She was new to him. An antique lady blown in on nobody knew which wind, north or south or east or west, smelling of faraway snow and familiar spices, and spearheaded by an angel, ancient as days; to Jack she was yet as fresh as if she were newly plucked from an oyster. She was full of promises. So was he.

Across the seven seas we'll chase the horizon together (forever) and there'll be a crock of gold waiting for us when at the last we find it. What do you say?

The timbers shuddered under his hand.

Yes.