Norrington groaned, prompting Gillette to start from his semi-slumber, slumped in the straight-backed wooden chair. Norrington twisted, and rolled from his belly to his back; blinked his eyes open to frown fuzzily at the ceiling; Gillette half-rose from his perch.

"How are you, sir?"

A pause before he answered. "Baffled, Gillette." No quaver in that well-known voice though his appearance showed all the classic signs of a well-matured hangover. Another pause; he turned his head to direct a frown at his junior officer. "Where am I?"

Gillette pinkened and coughed delicately. "My room, sir."

The commodore's frown smoothed away, but his straight-faced silence asked a hundred awkward questions.

"I..." he faltered, inhaled carefully and started again, "I felt it preferable to bring you here, where I know how to enter and leave unobserved, than to escort you to your home where I would have had to disturb your housekeeper." Discretion advised he leave the explanation there. The commodore, after all, was expert at hearing that which is left unsaid, and his tightly controlled smile conveyed tacit agreement regarding his housekeeper's disturbing affection for gossip.

A few minutes passed then in silence as Gillette allowed the commodore relative privacy to recall his actions of the previous evening. Norrington returned to his contemplation of the ceiling.

"Mr Gillette."

It sounded more akin to a solemn announcement than a conversation opener.

"Aye, sir?" his voice remained steady though he knew that tone of his superior's voice rarely accompanied glad tidings.

"How was I last night, Gillette?" His grim expression indicated the response he expected.

"Effusive, sir," the lieutenant replied diplomatically.

The commodore sat up to better direct his frown at his lieutenant and host. "Effusive. No more?"

Gillette's lips might be suspected of quirking into a smile if it weren't for his renown on both shores of the Atlantic Ocean as the gentleman least likely ever to smile. "You were becoming enthusiastic during your discourse with Governor Swann, sir."

"Ah. That was the point at which you intervened was it not, Gillette?"

"Indeed, sir." He was rewarded with a brief smile.

"My thanks, Mr Gillette. Now, on to today's business: may I enquire as to the location of my clothing?"

"Certainly, sir." Gillette crossed the cramped room in a couple of semi-strides and opened a small wardrobe to reveal the commodore's coat and waistcoat carefully hung on the sole hanger, and his cravat, shirt and stockings folded neatly atop his shoes which, when themselves revealed, betrayed the lieutenant's late-night efforts in coaxing a respectable shine from the black leather.

Commodore Norrington nodded silently and dressed himself with customary swift precision whilst Gillette, his back turned, pulled his uniform straight after the night spent slumped in the chair. As his expert ear informed him that his superior officer was tying his cravat, he left the room, water jug in hand. Norrington heard subdued conversation through the thin dividing wall between Gillette's sleeping quarters and the communal room beyond, then the door clicked open again, readmitting the lieutenant with his water jug now filled with lukewarm water.

"Would you like to shave, sir?"

Norrington paused in the act of slinging his coat about his shoulders, replaced it on the hanger, and accepted the proffered razor and brush with a nod and slight smile. "Thank you." He lathered himself up with soap and used the razor to neatly whisk it away along with the traces of night time beard growth. After patting himself clean with the cotton facecloth offered by Gillette, he cleaned and dried the razor, re-sharpened it on the leather strop hanging by the washstand, and thoroughly rinsed out the shaving brush before stepping aside to allow Gillette space before the small mirror.

"Who were you talking to?"

It was perhaps an unfair question, but at least the timing of his asking allowed Gillette plenty of opportunity for thought, as no one—least of all a gentleman like the commodore—would ever expect a man to speak whilst part way through shaving himself. Eventually, the lieutenant finished his ablutions, cleaned and replaced his equipment as neatly as the commodore had done for him a few minutes earlier, and as he patted his reddened cheeks dry, he replied, "Just the serving boy who is tending the fire, sir."

"I would prefer it that as few people as possible knew about my visit here, lieutenant."

"I understand, sir. The boy will not tell a soul. You may have my word on that, commodore."

