage, which Jack had no notion of leaving. Alone, fearing his worries would overtake him, Jack set to work. It was a sad little home, to be sure, but some mending and some washing could not but help. The warped boards of the cupboard were easily bent back into shape with water from the well and strong hands; Jack had seen much worse on the Sophie, and even, forgive him, on the dear old Surprise. The holes in the pitiful coverlet were patched with scraps of old cloth and some rough thread Jack found in the cupboard. He swept the floor, filled the ewer with fresh well water, took apart two of the chairs and nailed them back together using the heel of his boot so that they sat straight now and did not wobble. Then, wearied by his labours, he fell asleep at the table.

When he woke, it was dark. He sat up, sweating, and fumbled for the lamp, although he needed no light to tell him he was completely alone; the lamp merely confirmed it. Stephen had told him to leave if he had not returned by this hour -- something Jack had not yet made up his mind to do -- but there was no Monsignor Albi to lead him to the shore. Jack went outside and walked over the empty, rocky ground, but could see no one on the path leading to the cottage. There was nothing for it; he must wait.

He waited until the morning, in a hard, black, awful night. He paced Monsignor Albi's cottage until the repetition of those same footsteps and those same walls threatened to drive him mad, then he went outside and paced the ground. There was a hint of cloying warmth to the wind which he despised in this mood. He wanted an icy Baltic breeze or an Atlantic gale to match his spirits. He stared at the blackness. He stared at the stars. He cursed the land -- treacherous, deceitful, cruel land -- and the Spanish and the French and Admiral Garrett and the Keneally whore and Buonaparte, and, having run out of curses, was on the cusp of cursing them all again when he heard the door of the cottage open. He was some few yards away and hurried down, noticing for the first time that the sun had risen. Monsignor Albi stood at the door, calling softly, "Capitan Awbray? Capitan?"

Stephen. On the Monsignor's bed, shivering and pale, horribly bruised. His eyelids fluttered and he spoke something which even the Monsignor could not understand. The Monsignor shook his head, helpless, and they stripped Stephen, looking for blood, cuts, and holes. They found bruises, any number of bruises, and a few bad scraping cuts: one of them oozed a thick, blackish trickle of blood when pressed. Stephen revived, took some very watery wine, and lay unnaturally docile and silent as they dressed and covered him.

"Take us to the shore," Jack said to the Monsignor, gesturing to make him understand. "I'll carry him." He took up the purse of coins and placed it in Monsignor Albi's hand and pointed at the door. The Monsignor shook his head, and refused in a long and agitated speech, and Jack perceived from his gestures and angry looks that even if Stephen had trusted their friends at the shore, the Monsignor did not. The purse was thrust into Jack's hand, and the Monsignor looked at Stephen with regretful pity.

This was not good enough. Jack, barely caring at the liberty he was taking, searched the Monsignor's chest and found a paper, one side of which was blank. He drew a rough map of Spain, using the Monsignor's crude pen, and made the Monsignor understand his question: where were they? Monsignor Albi understood and marked the location, and now hope bloomed in Jack -- hope and determination, although God knew, it would be a hard road, damned dangerous, and so close to France... He would not have given their odds at the club, no, he would not. But there was nothing for it. And so, with the Monsignor's blessing -- and with his best walking stick, a loaf of his bread, and a skin of his water -- just after nightfall Jack set out from the cottage, with Stephen unprotestingly delirious on his back, and bore for Cap Creus.

-----

Stephen was disturbed by many short, puzzling, unnatural dreams, and he tried to remember how large his last dose of laudanum had been. But he could not remember taking it. Nor could he remember being on a ship, but a ship it must be, for it rocked so. Although it was a curiously small ship, and he seemed to be riding it like a horse. At this point his wits failed him and he slipped deeper into the dark sleep which called for him, feeling a sharp pang of sadness that the smell accompanying his descent -- the last smell from this earth before the scents of paradise or purgatory -- should be that of Jack's sweat.

When he awoke, however, he was not in paradise nor in purgatory, but in his own castle; he recognised the falling roof timbers quite immediately. Many questions formed in his mind, but the answer appeared in bodily shape when Jack came into the room, apparently attempting to creep quietly, carrying a basin of water. He knelt beside the bed -- for now Stephen understood that he was in the guest bed, the one with no feet, and under the blue bedcovers -- and pressed a cloth of cool water to Stephen's forehead. Stephen watched him silently, with the oddest feeling that he was invisible, for Jack had not spoken or smiled or met his gaze. However, Jack's odd behaviour gave him the opportunity to observe more carefully, and he was unhappy with what he saw: Jack had lost weight, had not been sleeping well, and had gotten too much sun which had ripened the natural ruddiness of his forehead, cheeks, and nose. His hair was tied back in a sloppy knot of ribbon, its gold dulled by dust, dirt, and sweat. His clothes were stained. Lines of care and misery had etched his face.

Stephen lifted his hand -- found that it was difficult to do so -- and touched Jack's lips, bidding them to smile. Jack looked at him, startled, and cried, "Stephen! My God, I thought you were having another fit." He paused, leaning closer, and searched Stephen's face with narrowed eyes. "You aren't having a fit, are you?"

"No," said Stephen, smiling. "Though, indeed, I may be dreaming. Tell me: are we in fact in the castle? And have I really woken to find such a pretty sight, kneeling at my side and nursing me like a babe?"

The color deepened on Jack's face. "Yes, we are in your castle." He wrung the water out of the cloth, saying, "Oh, there is so much to tell you, I suppose. But it will wait, it will wait, ha ha. I am that pleased to see you awake again, and speaking normal, but you still look like you stepped from the grave, pardon me, so I should feel that much better if you'll rest a while."

