Note: Jeebus, I think the compass is kicking my ass in the rabid fangirl category.

—

There is a secret to hoisting sails.

Successfully.

First, when the wind is blowing straight from six o' clock, rattling the crow's nest at the masthead, the Pearl can easily run before the wind.

It is the fastest she will ever sail, but running makes her bilge fill with the ocean, her topsails thin with the strain, and her rudder rot with speed.

So, when she says she thought she'd be married by now, he moves parallel, downwind.

If there is a pout tugging at his lips when she recoils, it is hidden by the billowing jibs and a hint of dishonesty in both their voices.

Next, the Pearl is beating. She is drawn against the wind at twelve o' clock, and going nowhere at all.

It is the slowest she will ever sail, but beating makes her keel glisten under the sun, her bowsprit point home under its gaze, and her deck groan under his feet.

When she can't help but smile when they argue, he waits for the slightest change of the wind's direction, angled on a starboard tack, biting back a lopsided grin.

If there is a clarity in the compass' bearing, or in her gaze, it is hidden beneath the dousing of the Pearl's staysails.

Then, there is the reach, when the wind is raining from three o' clock and nine o' clock, and her masthead is slipping underwater.

If he is surprised, it is hidden by the taste of her lips on his.

It is the last time the Pearl will sail, but it brings her gaff back to her hull, her sails back to the seas, and her captain back to his curiosity.

If the Pearl is capsizing, it is only because her sails are broken.

There is a secret to hoisting them successfully.

Elizabeth is yet to learn it.