It had been enormously satisfying to sit my first watch with the ship's drunk. Roofus Tussock had blathered on to me, with a slur so prominent that I could not understand a great deal of his words, about how he had been tricked into guzzling saltwater upon waking from his 'nap'. Now, Mr. Tussock is no scholar, and the number of curses he crammed into his rant was impressive. I learned a few new swears before he barked at me to do the watch by myself and wake him if I saw anything. I didn't, and the watch proved to be a very long night of staying awake, alone, listening to the creaking of the boards and the whispers of the sails, and holding myself back from filling old Tussock's bottle with seawater again, because he'd know it was me. I had been very grateful for my nap earlier that afternoon.

While I'd been asleep, Dorian had strung up a hammock for me in the scholars' cabin. I'm grateful for it after keeping my eyes open all night. I sleep through brunch, and wake to a quiet, sweet-smelling room. No more gargling and gum-gnashing. No more fish reek.

There is a blend of sandalwood from the doctor, lavender from Lydia, and least interesting of all, books from Simon. He smells like print and paper, but the chamomile and peppermint scent of his tea supply a nice aroma to the air.

There's a faint scent of brandy and wine from corked bottles on a small rack.

I climb from my hammock and slip on my shoes and take pause to look out the window to the ship's wake. The water is calm, with swells no larger than five or six feet. I reach behind my head and pull my dirty hair back, tying it up with my leather strip, and then set off down the hall. I hoist myself up the stairs, and the pleasant sea breeze greets me. Dr. Oswald sits at the bow, almost finished with sewing the improved jib sail. Lydia is in the rigging with another sailor, doing something with the sails. The deck is dull with salt and dust. Sworn to my duty, I head for my mop and bucket under the bow stairs.

"Mr. Avery..." drones a voice. I freeze, and curse myself (in my head, obviously) for not seeing the man. How had I not seen the man? I turn, and look up at his prominent, scarred brow. "So... glad to see you awake."

Does he sound convincing? No, not very. Uncertain, I awkwardly mumble my thanks, anyways.

He holds out to me a thin sword in a plain leather sheath. I blink, for it does not seem like something he would have. The brown is far too kind a color for his bleak black attire. "Compliments of the captain," he explains, steady and slow.

"For me?" I ask, incredulous. To think, I'd just been mulling over my need for a weapon the very day before. I hold out my hands, but am hesitant to take it, in the case that I misunderstood.

Langley drops the gift into my grasp and withdraws his gloved hand to his side.

"Thank you, sir.

His half-lidded, sleepy eyes scan over me. Sleepy but watchful. Alert, but with little energy. I can imagine that his energy is stored, like in a spring. Dormant until called upon.

I feel myself shrink under his scrutiny.

"Have you experience with a sword?"

"No, sir."

"I have been instructed to provide you with lessons." He looks past me, which I'm starting to think is his way of telling me that he is finished with me. "Familiarize yourself with your blade, and we will begin on the morrow."

He nods to me, and ambles, poised, away. I lower the blade and stare after him. He plants his hands on the starboard rail and looks out to sea. After a few moments, he leaves to address a loitering bunch of sailors, and scatters them to perform tasks at different parts of the ship.

I draw my sword, examining it. It isn't a particularly unique blade, but it is sharp and light. A standard fencing rapier, with a plain bronze guard and a pistol-grip that I find quite uncomfortable.

"Oi, blondie," hails a familiar yap. "Take that needle below decks befur yeu poke sumone's eye out with it. Till yeu can use it, I ain't gonna trust you within ten meters of meself or me mates."

I look flatly to the master gunner, who, I've learned, enjoys violent entertainment, and is not serious about his job in any capacity.

"Because you care so deeply for the safety of everyone aboard?"

He cackles. "If yeu plan on hittin' anyone, I won't mind if yeu skewer Tussock."