Stephen touched Jack's cheek and said, "Sure, I will rest -- I long for it -- if you will do me two things: kiss me, and laugh again. They will set my mind to rest, though they be such foolish things."

Jack blinked at him, but kissed his lips and brow softly, and endeavoured to laugh, though it was but a poor echo. His smile was genuine, however, and it warmed Stephen into a pleasant drowsiness. He felt Jack pass the damp cloth over his brow again as he slipped into a peaceful sleep.

It was very true: they were in the castle. And from Jack's fragmentary and episodic narrative, Stephen learned that Monsignor Albi had not trusted Stephen's fishermen to take them to safety -- Stephen thought the good Monsignor was probably correct in this; that Jack, having discovered that they were but a few leagues from Cap Creus, had decided to carry Stephen to the castle to wait until Stephen should recover; that Jack had persevered in his plan even after discovering that they were many more leagues from Cap Creus than he had supposed; that after getting lost twice, and hiding them both in a foul little barn from some Spanish soldiers, Jack had at last found the castle by spotting and following a she-wolf.

"For I most particularly remembered your she-wolf, Stephen," he said, and Stephen did not mention that the mountains were full of she-wolves, and the she-wolf Jack remembered had probably been dead this age and more. Stephen fell into a deep consideration of the passage of time and unhappily concluded that whatever warning he could have taken back to London would arrive too late to be of use now.

Jack's account became even more abbreviated after reaching the castle: he rambled about finding a comfortable room and fresh water, and Stephen perceived that Jack was not hiding the truth, this was simply his recollection of it, for Jack's attentions at the time had been wholly devoted to Stephen's recovery. This touched Stephen, and moved him deeply, almost painfully, but he could show it only in the gentlest touch to Jack's hand. Jack understood him well, however, and kissed his hand and held it.

They were on the bed, Jack sitting next to Stephen, who was bundled under every cover Jack had been able to find and beat the bird and rat droppings out of to his satisfaction. The sun was setting, and the room was shadowy and deeply still. Jack rubbed his hand, and they were silent until the last of the light slipped from the room. "Oh, and I am so dreadfully sorry, Stephen," Jack said, "but I killed one of your sheep. I was so very starved, you know; the good Monsignor's bread had run out the day before. But I will make it last, down to the last stringy pieces, ha ha! And it made a fine broth -- the very stuff you supped tonight. I saved the poor thing's skin. I was not sure what you did with the skins, and it seemed sinful to cast it out. Such prodigious fine wool."

"As you were so kind to carry her master to his home, and nurse her master with her broth, I am certain the sheep forgives you, as does her master. As for the skin, it may fetch a few coins. Or we can sew it into sleeping-caps, to keep the evil wind from our heads."

Jack kept the evil wind from Stephen's head by holding him as he slept, and Stephen was lulled by the snoring in his ear. It seemed Jack had not been sharing his bed, but had slept in one of the other rooms, from some vague sense of propriety or notion of invitation due to it being Stephen's castle. Stephen could not understand the difference between his castle in Spain and his lodging rooms in England; nor could Jack, when pressed, and so he retrieved his belongings -- his cloak, a walking stick, and a water skin -- from the other room. Another day passed, and Stephen grew familiar, and then irritated, with Jack's regime of broth and water, broth and wine. He rebelled decisively by leaving the bed and going down into the kitchens and making his own broth.

He moved stiffly, from lack of movement. From his own inspection of his healing scratches and the blotches of his bruises, Stephen determined that his illness had been but a fever, but that his humours had returned to balance aided by Jack's well-intentioned but naturally unskilled nursing. Now he needed to regain his strength, for they could not remain here long. He borrowed Jack's walking stick while Jack was washing his clothes in the marble bath, and walked down to the village. He returned -- and the climb up was longer and harder than he recalled -- with bread, goat's milk, and two dead chickens, plucked. He was followed by some children, who hid behind rocks and trees and ran away when they saw where his path led -- the deserted castle was beyond their little world. He was too exhausted to eat the chicken Jack prepared very simply, and ate it cold the next day. After that, Jack insisted on walking with him.

They walked all over the castle, and up into the mountains, up to the stream, so close to the border that without speaking of it, they turned back and walked swiftly down. Jack endeavoured to learn what had happened to Stephen, but Stephen could tell him only the simplest facts of it: he had met the men he was to meet, and returning to Monsignor Albi's, he had fallen down a cruel slope, and had lain there until he was found and brought to the Monsignor. He could not remember who found him: this was the truth. He did not mention his suspicion that the men he had met had hit him on the head and pushed him down the slope and left him for dead. It was not important now: their Spanish allies had either deserted them completely or not, and if not, the reparation of their good relations would require more time and diplomacy than Stephen could accomplish on his own. The urgency of his mission here, the murder of their agent and London's hurried, agitated response seemed quite distant now, quite unreal.

Jack told him a little more about their journey north, describing how he had gotten lost, and one day, as they sat above the castle on a rough, rocky slope, he said, "But I am surprised you remember nothing of it. Do you not remember the old woman who set us on the right path? She was sitting by the road, and I thought she was dead, poor soul, but she woke up and begged for coins, and then you spoke to her for some time in that strange Spanish tongue. I thought you were asking for directions."

Stephen remembered a vivid dream of conversing with an old crone, discussing the ways they would celebrate Buonaparte's defeat and Catalonia's independence. He frowned and shook his head. "I despair to think of what else I may have said, and to whom, on this fantastical journey."

