Jonathan Sparrow-Norrington, known to close friends as John, and to everyone else as Mr (soon to be Lieutenant) Norrington, tugged in an irritated fashion at the stiff, starched collar of his pristine white—new, like the rest of his splendid uniform—linen shirt. Beside him, his dad chuckled low in his throat, "Keep yerself still, lad; yer father's watchin'."

John quickly lowered his hand, self-conscious as only a teenager can be, and avoided the emerald glare which strove to pierce him from across the ballroom.

"Don't worry, lad," his pirate dad murmured comfortingly next to him, "soon's they've finished with this 'ere ceremony an' are onto th' wine an' gossip stage, we'll nip out the back, get us a breath of fresh air, aye?" It said something of the manner in which the notorious ne'er do well had spent his past few years that he could make such a proposition without twitching a muscle except those required for jaw movement. A few years ago, John would have showed his acceptance and appreciation of such a proposal with an outright boyishly exuberant grin, but service in his father's fleet of naval warships had taught him control, if nothing else—he merely raised and lowered an eyebrow before returning his attention to the matter at hand.

Governor Swann—still recognisable to the citizens of Port Royal as the energetic, well-meaning soul who'd been dispatched to oversee their colony a quarter century before, despite rapidly approaching age and arthritis—had now appeared, accompanied by a suitably flamboyant drumroll courtesy of His Majesty's Royal Marines, and the ceremony was underway.

In less time than it had taken him to get dressed—under the close and particular supervision of his rear-admiral father—Jonathan Sparrow-Norrington found himself the newest Lieutenant in His Majesty's Royal Navy, and owner of a bright and beautiful new Turner sword. Using as much cunning and charm as his upbringing had supplied him with, he sneaked out of the crowded hall as close on the heels of his dad as possible without raising undue suspicion.

"Benjamin," his dad responded to the young man's unasked question, eyeing the sword carefully balanced across an outthrust forefinger whilst waiting for the rum-flask.

"I thought it didn't feel like Mr Turner himself," replied John, "but how do you know? You've not even looked close at it yet."

Jack laughed, brown eyes crinkling at the corners, "I watched him make it, lad!"

"Oh," slightly crestfallen, he swigged from the proffered flask.

"There you are!" Irritation, frustration and relief intermingled in Rear-Admiral James Norrington's voice, "Mr Sparrow, you are an incorrigibly disreputable influence on our son; Lieutenant Norrington, your presence is required in the ballroom and if I catch you trying to sneak off again, you may be certain Captain Gillette will be informed. Demotions are as swift as promotions, you know." Cornered by the fabled Norrington glare, the pair of truants slunk humbly back into the throng of well-to-do well-wishers. John secretly envied his dad, who could at least get away with skulking around the edge of the gathering, conversing only with those he chose, whilst he was forced into polite conversation with virtually everyone in the room, repeating the same inanities and diplomatic courtesies time and again. With an inward sigh and an all-to-brief moment of wordless communication with his father, he comforted himself with the thought that this time next week he would be at sea once more, a slanted deck beneath his feet and powdered wig abandoned in favour of golden curls tamed to a sailor's braid.