It had been a momentary madness, a fit of absence of mind—yet it condemned him. It had been over a month ago, yet the town still reeled in shock from the news. They'd turned out today, solemn faces staring up at him; wondering at their world turned upside down.

Even now the scene replayed itself in his mind, like one of those flick-books he remembered being all the rage a few months back. Over and over, the same scene repeated itself: from the first image to the last, never deviating. It had happened, and he couldn't change that. He accepted that, as he had accepted everything in his life: with an impassive expression and a stiff upper lip. Only one who looked into the jade depths of his eyes could know his pain and regret.

His sojourn in the gaol had changed his appearance. His already lean frame now tended towards gaunt; his cheeks slightly hollowed and his muscles more prominent. A lesser man in such circumstances would have allowed himself to waste away, but James Norrington, erstwhile Commodore of Port Royal, had pushed himself as hard he could even in captivity; exercising as often and as much as he could in the cell. To have sat idle would have been to admit defeat and to risk the chance of becoming consumed by the nightmare which his life had become. Though he had known the moment the knife left his hand what would become of him, a part of him had refused to give up hope. Not hope of a reprieve: that, he felt, would be cheating, and a gentleman never cheated. This whole sorry situation had come about through an accusation of cheating. What he hoped for was a chance to make amends; a chance to put some good back in the world; a chance to live long enough to see his child born and to clear his name that the child would not grow up the son of a murderer.