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She
often dreamed of him, in the long, empty hours before the dawn.
Dreamed of his hands and those deft and wicked fingers, but not
once of that thrice-damned, clever mouth. And she always woke
with a gasp and a shudder; her body flooded with a restless longing,
the cause of which marriage had taught her to recognise.
Each time this happened, she would leave her bed and go out into
the garden, walking barefoot to the spot that overlooked the sea
and the far distant horizon. Standing there, she was as close
to Captain Jack Sparrow as she could hope to be, when not in his
presence, and she took some comfort from that.
She never told him, and even though she thought he might have
guessed it, they only spoke of such things in jest and not in
earnest, both of them skirting the issue with an ease born from
years of practice. It was like a dance, and she knew all the steps
by heart, she breathed them like air and, for the most part, that
was enough. But some nights she dreamed, and she wanted, and she
willed those heated, frenzied dreams to plague him too.

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