As predicted by the doctor, Simon was a stubborn patient, refusing to accept the offer of opiate or rate the level of pain he was in. It was a mission to keep him in his bed, which led us to taking shifts. Lydia and I watched him for an hour or two each, just to make sure he wasn't getting any worse, that he was comfortable, that he was staying still, that he didn't need anything to take the edge off. Elian volunteered himself for one of these watches as well, and he went before me. I caught him reading to Simon, commenting on the dullness of Simon's books. He made Simon smile, but laughing hurt the professor, so Elian was careful not to be too energetic.

On my watch, I lay in my hammock and stared at the ceiling, and he sat up against his pillows and did the same, and we didn't talk. I think I was his least favorite overseer. I asked about the mark on his back, and he took a breath so sharp that I had to fetch Dr. Oswald to calm the coughing fit that followed.

Dr. Oswald made the professor do simple exercises during his watches. He applied the last of the oil in the afternoon. Simon's food was brought to him, to his protest. Above decks, the rest of us continued to learn our weapons. Captain Clarke joined Lydia and I for a solid half hour, and I'd been inwardly giddy about it. It kept running through my head that he was my pa. Before he left us, he'd given me Simon's collection of broken rock pieces, which I'd returned to the professor on my watch that evening.

The watch system worked seamlessly, for the most part. I could see Simon's stubbornness ebbing away by the second morning, when he asked for tea, and snapped at Dr. Oswald when the doctor reminded him about the spirits. The spirits in the tea put him to sleep. The fight in Simon had not lasted.

The captain was kind enough to put a reef in the sails and take the ship a little further from the Giant's Claw current, which has done well to reduce the uncomfortable rocking below decks. He kindly takes our comfort into consideration. The Giant's Ring, about twice the height of our masts, sits about three miles away. The current is only half a mile.

I relieve Elian from his watch in the afternoon and sink into my hammock, preparing for another hour or so of boredom. We lay in near silence. His struggle to breathe is the only noticeable sound, as is usual. Lydia told me that when he breathes, his lungs scrape against his ribs, and that's what makes it hurt so much.

"Walter," says Simon, and I start. It's been half an hour at least.

I peer over my hammock's edge, expecting him to ask me for something, like another cup of spirit-tainted tea, or a glass of brandy, or water. He hasn't asked me for anything, yet.

He glumly finds my eyes. "Thank you."

I wait for him to elaborate.

He takes his time. He looks exhausted. Pretending everything was fine for a whole day has left him in even worse shape. "For saving me. Thank you."

I can't say that I hadn't thought about it. I'm no hero. It irritated me to no end to not have received thanks, and that was one of the things I thought about on my watches all of yesterday. Stewing on it.

"The mark on my back," Simon continues, slowly and carefully, "is not my own doing. I do not follow the religion of Daim's Trough. I can barely call myself a follower of the Crest. I'm not a religious man. I'm sorry if it offended you."

"Who did it to you? Why?" Daim's Trough; all things evil. To carry His mark is to carry a curse.

Prodding his glasses up his nose, he tiredly glares back at the ceiling. "I don't owe you anything. Certainly not personal information. I explained that much out of courtesy. I wouldn't want you to think of me as an embracer of sin."

I frown and hang my arms over the hammock's edge. "I bet Dr. Oswald and Mrs. Marks know. And Elian, too."

"Mr. Arrow does not," Simon mutters. Mr. Arrow! As if. Even I am on first name basis with Elian Arrow. He's an odd mixture of man and child, ready to turn from playful and youthful to stoic and matured in an instant. "And he hasn't pried."

Hmph. "Ask me anything about myself, and I'll tell you," I say with absolute certainty. "You should do the same. Mutual trust, sir. I saved your life."

He stiffens and fully swivels to face me, polka-dotted socks thumping the floor, which he isn't supposed to do; especially not so abruptly. A bout of rib-shaking coughing punishes him. I consider fetching Dr. Oswald, but the professor starts making gestures at me to stay put, and I know he's going to give me a good telling-off. I gulp.

He hugs one of his pillows to his chest. The hacking takes a while to die off. It's like each cough shovels energy out of him, and the series takes most of what he has left. He feels his right side, which is the side with three ribs broken. I'd suggest for him to lie down, but I know very well that he wouldn't listen.

He gradually recovers his breath and gives me a look so fierce that I forget his weakness and his pajamas. He stands up, shaking his finger at me.

"Now, listen here, boy."

Oh dear. I sit back as he steps closer.