Jack chuckled. "Why, as to that, you spoke only to me, and most of it I could not understand, you know. The only English you spoke was in your first night in the castle when you called one of the sheep 'a horrible old lecher with disgusting prints on his walls', and demanded to know who the artist was. You were quite out of your wits, my poor old Stephen." He wrapped his arms around Stephen and held him, and Stephen rested against Jack's chest. He plucked a long stem from the rough grass and tickled Jack's chin with it, lazily watching the path to the castle, where a child was playing with a dog and making its way ever closer to the crumbling outer walls.

Jack kissed his cheek and said, "You know, I had the most dreadful feeling about this journey all along. Now that you are well I can tell you this, although as I say it, I touch wood that the worst is over." He laughed quietly. "You must think me the most pitiful old female."

Stephen, who had been in a reflective mood these days since waking in the castle, sat up and looked at Jack, taking his hand. "You are never pitiful, my dear, and you are only as old as your age. Sometimes much younger. And I never thought you a female, I assure you -- never in word, thought, or deed."

Jack gazed uncertainly at him and blushed when he understood Stephen's meaning. "My love," he cried, "I never meant... I was not thinking of that, you must believe me." He calmed, rubbing and kissing Stephen's hand, and said, "No, indeed, I have never felt, when we bed... Oh, I cannot explain it plainly, other than to say it is not so."

Stephen stroked Jack's cheek, took a steadying breath, and said quietly, "Then perhaps, if it cannot be explained, it can be learned from the experience."

Jack looked at him, and Stephen smiled softly, for he saw that Jack understood: his blush returned, even redder. "Stephen," he said, and said no more. Stephen kissed him, and they sat quietly on the slope and watched the afternoon shadows deepen, not needing words. The child with the dog boldly made it to the foot of the crumbled walls before turning and running away; the sheep who had been grazing were distressed by the dog's bark. When the sun was the merest line in the west, they climbed down and shared a meal of cold chicken and bread in the kitchens.

The night was cool but still. Stephen's heart beat ridiculously fast as he helped Jack out of his clothes, and Jack helped him out of his own. His restlessness was calmed only by Jack -- his kisses and caresses and very great tenderness. Jack did not seem uncertain or hesitant, but very peaceful and patient. Stephen could not stop kissing him or stroking him, and had nearly forgotten their intention for the night. Nearly, but never completely; and somehow his anxious spirits were brought to a deep, almost drowsy peace, so that when they joined, after careful, gentle guidance, he did not dwell on the physical discomfort, but thought only on the very great love they shared. How complex and difficult it seemed when they were apart. How truly simple it was when they were together.

Afterward, they lay side-by-side and Jack caressed his arm. Jack was tentative now, where he had not been before. He pressed his lips to Stephen's cheek and said solemnly, "Stephen," but said no more. Stephen turned and kissed him; they did not have to speak.

He slept very late the next day, aware through his sleep that Jack was awake and doing things. When he woke, he stayed in bed and stared at the roof timbers, taken by the deepest longing for some lampreys and a good, stout beer. He rose and looked for Jack, checking the kitchens first, where he answered his hunger with bread -- no lampreys, alas -- then wandering, quite naked, through the other rooms and so up the spiral staircase to the marble bath. There he found Jack asleep in the bath, a half-eaten orange in one hand, the water lukewarm. He knelt behind Jack and stroked his hair and squeezed the juice from a lemon over it, then rinsed it with water poured from his hands. Jack opened his eyes -- he had not been asleep, not very -- and smiled at him. Stephen took him by the hand and took him down the spiral staircase and took him to their bed, where he lay before him. In the warm afternoon they joined again; and this time Stephen's calm became restless, and Jack's tenderness became passion; Stephen grasped Jack's hand and bit Jack's fingers at the force of their shared release.

Afterward, Jack lay in his arms, and Stephen plaited his hair. They did not have to speak.

-----

Jack woke, and his view over the curve of Stephen's shoulder was of two eyes staring. "Stephen, there is a sheep in the bedroom," he said. Stephen spoke to the sheep in strange Spanish, but it did not attend. Stephen resumed his sleep. Jack rose, put on his shirt and breeches, and led the sheep out of the room with entreaties, threats and, finally, an orange. He returned to the bed, wrapped his arm around Stephen, and fell asleep.

When he woke again, there were two more eyes staring. "Esteban? Esteban?" the little girl said.

"Good God," Jack cried, sitting up and shaking Stephen. The little girl ran away. Stephen followed her, fastening his breeches and sliding his shirt over his head. When he returned, Jack asked, "Was that the girl who saw me as a bear? She looks very like."

"She is the sister -- a sister -- of the girl who saw you as a bear," Stephen said, sitting at the foot of the bed and pulling an orange into two halves. "She has been approaching the castle for some time now; the rumours from the village children were too powerful to keep her away." He handed Jack half of the orange.

"I suppose it was very wicked of us," said Jack, blushing, "to be seen in bed together by a child."

Stephen had finished his half of the orange and licked the juice from his fingers. "I told her you were my English brother --no less than the truth. Sure, the child shares a bed with six brothers and sisters; I believe she was rather envious that I slept with only one."

Jack picked at the orange, tearing at its peel. "But if the child should speak of it..."

"Every child in Catalonia knows how to keep a secret," Stephen said sharply. Jack stared at him, and Stephen said more calmly, "She knows it is very dangerous to be English. She has sworn not to speak of it, and I have given her your sheepskin in gratitude. Still..." He fell silent and thoughtful. Jack ate the orange, knowing his mind: they must leave Spain, however they might.

