In the scathing Caribbean sunlight, Gillette paces the deck, hardened tars flinching before his smiling sarcasm. Norrington, who would not tolerate an officer in his fleet whom the men did not respect, knows that they may laugh behind Andrew's back - for surely his Irish excitability and melodrama invite ridicule - but they will follow him nevertheless, proud that he knows no fear, nor cries for quarter, nor ever forgets a grudge.

The world sees this in him; the burn, the cut, the eager acidic wit, and those who do not know him call him cruel. But Norrington - for whom he has stopped more than one shot - sees more, even in the daylight. Even in the open, when Andrew laughs as the ship plunges before the storm, green seas breaking head height over him; when he plays the wild, mischievous music of Ulster for the people to dance; when he guides the boys with endless, unexpected patience, through mathematics which still make James' head hurt, there is more.

And in the night, when all the colours fade or change, and everything he thought he knew dissolves into fear and fantasy, there is more.

Swaying in his cot between clean linen sheets, James hears stealthy feet whisper over the scrubbed planks and worn carpet of his cabin. Drowsy, he shifts aside to welcome that tall, solid body against his own, murmuring contentedly before stilling the betraying noise against Andrew's warm shoulder. His hands wander over curves of muscle, and in the darkness he cherishes the way Gillette's pale skin seems almost to glow, freckled with gold, unearthly fair.

Some nights, they will pitch and roll to their own tide; a swell of pleasure that smoothly mounts until it peaks in a little death of unbearable sweetness, while they muffle their cries in each other's mouths. Then Andrew will weep sometimes, soundlessly, while James rests his cheek on soft, fox-russet hair, breathing in the scents of salt water, cinnamon and gunpowder.

The moon shifts in the great window, and the line of their wake is luminous beneath heavy stars. It would be good to lie forever in lassitude, enveloped in this refuge, but while Gillette is fearless, he is not reckless - as James can be sometimes. It is always he who cuts these moments short, stirs, and leaves as quietly as he arrived.

In the beginning, there were times when Gillette pleaded to be hurt - to be punished - as though he hoped that pain could absolve him of the guilt of his mere existence. Norrington is very glad when these times pass. Yet the memory of their bitterness adds a strange benediction to the fact that Andrew dares to sleep beside him; all this complex of defensive need resolving itself into a tousled, round faced young man, puppyish and deserving of kindness.

Now, even in the harsh glare of daylight, when Andrew's rare, sunny smile beams upon the startled crew, James recaptures the secret world of night - feels its comfort invade his working life. He climbs to the maintop and gives his own smile to the horizon, knowing that he would not adore the sea with all his soul if it were not so treacherous, nor would he love his sword if it were not so sharp.