A series of ordered shouts awaken me. Pink light, barely there, filters weakly through the window, casting shadows of the iron bars across the floor. Thenshie is silent in the bed by my feet. Rootwig is obnoxiously loud at the end of our cot line. I can hear her ear-things flapping, her four teeth chattering, her gums gushing. I try to muffle the sounds with my pillow, holding it over my ears. I bury my face in the sheet to hide from the pale light of just-before dawn.

Another series of shouts come from the deck. I drop my pillow and sit up. I can't make out the words, but I understand, and the desire to go back to sleep disappears as fast as flame underwater. Without tucking in my shirt or tying up my hair, or even slipping on my shoes, I bolt out the door and stumble down the hall in my socks. The doctor squints at me from his opened door, wigless. He has a neat gray buzz-cut, with the start of a bald spot at the back.

I wave to him, but am the up the stairs before he can return any acknowledgement. Ropes are being hauled in and thrown out and men are hopping up stairs, and leaping down, and crossing the deck, and climbing the rigging.

Were I a sailor myself, I'm sure I'd know exactly what everyone was up to. As I am not, I know not. I wonder about it all, and it is glorious, because not knowing makes seeing so much more magical. The man climbing the rigging could be going to raise a sail, or just climbing for a better view, or perhaps preparing to swing down on a rope all grandiose like a spectacular showman.

"Loose the last hitch, and climb aboard, Mr. Walsh!" Captain Clarke stands, the air of leadership and command about him infallible, at the upper stern deck, beside Leslie, who holds the helm. "Mr. Tussock, haul in that rope. Brutus and Arty, take in the ramp when Walsh is clear."

I run to the railing to watch. A rope, tied to a peg at the mainmast, holds us against the dock by hugging a pole. A muscular man at the stern grips the other end of the rope. Below, Mr. Walsh coils up the last rope loosed from the iron cleats on the dock, and throws it up to the deck, where Mr. Tussock—a wiry, grey-whiskered man who looks as if he's just crawled out of a chimney—throws himself forward to catch it. Walsh climbs the boarding plank, as ordered, and our own hiree, Brutus, with the equally buff Arty of the captain's men, pull the long board onto the deck.

Dorian shoos them both away with his swatting claws. He plops down to sit on his rear at the top of the plank and pushes it with his furry feet, using all his strength. The plank impressively folds into itself, turning the long plank into a meter by half-a-meter cube of wood. The fox barks at Brutus to take it to the hold.

"Four oars ready?" calls the captain.

"On your word, sir!" returns a man in a knitted green cap, who stands upon the staircase leading below.

"Heave!" cries the captain.

"Heave!" cries the man, turning to direct his voice below decks.

"Heave!" comes a distant response of four men from beneath us.

"Release the rope, Reuben!" Captain Clarke orders. "Haul it in fast, Mr. Tussock!"

The waters below churn as oars, two below me, splash in unison. They jut out from holes from the level below our cabins, and move forward and back. Lift. Forward and back.

The man at the stern hurls his rope to the dock, and Mr. Tussock reels it in like his life depends on it. And, with that, I realize, we're free. I grin and look up to the masts, where four grand sails billow with wind.

"Up with the mizzen sails. Add a reef until we're out of the harbor."

Men flock to the aft rigging. The oars are drawn in as we clear the dock, and the sails take us away. The waves are so small that we can barely feel them beneath us. The ship charges through. The seagulls circle above. The wind, salted with wet spray, feels strong and cool against my skin.

"Exhilarating. Isn't it?"

I jump and reach to sloppily tuck in my shirt out of reflex. I don't feel presentable, turning around in my stripy socks. "Captain."

"I'm half surprised that you stayed. But, then again, with Avery in your blood, I'm surprised I ever had a doubt in your resolve." He chuckles and pats my shoulder. "Welcome to the crew. You'll love it, here."

Clasping his hands behind his back, he struts off to the opposite side of the deck to greet the doctor and Simon, who at least had the dignity to tuck in their shirts and put on their shoes before coming up. I hear an exclamation of, "I wake with the tide!" but otherwise, don't catch much of their brief engagement. The captain lingers for no one. He moves on quickly. Lydia appears from below, dressed as practically as ever, looking as awake and well-prepared as the sailors.

The sun is halfway above the horizon, now, casting a more noticeable light. The water glistens with a pink hue that I could never have imagined. It's stunning. It's peaceful.

It is, as the captain had said, exhilarating.