He would be glad to leave Spain, for he found it very wearying to be in a foreign land where there were too few familiar things. And yet, he had grown fond of Stephen's castle. Privately he had thought of a plan to repair the roof, and had looked at the yards abaft the kitchens with a view toward a vegetable garden. But he knew very well that Stephen kept the place in ruin so that it would not tempt the French too much, nor yet the thieves and blackguards who roamed the mountains. And there was something rather fitting about it being in such a state: it possessed its own perfect, ruined beauty.

And then, he was aware of how freely they had lived here, quite alone. In some ways, it had been joyous; but in other ways, it had been frightening and lonely. He could never be completely lonely with dear Stephen, but he felt that they could be lonely together: forsaken by the world around them. I am taken with foolish cares again, he thought, and reflected how very melancholy his thoughts became on land, and how much clearer and easier it was to think at sea.

Stephen seemed to read his mood, for he touched Jack's cheek gently. Then they quietly discussed how to leave. Jack still possessed the purse of coins. They agreed to return to the good Monsignor -- it would be easier now, as Stephen knew the way -- and try to arrange for a boat from there, rather than take risks with the fisherfolk at Cap Creus. They would leave tomorrow evening and travel by dark as much as they could. It gave them the day to prepare for the journey.

Stephen walked down to the village, and Jack gathered oranges and lemons and filled the skin and an empty wine bottle with water. In the cellar he found some grain sacks chewed upon by rats, and fashioned them into a decent satchel. He regretted that they had no hard tack -- useful, portable stuff -- or salt pork. After filling their little satchel and gathering his things -- it was very like preparing his sea-chest, he reflected -- he swept some of the rooms and arranged their few decorations neatly. "There," he said. "We will leave this place rather prettier than we found it. Though I had better not mention that to dear Stephen."

Jack carried water from the well to the kitchens, heated it, then hauled it up the spiral stairs to the bath. It took exactly twenty-eight trips to fill the marble tub; he had done this many times. Much as he loved Stephen's marble tub -- had thought it the highest mark of luxury when he had first seen it years ago -- he thought its placement rather inefficient. As he carried water from the well to kitchens to bath, he mentally worked on an improvement of pipes and pumps. He must remember to jot it down and show it to Stephen sometime.

He boiled his clothes in the kitchens and put them out to dry in the sun, weighted down by stones which had fallen from the castle walls. As he stood in the yard, he looked down upon the path and could see Stephen returning from the village, carrying all manner of things over his shoulders. He appeared to be eating something. Jack smiled fondly, watching him: he looked quite small, for the height of the castle and its grounds was very steep. His shadow was taller and thinner and stretched over the path and coarse grass. Around him the land seemed very vast, it spread out so. And yet, even from this distance Jack perceived his strength, his great resilience, even his stubbornness. He smiled again and climbed the staircase to the bath.

Stephen found him there some time later. Dusty and sweaty from his walk; his cheeks in high colour; his humour lively and eager. He sat on the floor and removed his shoes and stockings and plunged his feet into Jack's bath.

"We are quite set, my love," said Stephen. "I think this will not be so hard a walk as it was before. We will have food, and you will not have to carry me."

"That will make it somewhat easier," agreed Jack. He rubbed Stephen's feet under the water. Stephen turned them this way and that and kicked a little water at him. Jack grabbed his ankles and yanked him forward, meaning just to tease him, to threaten him with the plunge. But the floor was slippery wet marble, and Stephen slid from it and into the bath with a resounding splash. Jack let go and stared at him, prepared for his fury. "Oh, Stephen, I did not mean..."

He was silenced by Stephen climbing over him and kissing him deeply and with a fierce hunger Jack instantly recognised. He grasped Stephen and helped him pluck away his sodden clothes, running his hands over Stephen's body and feeling his determined fire while they kissed; and Stephen tasted of the tangerines he had been eating. Jack edged back, out of the tub and onto the floor, meaning to rise, take Stephen's hand and take him below. But they never made it to the stairs: Stephen seized Jack's ankles and pulled him forward in a jesting repetition of Jack's teasing, and Jack laughed, eager for him; most roused and ready and impatient to feel him and be taken by his strength and answer it with his own. There was water everywhere.

A very great while later Stephen sat in what was left of the bath water, wringing his shirt. Jack stretched out on the floor next to the tub and caressed Stephen's shoulder with the back of his hand. Stephen said, "I fear I will be walking in damp clothes tomorrow, alas."

"God's my life, Stephen: my clothes," cried Jack. "I had quite forgotten." He ran down the stairs to the yard and gathered his clothes in the sunset and, clutching the bundle to him, walked back to the kitchens. Near the door the strange little girl stood, watching him quite openly. Jack hurried past her, face burning, and went upstairs. Stephen was in the bedroom, draping his wet clothes over the bedposts.

"That girl was downstairs," Jack said, putting on his breeches. "She looked at me."

"Yes, well. You are something to look at," Stephen said mildly, shaking out his coat.

Jack glanced at him, uncertain if this was a joke or compliment, and said, "I do not care for her skulking about so. What if she had come upstairs while... Well."

Stephen sat down on the bed and leaned against a post, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. "If she had come upstairs while we were... engaged... would you have noticed? I cannot say I would have."

"Stephen!" Jack sat on the other side of the bed. "That would be very wicked."

Stephen sighed softly. "There are so many wicked things in the world. You have seen them, and I have seen them; sure, we have seen many of them together. Do you really believe that our love is one of them?"

