Theodore Groves found the commodore in a rare and somewhat amusing state of agitation when he ventured into his day cabin on the Dauntless for his daily afternoon report. He appeared to be simultaneously attempting to brush out his best coat, rearrange the furnishings, roll up all the charts usually spread about the chart table and shine his own shoes. Groves paused a moment to stare in amazement before clearing his throat and speaking.

"Commodore, what on earth are you on about? Why don't you have a seat for a moment and let me inform you the state of your ships while you gather yourself. Where is Crowe, anyway? Shouldn't he be doing some of that?" He looked around for Norrington's absent steward.

"He's... I gave him the day off before I found out. The state of my ships! You must get a detail of men to polishing the brass, all of it. Start them immediately. And the decks. Holystoning. And the guns. Better polish those too and be sure that they are all in perfect working order. Do you think you can get a detail of Marines to whitewash the fort today as well?"

James Norrington kept his fleet and his person to standards of cleanliness and readiness that Groves had rarely witnessed before in the Royal Navy but Norrington's wild-eyed pallor was beginning to worry him.

"Of course, sir. But if I may enquire as to why? Everything is in its usual state of order."

Norrington thrust a parchment at him.

"Lord Rodney. He's coming here. To inspect my command. Look at the date. The dispatch was late. He'll be here tomorrow morning." Norrington's hands twitched towards his best coat again, tweaking the brocade, brushing at invisible flecks of dirt. "Oh God, how did I let myself become so lax?"

Groves took the initiative to go to the sideboard, pour them each a glass of claret, take Norrington's coat away from him and lay it across a distant chair. He handed him a glass and sat back down.

"James, you are not now, nor have you ever been lax. Why has Rodney got you into such a state?"

Norrington took a good swallow of the sweet wine before he answered. "He's my cousin, second cousin on my mother's side. Much older, of course. He's a brilliant tactician. I was with him, you know, when he took Martinique and the Leeward Islands. He recommended me for captain then; that's when I got the Interceptor. And have you ever seen him turned out for a state dinner? The brocade on his coat would blind you. And he never makes a mistake with the ladies or the dances. There is nothing the man cannot do perfectly. He's the one who convinced my father that the navy was the appropriate place for a third son with little chance of inheritance. He's been following my career ever since. He told me when I made lieutenant that he expected great things from me. Great things. And look at me. He'll be here tomorrow to see what I've been up to. I'll have to tell him about the Interceptor and Sparrow and the skeletons and I'm going to sound like an idiot. What am I going to do?"

"Must I tell you again that you are the best officer I've ever served under? And the most orderly? You are, you know. I'm sure you have nothing to fear from Rodney."

"I fear disappointing him. He has done so much for me and my career over the years. I could not live with myself if I failed him."

"Commodore, sir, you are not on any level a failure." Groves drained his glass and stood. "Now, I've some brightwork and whitewashing to see to. Please relax and I'll return later to render any further assistance you may need here." Groves left the cabin, awed that his own role model, the perfect James Norrington, might also feel inadequate on occasion.