I spend the morning leaning into the wind at the bow, watching the sun rise higher in the sky, and saying a quiet goodbye to Port Lilton and Amity as the harbor falls behind. A reef—a fold in the sails—is removed, and our speed picks up. Pork-scented smoke billows from a chimney-like vent behind me and disassociates in the gusts.

Sailors bustle about, doing who-knows-what with seasoned confidence. I catch a few with bottles and I'm sure that it isn't water that they're guzzling.

The bell at the stern rings three times, stirring me from my fixation on the sea and the sails. Three bells. Eleven o'clock, I recall.

Lunch time, so soon! I'm sure I'll get used to having no breakfast quite quickly.

I follow the stream of hungry sailors down two levels and pass an open space crammed with hammocks; some hanging over others, like swinging bunkbeds. There are three men fast asleep, snoring like old dogs. Past them, a pair of double-doors are wide open.

Half of the crew, at least, is already seated on the two long benches, elbows on the rough wooden table. Simon, with his burgundy vest neatly buttoned, and his hair combed, is sat in the middle with a book open. He leans into it, appearing unaware of his surroundings.

He doesn't greet me when I sit next to him, instead pushing a smaller volume titled Science Solves Curses: Second Edition between us on the bench. As if to say, 'not too close', without actually bothering to say it.

"What the blazes have I done?" I grumble sourly.

The doctor appears and sits on the other side of Simon and is not pushed away by a book. Whether this is because Simon has no other books on hand, or he just loves the doctor and hates me, I cannot surely say.

Lydia plops beside me.

"Good morning, Walter!"

"Good morning, Mrs. Marks. Good morning, Dr. Oswald," I greet. I intentionally leave Simon out. He notices. I see the tension come to his jaw, and I know he notices. He keeps reading, anyways. Without looking, he reaches over his book for a steaming mug of, I'd guess, tea.

While the crew and officers fill the benches, the cook, Barker, and a neat-looking young man—perhaps thirty—place bowls and spoons and pots of stew at different places along the table. The young man wipes a splash of stew off his cheeks as he takes his seat. The captain, interacting with his crew as he passes them, strides to a spot at the head of the table.

Eventually, the doors are closed. The Aquians are nowhere to be seen. I can imagine Rootwig still snoring in her bed.

The captain grabs a bowl and ladles stew into it, inspiring his men to eagerly do the same. He leans back, props his feet on the table, and holds his stew on his lap. I catch him looking at me, thinking, again.

Simon protectively hugs his book to his chest as the dirty, stinky sailors start grabbing for the stew in front of us. Werewolfism; A Study in Depth.

He gets some scrutinizing looks.

I serve a helping of stew for myself and start eating. It's surprisingly tasty, considering its resemblance to rotting chum. It smells nice, too.

"What're you reading about werewolves for?" grunts Brutus, across from us with an overflowing bowl.

Simon lowers his book and caringly smooths the pages out. He stands up to serve a small portion for himself. "To learn," he responds simply. He sits down again.

"Doesn't it worry you that reading at the table is considered improper?" asks the captain musingly. He doesn't lift his eyes from his stew, stirring it absently with his spoon. His voice carries across the length of the table without him having to raise it.

"Feet on the table is more so."

"Ah, but I've never been one to pride myself on my manners."

Brutus reaches across the table to try to grab the book and is egged on by the rough-looking sods around him. With his itty-bitty eyeglasses and the bright polka-dot handkerchief neatly folded in his breast pocket and his gangly, meek appearance, how could they resist picking on him? I feel bad for him, in a way. Perhaps he's only mean because he has been hardened by bad experiences. The dining hall is, quite suddenly, thrown into a schism, and I, unfortunately, find myself sitting with the misfits, outnumbered.

The captain enjoys his stew, watching us as if he isn't watching.

Brutus snatches the book and holds it in the air for his comrades to hoot at. Simon abruptly stands and there's a pistol in his hand. The hollers for the book to be shredded, for the pages to be used to wipe bums, are silenced.

It's a very nice pistol. My throat goes dry at seeing it.

As it turns out, perhaps Simon is not the type to be picked on.

"Put it back, or you'll lose your ears," he warns.

There's a drawn-out silence, and then Harvey Cobbe starts to laugh, and the lesser crew do the same, until the whole room is full of obnoxious guffaws. Simon flinches, but keeps a straight face. The doctor harshly whispers his name, as if to tell him to control himself.

"Yeu know how to use that thing, Teach?" Master Cobbe asks, as a rhetorical. He cackles away without receiving an answer, but silences immediately as Simon gives him one.

The professor cocks the pistol.