Jack looked at him. "That is not what I meant. I do not say our love is wicked; nor do I believe it. I only meant: for the girl to see us like that. Well, it seems very wrong." He ended his speech somewhat less certainly than he began it, for it seemed impossible for Stephen not to have understood what he meant.

"Because she is innocent?" Stephen asked, and he laughed hoarsely; a false laugh. "Dear Jack, she lives a very few miles from the French border, in dirt and filth and poverty while Spain fights for France, now, or against France -- yes, it is coming, hear me. And no one fights for Catalonia, her own land, the land of her birth, the land of her language. She is a child, yes, but is any child born under Buonaparte's flag an innocent? Her whole life has been war. How any love, any manifestation of love, any existence of love can be a wickedness in her life: faith, I cannot see it."

Jack watched him solemnly, and Stephen looked away and stared at the floor, frowning. Jack moved to sit by him, and after a while, slid his arms around him. Stephen sighed and relaxed in his arms. Jack said carefully, "I have grown very fond of your castle, Stephen; these have been happy days, despite all our cares and our half rations." He kissed Stephen's ear. "But -- and do not take me wrong -- I shall be glad to be in England again. Do think of it, my dear: the rain and the green fields and the horses. And music. I do miss our music so. And we shall have coffee again. Coffee, oh, how I long for it..." Stephen smiled a little, and Jack held him closer. "Forgive me for saying it, but I think you are somewhat changed here, Stephen; perhaps I am as well. The Spanish air clouds our wits, for all its sunshine."

Stephen turned and kissed him softly. "There may be something to what you say," he said sadly. They lay down on the bed together, and Jack held Stephen very close and very tightly, wishing in his heart that they were on a ship -- on the dear old Surprise again.

The next day they spent quietly. They stayed in bed, simply holding each other and kissing sometimes, until the sun was high over the castle. They shared a meal in the kitchens, packed their few belongings, and set off as the sun was setting. Stephen had somehow procured a wig for Jack to wear: an old thing, though it was in good shape. He felt ridiculous in it. Stephen covered it with an old-fashioned, curious hat, and grinned at the result as he helped Jack into his cloak.

"The sun has made you brown, brother," he said. "You might almost be Spanish."

The little girl with the dog ran up to them on the path below the castle and gave them kisses, talking to both of them at a great and, Jack felt, rambling length. "Whatever was she saying?" he asked.

"She was telling us not to go to England because it is such a wicked place. She has heard that they eat their children there. When I told her we were quite resolved, I fear we may have lost her love. She is blaming you, my dear," said Stephen, glancing at Jack. "As you are English, you have obviously corrupted me." He smiled slightly, but Jack did not find it humourous at all.

They left the path sometime in the night. Jack followed Stephen, who strode quickly and with clear familiarity with the land. They did not rest until late in the morning, when Stephen found an abandoned, ruined barn where they slept in old hay crawling with rats. For another day they walked before Jack began to smell the sea. He had been quiet and weary on the journey, but with the sea air in his lungs he felt renewed. They walked a second day before they arrived at a place Jack recognised immediately: Monsignor Albi's cottage.

The good Monsignor was delighted to see them. He spoke rapidly, very excited, and hugged them both. They sat at his table and made their plans for leaving, drinking watery wine. Stephen and the Monsignor left Jack alone the next day, and he waited impatiently while they made preparations. In the evening they returned with Jack's new disguise: French sailor's clothes and a liberty cap. "Yellow hair is not unknown among the French," Stephen said, pushing the cap into Jack's hand. "I am sorry, my love. I know this disgusts you. But there are French boats everywhere. We must get past them to reach the English." With great reluctance, swallowing against the bile in his throat, Jack dressed as a French sailor, and the three walked to the shore that night.

They met a friend of the Monsignor's -- a man who accepted the purse of coins and did not look too closely at Jack. They set off in the man's boat, rowing out with the tide. Stephen had not been exaggerating: they passed four French men-o'-war before the sea opened and became clear.

My God, there is mischief about, Jack thought, noting the French frigate Dévote, the seventy-four Amélie, and the captured Danae -- or whatever those French dogs were calling her now. He could not see the fourth well enough to name her, but she was big: perhaps another seventy-four. They passed without incident, although they were hailed by the Amélie, which accepted Stephen's curt reply. Jack had not caught all of it: something about an expected arrival of Spanish whores.

Out, out into the black night sea they rowed, the moon hidden behind clouds, until spots of yellow floated on the water's surface and before them rose the sixty-four Eleonore; Jack had seen her fitting out in Portsmouth years ago, and recognised her singularly ugly cathead as their boat came about. Her midshipman of the watch peered down at them dumbly, then ran off to bring a lieutenant. Stephen lifted his hat and waved at the gaping man, calling, "Cacafuego, Cacafuego! The Glorious First of June! Nelson! Trafalgar!" And gaining no immediate response, he looked at Jack and said crossly, "Do they not understand their own language, for all love?" But the lieutenant called back, "Cacafuego?" Then: "My God, is that--? Mr Bracken, do not just stand there trembling! Run and get the captain!"

And so Stephen and Jack were let aboard, waving at Monsignor Albi as the little boat hurriedly pushed away from the English man-o'-war; the Monsignor's friend felt safer among the French. As Jack came aboard in his French clothes and liberty cap, the captain -- Captain Dillard, a man Jack had briefly known as a first lieutenant when he was a third -- cried out, "Damn your eyes, Mr Robinson, who is this French bastard boarding my ship?" Jack removed the awful cap and threw it into the sea, and Dillard clapped his shoulder. "Captain Aubrey! Why, I should know you anywhere. But what the hell are you doing in those wretched clothes? Come down to the cabin: a glass of wine with you, sir."

