James regards the compass before him with blank-faced incredulity before turning to Sparrow, who is peering over his shoulder as though it were a wall, and he a small child who had scaled it. His eyes are trained on the compass as if he expects it to get up and start turning cartwheels. James raises one eyebrow, his mouth twitching into a smirk.

'Sparrow-' he coughs and corrects himself, 'Captain. I fail to see what use it is attempting to read this compass; it is broken, the same as it was the first time I saw it.'

James remembers the compass, yes, the compass that doesn't point north. Why on earth, then, should Sparrow cling to it, so? Why plunk it down on the table in front of James as if it had some magic of its own that would solve all his problems for him. He cranes his neck at an awkward angle, meeting Sparrow's gaze.

'What precisely am I supposed to do with it?'