"Geezus!" Brutus, a man that we had hired, swears. He closes the book and shoves it across the table. "It's just a book!"

"Oh, please, it weren't like 'e was gonn' shoot yeu," dismisses Cobbe, waving a hand as if it is nothing. "'E's bluffin'. Even so, if 'is finger were to slip, e'd probably hit yeur head and kill ya if he were aimin' fer yeur ears."

Simon turns and fires the pistol so quickly that I don't know where he's aiming until the bullet splinters the wood between Harvey Cobbe's fingers, and the goblin's hand flies away from the table in shock. The captain jolts upright and his boots thump on the floor. He relaxes at seeing his gunner undamaged.

"Holy shit!" Cobbe exclaims, voice like a chihuahua's bark. Obnoxious and yappy for someone so small. He holds his splayed fingers in front of his face. "Where was yeu aiming?"

Simon lowers himself to his seat and drinks his tea, pulling his book onto his lap. "Exactly where I hit."

The doctor stares at him with just as much astonishment as I, but our good companion doesn't give us his time of day. What in the world was running through his head when he thought to fire at an officer? Or to draw a gun in the first place, instead of just politely asking for his book to be returned.

"Oh, yeah?" challenges Cobbe. He draws his own pistol and lodges a bullet into a post just behind the captain, who ducks and glares, frazzled, at his own man. "How close can yeu get to that?"

"HARVEY. Will you do your job?" Captain Clarke barks, red in the face. "For Laod's sake!"

Simon's pistol pops again and the captain ducks once more. Clouds of gunpowder drift in the air.

"Holy shit!" Cobbe exclaims, just as shocked as the first time. "'E can shoot!"

The captain turns around to look at where the bullets had landed in the wood. Simon had not landed his shot near Cobbe's target, but on it. In the post, there was one hole and one hole only.

The captain frowns and dubiously shakes his head, turning back. "Luck!" he scoffs.

Harvey Cobbe narrows his eyes at Simon. He flicks his head back to the target, a good ten or fifteen meters away, his tufty white hair bouncing. "Do it again."

Simon clenches his teeth, takes aim, and bang. Another pellet drills the hole deeper.

"Holy shit!" Again. The captain's brows raise.

Our stews are growing cold, but no one eats.

"You owe me three bullets." Simon lays the firearm flat on the table, his palm over the top of it. "I can use a pistol just as well as any of you pirates, and I will. I don't want to be touched, teased, or otherwise bothered, and I especially don't want my belongings—like my books—to be defiled."

"Just as well? Just as well!" Cobbe hoots, slamming his hand to the table. His whole body shakes with his laughter. "Why, if every man aboard could shoot like that, we'd have claimed these waters years ago. Ain't that right, boys?"

An uproar of agreement. The captain shakes his head and gives the master gunner a discouraging look, which is blatantly ignored.

"Say, after luncheon hour, you and me are gonn' go shoot some gulls. I wan'ta see how geud yeu are with moving targets."

"I'm not your toy," Simon answers sharply. He opens his book and searches for the page that he had left off on.

"I guess yeu'd rather spend yeur time cleaning the dishes, eh?"

The professor stills. He scrunches up his nose in distaste. "I will go."

"Thought yeu might." Cobbe smirks. He lifts his bowl and drinks his stew. Then, he sweeps his gaze round at the other men. "Well? What're yeu sods lookin' at? Barker's slaved away in the galley for yeu ungrateful swabs and yeur stew's a-growin' cold! Get eatin'!"

I hastily fumble with my spoon.

***

Late in the evening, my arms are weary from cleaning up after two meals and mopping the muddy boot-prints off the deck in the time between them. I'm tired, I'm starting to feel nauseous, and the glory of sailing is no more. After only one day, the 'exhilaration' is already leaving.

Now the waves have risen, and the boat rocks and rolls over the crests in a stomach-turning, irregular motion. It's sickening, and I find myself stumbling on the way down to my cabin. Below the decks, the ship eerily creaks, and the air is stiffer, and I feel miserable. I cling to the railing, descending the stairs, and bounce against the walls like a drunk down the hall. I must look as green as the fish people.

I swing on my cabin door and gracelessly fall to the floor, gulping to hold back my sickness.

"They're barbaric, Cornelius! Barbaric!" I hear Simon through the thin partition wall. "They made me kill birds. Just to see them drop!"

"Well, they wouldn't have made you do such if you hadn't shown off in the first place," Dr. Oswald scolds in response.

"I had to. First impressions, I find, are often the most lasting. And I feel I made quite a good one."