Dillard was hospitable and gifted Jack with one of his shirts and a neckcloth, so he wouldn't look like a damned Frenchman. He regarded Stephen with curiosity and suspicion -- clearly, Stephen was a foreign gentleman, in Dillard's view: and how came he to be travelling with Jack -- but he asked no awkward questions. In truth, there was little time for their acquaintance to become a burden. The Eleonore was on her way to Malta with not a minute to be lost. But Dillard was pleased to send Jack and Stephen off in his gig with his best rowers, for there was a packet not above a mile or two distant, making for home.

They met the packet, a pleasant, fast little boat, and soon, very soon, they were in Dover. Jack smiled in the cold downpour of rain, happy to be back in England, and said, "Well, dear Stephen, so we have made it home at last. It is so very good to be back, is it not?"

Stephen wrapped his cape around him more closely and said nothing until Jack met his gaze. He smiled softly and said, "So it is, my dear. So it is."

-----

It rained all the way from Dover to Hampshire, and Ashgrove Cottage was surrounded by mud when they arrived. It looked curiously desolate, Stephen thought as they approached, and indeed, when they entered the cottage it was quite empty of people. "That's odd," remarked Jack, taking off his wet cloak and walking around the little rooms and checking upstairs. "Perhaps they have gone to Mapes," he said, returning downstairs and going into the kitchen. He found coffee -- Stephen did not like to think how old it was; he knew that Sophie and her mother did not drink coffee; but sure, at sea, he and Jack had drunk far older, far more foul stuff than this. Jack made a fire in the parlour. They stripped to their shirts and stockings and hung their wet clothes in front of the fire, and were sitting with their coffee when Sophie returned from the market.

"Jack," she cried, dropping her basket. Jack stood and they embraced, then Sophie noticed Stephen and ran to hug him. He kissed her cheeks and noted her complexion: pale and grey, lines in her face; the days had not been kind to her; she had been worrying, of course. The initial surprise and joy passed: Sophie begged to know where they had been; why had Jack not written; and had they eaten? With vague and somewhat deceptive answers, Jack satisfied her curiosity. They dressed while Sophie went to the kitchen to start their supper: it was very clear to her, she said, that they had not been eating.

Stephen picked up her abandoned basket and carried it in to her. "Oh, I had almost forgotten," she laughed, her face bright pink with happiness. "This shall be your supper," she said, lifting up the cloth. Inside were two plump lampreys.

"Dear Sophie!" Stephen said, and he smiled and kissed her cheeks, causing her to blush delightfully.

Over supper, Sophie apologised for such a poor offering -- the lampreys, beer, some cabbage, bread, the rest of a ham -- but she sat smiling as she watched them eat every last scrap. "But Sophie," Jack said, "are we quite alone here? Where is Mrs Williams?" He glanced about, as if expecting her to appear from under the floorboards, then lowered his voice and said solemnly, "Is she...?"

"Oh, Jack," cried Sophie in distress. "I did a horrible, wicked thing! But I could not bear it. She said such evil things, and I thought I would die from unhappiness. She..." Sophie bit her lip and looked away. "She said you had run off to find another wife, that you no doubt had children by now... That I was very much abandoned. I was so very unhappy, although of course I knew, I knew it could not be true," she said, looking earnestly into Jack's face; searching, Stephen felt, for reassurance. Jack, however, looked shocked and puzzled, for Sophie had not yet explained what horrible, wicked thing she had done to get rid of Mrs Williams, and his shock and puzzlement made him look quite innocent.

"I could not bear it any longer. I would rather wait alone and miserable than hear such wicked things, although I know she only had my happiness at heart." Stephen had trouble ascribing such an altruism to Mrs Williams, but said nothing. Sophie continued, with a darted glance at Stephen, "So I begged Diana--" ("Diana!" Jack cried, glancing at Stephen.) "--to take her to Bath with some claim of illness. She refused at first, and I'm afraid I said some very awful things, but Diana only laughed, and I suppose she took pity on me."

There was an awkward silence, and both Jack and Sophie endeavoured not to stare at Stephen, although he was quite aware of their furtive looks. He sat calmly, took a sip of beer, and said, "So they have gone to Bath?"

"Yes," said Sophie. "Three days ago."

They would probably stay for a week, perhaps two, Stephen reflected, unless Sophie wrote for them to return. He patted Sophie's hand and said, "And you have been quite alone for three days, poor thing, only to have your peace disturbed by our arrival. You will forgive me, my dear, for returning your husband to you without any warning. I could not think where else to dispose of him." He smiled, and Sophie smiled at him; Jack frowned at them both and gave Stephen a dark look.

After their meal, they sat in the parlour, and Jack went through his letters and the latest number of the Naval Chronicle, and read out to them the notices he felt were particularly noteworthy. Sophie insisted on darning Stephen's stockings -- she had noticed their wretched state the moment she walked in and saw them, she said. Stephen sat with his bare legs under a coverlet, trying to remember the cost of a chaise to Bath. With the fire in the tiny room, and Sophie's industrious silence, and Jack's drone about naval losses and gains, promotions and deaths, Stephen began to fall asleep. He begged their leave and went upstairs to the little room which was always his, although he noticed that it was being used to store some items Mrs Williams had brought from Mapes and had not squeezed into the rest of the cottage: a tallboy now loomed over the bed, blocking the sole tiny window. It was also, Stephen discovered, where Jack stored his sea-chest, for he recognised it at the foot of the bed and smiled at its familiarity. He touched the engraved 'Aubrey' before climbing into bed.