"You can't hold this over my head," the professor sternly growls, "or try to use it to own me. I am not indebted to you. I am not going to grovel at your feet or kiss your toes. We both know you were going to let go. In fact, I tried to ask you to, but my tongue was quite tied. You can play hero if it makes you feel big, but don't you dare use it against me. Remember that I saved us all by rooting out the werewolves. I haven't rubbed that into any faces. Don't be such a child. If you have even an ounce of respect, you will respect my privacy."

I catch myself trembling, because I know he is right, and I am wrong, and I am acting like a child, but I am not a child. I am not a child.

The way he looks at me makes me feel small. I feel like I want to be small. Smaller, and smaller, until I can just disappear and hide from those scolding eyes.

Then his chest shudders, and his fierceness is broken by his injury. He takes deep breaths, turning away. He crawls under his covers and faces the wall.

I hug myself.

"I won't ask again. I'm sorry."

But, he tells me the very next day. I don't know if it's because he's sorry for barking at me, or if he's guilty for not trusting me, or if he just wants it off his chest, but he tells me. I don't ask why, because I'm treading on thin ice with the man.

"I committed a crime," he says, again breaking a half hour of awkward silence, "and the branding was punishment."

Of course, I have questions. Of course, I want to pry about what crime he committed, and who did the punishing. I say instead, and I think it's very mature of me, "Thank you for telling me."

He knows I want more, but he makes me sit for a while. I find myself anxiously twiddling my thumbs, my eyes flicking discreetly over to him periodically, willing him to tell me more. He watches out the window, quietly observing the sea, ignoring me.

Eventually, lost in thought, the professor gives a long, wistful sigh. "Young love." What in Laod's name? I lean over my hammock's edge. He melts back into his pillows, his memories. "My father did not approve of my choice."

I gasp, outraged. "Love was your crime?"

His brows pinch, and he gives me a disapproving look.

I wave my hands in front of myself. "I don't mean that that's any less exciting, honest! I just don't get why love would be a crime, that's all. You were burned with the mark of a sinner for falling in love? That's what you're telling me, and I—I don't understand it."

The weird but welcome softness returns to his features and he relaxes again. "We'll say... it was forbidden. Who I chose was... forbidden. Our families were both religious, and bound to Praedor's laws, and we were not a match by those standards and beliefs."

Forbidden! A rebellious young Simon with a forbidden love? The bookworm gets more interesting every day! It almost makes him likable. Almost. I open my mouth to prod him to continue, but stop myself. I don't want to push my luck.

He'll carry on. Surely, he'll carry on, don't you think?

It feels like forever passes, and for the first time, I fear the end of my shift. When he doesn't speak up, I eventually break. A simple question. Nothing that could be offensive or make me sound stupid. "What was her name?"

He smiles faintly and closes his eyes. "Sandy."

"Was she pretty?"

"Oh... beautiful."

And he looks so tranquil at the thought; so tranquil that I almost want to leave it at that. But I can't resist; the doctor would be taking over the watch soon. I need to know more.

"Did you continue to see her after you were punished?"

"Neither of our families approved when they caught us. I suppose I should be thankful that mine was more lenient." He opens his eyes to the ceiling and blankly stares. "Sandy was de-sexed, like a common dog, and died of infection a week after."

My eyes bulge, and I involuntarily stammer at the imagery he has provided me. "That- that's barbaric!"

He continues plainly, as though the story no longer phases him. As if he's come to terms with it all. With his lover being de-sexed. Call me naïve, but I didn't even think that women could be de-sexed. It must have been utterly medieval. "And I, disowned, was thrown onto the streets," he says, and his tone grows bitter, "with Sandy's body to bury, because it was worth as much as dirt to the family." My jaw drops and my chest sort of swells with an embarrassingly matronly sympathy for the man. "And I haven't fallen in love since, because I can't without committing punishable crime, and sin, as is the way of the world."

"Gosh, Sim... Professor Woods..." Articulate as I am, I can't conjure up any response worthy. I can't console him. Even if I were referring to an instructional book on comforting (and I'm sure they exist), I would still have no words. I lower my eyes to the floor, because I can't bear his stillness. "I'm glad I'm not religious."

He shakes his head. "Religion isn't the problem, Walter..."

Lydia and Dr. Oswald are both religious, and despite Simon's unfair sins, (why was his love forbidden?) they remain as companions to him.

"It's the people who put it above basic human decency. The people who take it too far."

"What made your love forbidden?"

He fixes me with his teacher eyes. "I will keep that to myself. You have had enough, Walter."

I bite the inside of my cheek. Disappointing. "Okay, Mr. Woods." Men don't whine.