Leslie had to keep something of a leash on the goblin. In seven days, Harvey Cobbe had already shot two crew members, and Leslie had stopped him from shooting three others, including Tussock. The first man, Indigo, survived the shot to his groin, but after four days and a few checkups and extra medical assistance from Dr. Oswald and Lydia, he still limps and steers well clear of the trigger-happy, mood-swinging gunner.

The second man, Jack Barnes, was killed the day after Indigo's incident, and had stumbled overboard in the last breaths of his life. Simon had been with Cobbe at the time, obediently firing his pistol to satisfy the gunner's entertainment needs and had been only a few feet from the murder. Shaken, Simon had taken two glasses of brandy before bed, and had recounted the event to us in grim detail, twice over (he had forgotten that he had told us already after his second glass—I discovered, then, that it took very little for alcohol's effects to work upon him). I'd been the one to clean up the blood, and there had been plenty. I had had to pull my bandana over my mouth and nose to keep from gagging (it didn't greatly help). The gun used for this killing had eviscerated a solid chunk of poor Barnes's skull. Simon, bleary, had described it with a twinkling of his fingers, and, in his very faintest voice, "Poof."

But, that was then. Back when I was still defenseless.

Ah, how things change!

I swing my sword this way and that. The pistol-grip hilt jabs into my wrist, because fencing is not supposed to be a sword-swinging sport, and it punishes me for my stupidity. I take it downstairs, into the left cabin, and try to use it on the empty air around me. Clumsy parries, saving me from nothing, and heavy lunges that take the wind out of me. A step up from being defenseless. Just one step.

Eventually, the dinner bell summons me out of my efforts, and I leave the sword in its sheath on top of the dresser. As is usual, I sit beside Simon, because he is always the first person there; and mostly this is on account of the fact that he seldom leaves the mess hall, save to drift to the cabin to replenish his ink supply or reference a book he isn't carrying, or some other dull Simon-y task. He does surface on the deck when the ship's rocking affects him, and sometimes to people-watch with his notebook in hand, and rarely, when he (shockingly) decides he needs a break from reading. He has almost finished his giant werewolf book.

Dorian, with Pete and Mike as helpers, is building something against the mess hall wall, but hasn't yet built enough for me to figure out what it is.

"Evening, Mr. Woods," I say.

He places Science Solves Curses: Second Edition between us, like always. I've stopped taking offense. "Evening, Walter."

"The captain gave me a sword."

"The captain refuses to speak with us," Simon mutters. "I know you'll be eager to hear all about it because of how desperate you are to be included in everything that we do."

I frown. Desperate. The word choice isn't flattering, and I can't help but feel insulted. "I like to be included as much as the next man."

"Yes, we know," drawls the professor, clearly referencing my eavesdropping the previous day. I was excluded! I don't regret it. "Well, I tried to hail the man, earlier, when I saw him on deck."

"And?"

"And he dismissed me, as if I weren't worth his time of day."

"Oh. Did you want to talk about what I told you?"

"What else?" He shakes his head, turning the page of his volume. "I was told that we should trust him, and that he'll tell us what we need to know when he decides he'd like to, the scoundrel. And then he goes and sends his officers to speak to all of us. You're not the only one who has been given a weapon, Walter. You and Mrs. Marks and Miss Thenshie all have swords. Dr. Oswald got a musket."

"Oh." Guiltily, I feel a twinge of disappointment in my gut. I had thought that the sword was a special gift, for my partnership with my Pa. I'd thought it made me a little special. "And you?"

He glares at the ceiling in distaste. For him to pry his eyes from his studies, it must truly be something terrible. "I get to spend more time with that madman, Cobbe."

Speaking of the devil, Cobbe swaggers in. He spits a gob of tobacco on the floor, and leaves Lucy (his favorite gun; a huge, highly mechanical weapon that's weight must be rested on the shoulder while in use) in the corner.