He did not sleep deeply that night, despite his weariness, and was woken by the muffled sound of Jack's voice, louder than Jack would wish, he was sure, from the adjoining room: "Madam, do you refuse your husband in our own marriage bed?" He did not hear Sophie's reply, but Jack's next words were, "But it is only Stephen, and he is quite asleep. Besides, he is a doctor, and a man... Sophie, dear, you know very well what I mean." A long response from Sophie, then Jack must have realised his voice filled the cottage, for he lowered it enough for the words to become indistinguishable, although Stephen could hear that he was speaking. He rolled onto his side and wondered how long it would take to walk to Bath.

The morning was cold, clear, and filled with uneasy silences. Stephen had gotten little sleep, even after the voices had stopped, replaced by Jack's snoring -- strangely less comforting when muffled by a wall. Sophie was endeavouring to be cheerful with an obstinacy Stephen found tiresome; he felt disappointed in her and wondered if he were truly jealous of her after all. But he thought not -- indeed, he examined his heart and found that he would have felt more warmly toward her if she had welcomed Jack in bed, for it was what Jack had wanted, and nothing could be more natural than a husband, separated from his wife for so many weeks, wanting her upon his return. The intimation that she had used his presence as the basis of her refusal irritated Stephen greatly. He spoke little to her as she served him breakfast, despite her continued chatter.

Jack's mood was an odd mixture of his normal happiness -- for he was so very happy to be home -- and an angry frustration he was valiantly trying to smother. Stephen observed them and found their exchanges reserved but not cold. There was hope yet, he decided.

"Well, my dears," he said after breakfast, "this has been a most happy reunion. But I must fly. I have been gone so long, my patients may all be dead... Tell me, does the post chaise still stop at the crossroads beyond the hill?"

"Stephen, do you mean to leave today?" Jack asked with a touching consternation.

"Indeed I do. I have much to take care of: my patients, my bills. As you would put it, there is not a moment to be lost." Stephen begged Sophie's pardon, thanked her for the lampreys -- surely a woman who prepared lampreys so handsomely could not be entirely without warmth and a loving nature? -- and rose to leave.

Jack walked with him to the crossroads, oddly quiet. They stood and waited for the chaise, and Jack, handing him the money for the fare, said, "Well. It will be uncommon strange to be without you again after all this time, my dear." He stared at the road with a troubled look as he said this, and clasped his hands behind his back. Stephen longed to touch his cheek.

Before he could reply, the post chaise appeared and stopped. They said good-bye with small smiles, and Stephen climbed inside. He could see Jack walking back in the direction of Ashgrove as the chaise started moving. At the next town, Stephen stepped out of the chaise, talked to the driver about fares, took some wine at the inn, and boarded the next chaise for Bath.

-----

Jack's hands gripped the paper as he read the notice: Admiral Garrett, deceased, of gun-shot wounds, outside London. Seeing the name brought back a score of memories from the distant past in the West Indies and the immediate past in London: the evening at the opera with Stephen some months ago, and the journey that had followed on it.

He was sitting in a tavern in Portsmouth, waiting for Stephen. Stephen was always late, however, and Jack had finished reading the Naval Chronicle and reflecting upon it by the time Stephen arrived. Stephen looked much the same, Jack thought, though there was a darkness about his eyes as if he had not been sleeping. I should have gone with him in the chaise, Jack thought, not for the first time, and made sure he went to London. But it was too late: Stephen had gone to Bath, had found Diana, and whatever might have happened after that, good or bad, it had ended with Diana gone again -- no one knew where -- and Mrs Williams back at Ashgrove, bitter and indignant about how shabbily Diana had treated her (not a word about Diana's treatment of Stephen), and Stephen in London, not answering Sophie's invitations to come stay, and not at home the time Jack had travelled to London, hoping to see him.

Stephen joined him at the table and said, "I met Mr Mowett on my way, else I should have been here early. I understand there will be many familiar faces aboard." He smiled, and Jack thought he could see some of the colour returning to Stephen's cheeks and some tiny spark of life in his eyes.

"A prize is almost a certainty," Jack said. "It was not hard to find volunteers. Come, let me show you something that will amaze you. Now, you may call me a scrub or whatever you like for keeping this from you," he said as they walked down to the dockyards together, "but I wanted it to be a surprise, ha ha." He took Stephen's elbow and navigated him past the timbers and cordage: out, out, until they stood before her. He gazed up at her cutwater and figurehead."There. Do you smoke it? I wanted it to be a surprise, I said: and here she is. Our dear old Surprise."

Stephen looked up at her, smiling. "Joy, what a lovely sight." His brow furrowed as he scanned the length of her. "But is she not somewhat truncated, my love? Am I not correct in saying that she appears to be missing some vital limbs?" He looked at Jack with puzzled worry, and Jack grinned at him.

"Why, as to that, you are as sharp as an old sea-dog, dear Stephen. You have noticed it immediately: she does not have any masts. That is because she is getting new masts. She was somewhat battered under Captain Worthy's care, I am sorry to say, but he has been given a lovely little fifth-rate, and his gain is our gain." They walked along her, admiring her gunports. "I did not want you to miss the setting of her new masts, Stephen. You would never forgive me, was you to find out she'd been newly masted and I'd neglected to tell you. It is the most wondrous spectacle you can imagine -- a rival to your flightless cormorants and Brazilian vampires, I wager."

