The pirate took a careful drink. Cleared his throat. Then: "You know, mate...the wings? Not...not all bad..."

He wasn't exactly sure whether he should bother explaining how certain touches to his own charcoal-black feathers could bring sublime pleasure, or how he'd used them to glide from a considerable height and possibly keep from breaking both legs that way. True, they were a form of control; but Sparrow was not at all sure that he wouldn't miss them if they were suddenly gone.