"Why do you think he always carries that thing?" I whisper. It's a heavy weight, and he has no use for it unless he wants to murder the rest of the crew. I can't help but feel thankful that he hasn't pulled its trigger yet, because it looks like it could do a hell of a lot of damage.

"Hello, Elian," says Simon. I blink and look over. I am ignored, of course, because Simon has found someone far more interesting to interrupt his reading. So interesting to him, in fact, that the professor closes his book and smiles. Naturally, I am left feeling inadequate.

"Hi, Simon," replies the curly-haired kitchen hand. "Found any werewolves, yet?"

Soon enough, the doctor and Lydia join us, and the majority of the crew are settled. Dorian, Pete, and Mike tidy up their work, and Elian excuses himself from Simon to assist Barker with passing out the bowls and food.

The bench across from us creaks as Leslie takes his place beside Cobbe. Simon's disappointment shows in a wrinkling of his brow, and he reopens his book. Leslie has taken Elian's place.

As is the routine, we fill our bowls with however much we desire to eat. The doctor and Lydia and I talk about how our days went, and Simon reads his book and scribbles notes. There is an oddly gleeful mood in the men around us, and their excitement shows as plain as day.

"There's been a buzz all day," Dr. Oswald tells me, though he is no more enlightened than I as to why.

"What's happened?" Eventually, I ask. I do so after a group at the end of the table declare that they can't wait any longer (what for is what I wonder about), and share a toast, and drink their booze like it's suddenly a novelty.

"New moon," says Leslie. Simon sits up straight, as if a jolt of electricity has tapped his shoulder. "Cap'n's little holiday."

Harvey Cobbe guzzles his stew, grabs Lucy, and leaves early, still picking bits of mush from his teeth.

At the very end of the dinner hour, there's a hum of anticipation, carried by murmurs and whiny whispers and nervous tics like finger-drumming and arm-scratching. When the doctor had inquired as to what the 'little holiday' was, Leslie had grinned and told us that we'd see for ourselves, and that we were lucky to be able to experience it for the first time. Every other man aboard, save for our own hired hands, had sailed with Clarke before, and knew the event well. Leslie kept anyone from telling us anything.

Lydia asks the time. Dr. Oswald draws out his fob watch.

"Ten to eight."

"He's a showman, our captain," chortles Leslie.

Simon keeps looking from his notebook to the faces of the men, supposedly doing some sort of research. It's the process of elimination, he had said. What exactly he was eliminating, I couldn't say.

"And we're not allowed to leave until he shows up?" I ask. "What about clean-up?"

"Forget clean-up! It's a new moon!"

The savants and I sink to silence, and I'm sure they're all doing the very same as I: trying to come up with what 'new moon' means to these people. As far as I'm concerned, new moon means no moon, which makes for a bleak sky.

A shrill whistle sounds, and the energy spikes in the room. Two men scramble to open the double doors, revealing a line of barrels running down the hall, into the dark. The lanterns in the hall are—and this is unusual—unlit.

I squint into the din, trying to find the captain. Gunshot sounds, and everyone ducks at once. A lantern goes out in the mess hall. Then another, and another, in quick succession until we're all blinking in darkness, inhaling gunpowder.

Stones rattle over the wood floors, heard but not seen. Then, the only sound is our breathing. Gradually, blue light appears. I notice it first on the floor, illuminating us from below our benches. Two white rocks are on my side of the table, and two are on the other side. The lights are small, but stand out in the dark, just as they had done in the secret room beneath my home.

"The rocks...," Simon whispers incredulously.

"You have one, too?" Leslie asks, staring at my neck.

I clutch the knot of my bandana. "Oh, yes." The mineral glows in a most enchanting way. It's a soft light. Like the moon's light. "Simon also has some pieces in our cabin."

Simon aggressively shushes me, shaking his head urgently, and clamping his hand over my mouth. His eyes flick about to scrutinize suspicious characters. "Quiet, Walter," he barks under his breath.