Norrington nodded, a flicker of what might be interpreted as relief passing across his face at this reassurance. "My thanks, Gillette, I should be..." he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Hiding his astonishment at Gillette's answering it with a cheery "Come in," he was subsequently relieved to see that the young boy who entered with a tray bearing two plates of delicious-looking breakfast kept his eyes steadfastly on the floor throughout his brief time in the room.

Gillette closed the door, shutting the boy outside and himself inside with his increasingly apprehensive superior officer. "I thought you might like to breakfast before your day's work, sir," apologised the lieutenant, offering one of the plates of bacon, egg, sausage and fried bread.

Norrington accepted it gracefully, consuming its contents swiftly but without any coarseness of manner, and nodded his thanks to his junior officer.

As he settled his coat across his back, Gillette replaced his own half-eaten plate of breakfast on the tray with Norrington's clean-polished plate and opened the door once more. This time, after a cursory glance to ensure none of his fellow lieutenants were about, he smoothly drew the door fully open and gestured that it was safe for the Commodore to exit unobserved.

The serving boy, tending the fire, heard the outer door, between the communal room and the corridor, swing closed and interpreted the tap of diverging footsteps as the departure of the two officers. Dusting off his knees, he trudged across to remove the tray from Gillette's sleeping quarters.

The Commodore's first duty of the day was to check for the arrival of despatches or orders. Having, as usual, found none, he set off in the direction of Lieutenant Groves' quarters. Here, he left a message with the serving boy requesting that the lieutenant report to him at his leisure atop the fort's main tower.

A request from Commodore Norrington to report "at your leisure", as every young officer stationed in Port Royal swiftly learnt, was dire news indeed. Lieutenant Groves shot out of bed, tumbling himself into uniform with automatic actions. Taking a breath to remember the adage "Less haste, more speed" he dispensed with the luxury of lather, dispelling the patchy few millimetres of beard with precision-dealt swipes of his razor. He knew his skin would sting for hours from the omission of lather, but he reminded himself as he pulled his uniform neat and settled the wig on his head, at least this time he hadn't cut himself.

Even without taking into account the precariously-perched wig on his head, as an officer of His Majesty's Royal Navy, running pell-mell through the corridors and stairways of the fort was out of the question and so he had to be content with a brisk walk. Nor, he reminded himself after the first hundred yards, was it correct to betray one's emotions and he drew the familiar gentleman's mask of impassivity over his features just in time—around the next corner he encountered the first of many fellow officers, each of whom courtesy required he greet in the proper manner. After what seemed like an age—but was in truth less than quarter of an hour since his receiving the message—the young lieutenant stood nervously beside his commanding officer, both men having their gaze locked firmly on the seaward horizon.

"Groves."

"Aye sir?"

"Last night."

"Aye sir." The inflection differed only slightly from his previous utterance of the phrase, but conveyed nonetheless the entirety of Groves' knowledge of his misdemeanour, hindsight's regret, and his willingness to bear the responsibility and consequences alone.

Norrington nodded once, a brief, sharp, inclination of his head before its return to normal position. "I believe it is customary around this time of year to resolve not to repeat past unwise behaviour," he suggested.

"Aye sir." He understood the caution, and even before he'd acted on his impulse the previous night, had accepted it as a minimum consequence.

"And I suggest you deny yourself a rum ration for a minimum of a fortnight."

"Aye sir." The lieutenant's tone was suitably humble, but lightly woven with hopefulness that his punishment ended with this.

"That is all, Groves, return to your duties." Today had been Groves' first full day off for over a month; this innocent-seeming dismissal repealed that privilege for the young officer. Weather permitting, he would be departing for St Kitts in two days time, with no further break from duty in the foreseeable future.

"Aye sir." Turning smartly on his heel, he moved briskly towards the lower floors of the fort, with the intention of heading for the dock and the ship on which he would be sailing.

Commodore Norrington remained on the tower for a few minutes after the lieutenant's departure, his eyes focused slightly beyond the horizon. Whatever thoughts he contemplated, the evidently displeased him because he frowned slightly, then shrugged as if dropping a heavy burden to the ground, before heading ground-wards himself.

Lieutenant Gillette was pleasantly surprised to be informed later that day that he'd been allotted an extra ration of rum for the duration of his forthcoming voyage to St Kitts.