They slowly walked back to the inn where Jack had taken rooms until the masts were set, when he would move into the cabin. Stephen said, "I thank you for the Surprise, my dear. It has answered perfectly." He paused and continued in a low voice, "I regret that I missed you in London. I found the necessity to go to Ireland for a few days, and I received your message when I returned."

They reached the inn and climbed up the stairs to the top, where Jack's rooms faced the dockyards. Jack had moved the chairs to the largest window, and here they sat. Jack reached over and touched Stephen's hand. Stephen turned his hand to hold it.

Jack said, "Do you know, I had just read about Admiral Garrett before you met me today," and then wondered why, of all things, this topic would return to him. But Stephen nodded, as if this were a conversation they were continuing after a long break, and said: "It is believed that Mrs Keneally shot him."

"Mrs Keneally!" said Jack.

"Yes. It would appear that she is a deadly shot," said Stephen mildly, watching the dockyards below. "It is said that she was not happy with the company Admiral Garrett had been keeping in Bath." Jack stared at Stephen and read his friend's face, and knew without being told whom Garrett had seen in Bath. He could not credit Diana with such tastes, though, and felt that there was much unknown to him here -- yet he was easier in his mind not knowing of it. "They quarrelled," Stephen continued. "Mrs Keneally escaped to France. I believe the rumour was that he was shot by a thief when he refused to give up his purse: a man -- a foreign man -- was seen in the park at the time. But now all of London talks of the Keneally woman."

"Stephen," Jack said quietly. "How came you to know this?"

Stephen said nothing but looked at him, eyes almost reptilian in their pale coldness. Jack watched Stephen and felt a deep ache inside -- for all that he could have done or should have said, for all that he wished he could do. He ached because Stephen had presented him with the lie knowing he would not believe it; Jack knew perfectly well that Stephen was a deadly shot. Jack felt helpless and horribly confused. He stared out the window and wished the Surprise had her new masts and that they could be out at sea on the next tide.

Stephen squeezed his hand. "I am sorry, dear," he said with a sigh. Jack looked at him and saw for the first time that day the old Stephen he knew so well: weary and a little sad but not hiding so much. "I have been living too much on my own," said Stephen, "and in an ugly little world. Your letter arrived at an opportune moment. I care not where we go, but I long to be at sea."

"Yes," said Jack. "So do I."

After a silence, Stephen said, "I met Mrs Keneally. She is a vile, hateful creature, but beautiful despite it. Do you know, she had noticed us at the opera that night. She remembered you quite well; I will not repeat the things she said about you. She thought herself very clever. It seems she much enjoys games, including very dangerous games which are, I am afraid, far beyond her intelligence. But I am sorry to say she was able to purchase an ally -- my landlady's serving girl -- and intended to frighten me with what little fact and great speculation the wretched girl could provide her. For myself, this was no more than a risk like any other; however, it seemed she wished to take particular delight in, as she called it, exposing you, and that I could not endure."

Jack listened gravely. He remembered the foreboding he had felt seeing her again, and how he had dismissed this as a foolish care once they were on their journey in Spain. But there had been something deeper all along, which he had not recognised.

"Admiral Garrett," continued Stephen, "was almost certainly used by Mrs Keneally, who herself might have been used by her French friends. It was unclear whether they knew that our Spanish friend carried intelligence for the Royal Navy. However, Garrett was not an innocent man. His acquaintance with Diana might have been coincidental, but I doubt it. I suspect the manipulations of Mrs Keneally, but I cannot prove it. Diana was too strong for him -- his return, alone, to London was proof enough." Diana might also have been too loyal to Stephen, Jack thought, in her own strange way. He hated her sometimes for her cruelty to Stephen -- not without a slight feeling of guilt for his own ancient part -- but he had never lost his admiration for her strength and independent spirit. If she were a man, he might almost respect her.

Stephen sighed wearily. "The very last of this uncomfortable tale is that Mrs Keneally was not as clever as she believed herself to be, and it was ridiculously easy to undo her. She ran to France, taking the serving girl with her. You may accuse me of serving my own ends with respect to Admiral Garrett; I will not deny it. I have searched my heart, however, and do not feel I acted from self-interest alone. The duel was fairly fought, if irregular, since Mrs Keneally acted as his second."

Jack released Stephen's hand, rose, and stood behind his chair. He rested his hands on Stephen's shoulders, then clasped them over Stephen's breast and kissed Stephen's hair. Stephen touched his hands and rubbed his fingers.

"Then it is good we are leaving," said Jack. "I am sorry you have had such a wretched business." He paused and after an interval said in a lighter tone, "I have been thinking much on your oranges and lemons, Stephen. And I have sketched a plan for pipes for your bath. Oh, I know you don't mean to do anything with the place now, but some day you may be glad for the design, and if I don't get knocked on the head before then, I can oversee the whole thing. It is not so complicated; it will be as easy as kiss my hand."

Stephen tilted his head back and smiled up at him. Jack kissed his brow and took his hand and led him to the window. They stood and looked out toward the dockyards, and Jack put his arm around Stephen. "There," he said. "Do you see her? Even without her masts, she's the most beautiful thing, ain't she? Tomorrow I will take you down to see her new shrouds: you will not be disappointed. If that don't lift your spirits, why, nothing will, upon my word."

Stephen slipped his arm around Jack, and Jack felt Stephen's lips touch his temple. He smiled and gazed at Stephen. "Is there any sight prettier or happier?" he asked.

Stephen returned his gaze, smiling tenderly. "No, my love, there is not," Stephen said.

(the end)