I push his hand away and he draws out his handkerchief to wipe it off. Footsteps—heavy, clunking boots—sound from the unlit hall. Boards creak. Clothing rustles as anxious pirates scratch and shift.

As the footsteps slowly draw nearer, two silhouettes start to appear against the black. The small silhouette, surely Harvey, judging by the thick porcupine mane swaying at the top of his head, makes no sound.

The captain paces along the top of the barrels that file down the hall, keeping us in wait, making no haste. His hands are behind his back. The color of his coat gradually becomes discernable. It's a new coat.

"Gentlemen," says he. "It's been a long wait for all of us."

Somehow, he manages to pull off crouching. The ceiling is not high, so he can't stand straight while strutting on top of those barrels, but even hunched over, he carries such purpose that though my eyes see him bent forward, my mind sees him strikingly poised. The coat he wears, fitted perfectly around his form, only furthers the power that he commands, decked in golden tassels and lined pockets and trim. It's the regal coat of an admiral, I recognize, though it is missing all the insignia of the Praedoran navy it belongs to.

"Years, for some," he continues. "One year for me, about. Too long."

"He's been cashiered," Simon breathes.

I look at him. "He's been what?"

"Quiet," Leslie barks. I bite my tongue.

"Gentlemen!" the captain exclaims. "I've built up quite a thirst."

The crew roars and pounds the table. Lydia puts her arm around me, sensing discomfort. I tell you, I have no discomfort. I am intrigued, and excited, and eager, and entranced. I've never felt so much tension in one room, and it is invigorating. Without lifting a finger to be so, I have become a part of something. Just being here, I am a part of it.

Captain Clarke is coming to the end of the line of barrels. "Well, I can see you're thirsty, too. And what sort of captain would I be, if I did nothing to quench that thirst? Eh?"

He starts, and leaps over the final two kegs, landing the arch of his sole upon the back of the chair at the end of the line. He rides the chair smoothly to the floor without so much as a waver at the sudden, forceful landing. His arms spread.

"The soberest man is swabbing the decks tomorrow. Roofus! Boots! Get your instruments on deck, now!"

Roofus Tussock and Boots are up and on their way, tumbling over themselves.

The captain eyes the rest of us. "Well? Flasks out, lads!" Men start to move, just as quickly and chaotically as Tussock and Boots; barely staying on their feet. In the hallway, Harvey starts to light the lanterns. Officer Langley drifts in. Clarke narrows his eyes and points at the group at the end of the table, the group with their mugs out. "I see we have a few disqualified. Tish tosh. Up, up, up! Everyone to the deck. Let's go. That means you, savants!"

We look at each other. Lydia holds me where I am.

Langley picks up the glowing rocks. Pete and Mike drift curiously out into the hall.

Leslie grins at us. "Come on, gents, and my lady. Have some fun."

"If you don't plan to, do us the favor of staying below decks," the captain drawls, turning. "You can be sure that I am only being polite in trying to include you."

"What are you celebrating?" Simon demands. More investigating.

Clarke looks back, brows furrowed. "Freedom," he answers, though the way he says it makes me skeptical. He says it offhandedly, as if saying it is only to quiet Simon, rather than to give an explanation.

He chuckles and saunters out. Leslie follows him. "Do yourselves a favor and join us. The captain's quite a dancer."

"Oh, you bet," Clarke agrees over his shoulder. "Ah, but, 'boobs below deck' might be in order tonight."

The men filling their flasks in the conga line of kegs protest immediately. Lydia turns a brilliant shade of red and lets go of me. Clarke waves his hands and gestures for them all to quiet. "Now, now, gents, we're not animals. Good heavens. Not all of us. Leave the lady be. Boobs below deck, this is final."

We're left as the last ones in the hall. Dr. Oswald and Lydia and Simon all discuss their disgust. Yes, of course it is appalling that Lydia is supposed to, according to the captain and his rules, remain below decks for her own protection. But, honestly, as long as I'm not forced to, I'm happy.

Sorry, Lydia.