The following eight days pass by so fast that I barely have the time to catch my breath. Tuesday arrives far too quickly for me to comprehend, and I awaken to a marked calendar, my brows pinched tighter than the doctor's coat. In the moment, with tasks and duties and preparations hailing me from all directions, I had managed little pause, little time for thought or consideration around my business and my responsibilities. I simply had done as I was told, walked as I was prodded, and spoke when I was spoken to.

Time is magnificent. The rush and thrill is more alive than ever in my excited heart. I hadn't seen it coming. I could have worked for weeks as I had, and it wouldn't have felt like more than a couple of days. Because, I suppose, I just didn't have time to think, but to tiredly mark a cross upon my calendar before every sleep.

I think, among the assigned schoolwork, and stable work, and research into our trip, and errands to run... the most important task of mine had been to attend my mother's promised funeral. Dr. Oswald is a generous man, and he had spared no expense on the service. There had even been a glossed casket, carved of rich mahogany. The casket remained closed, and we were supposed to pretend that there was a body inside. The house staff taking up most of the seats didn't know any better.

The doctor knew, which was why he kept checking to see if I was okay. He held my hand when the clergyman appeared at the altar. I couldn't listen to the sermon, or the words of praise in my mother's name, or any of the service. For being her son, I was the least attentive attendee.

I kept staring at the casket, imagining it open. Imagining her inside it, arms crossed over her chest in a peaceful manner, after having died in no peaceful manner at all. I pictured her blackened skin flaking away in the gentle breeze, filling the sky with sinister dust. I had to look away.

The doctor kindly offered his handkerchief, but saw how little it did to console me, and offered, instead, his chest. I spent most of the funeral buried into the comfort of his white buttoned coat, where his calming scent of tobacco and sandalwood drowned out the imaginary odor of ash and blood and pus that haunted me.

He's been checking on me more since then, though I promised him, I was truly fine. I am truly fine, I am well, I am not crying.

I'm relieved to say that I did end up crying at the funeral. For the first time, and still the only, I wept on the doctor's chest, and he let me. He even apologized at the end of it, and when I asked him why he was so sorry, he admitted that he wasn't sure, but that he felt like he may have rushed me into the funeral too soon.

I told him, 'nonsense.'

Simon, I discovered, lives in a suite on the top floor of the estate. In exchange for his medical assistance in Dr. Oswald's practices, he receives room and board at no charge.

I had seen very little of him throughout the week. When I entered the library to pick up a book on sailing or knot-tying or fencing or treasure maps, and he happened to be there, he'd mark his page, finish up his studies, and swiftly take his leave. When I entered the dining hall for breakfasts, and dinners—though he spent his lunchtimes at the university on the weekdays—I'd always see him reading at the table, but he never spoke unless spoken to, the same as I.

Sometimes, I'd ask where he had gotten to, and the doctor told me of a chemistry lab in the attic that I was strictly prohibited to enter. Simon was conducting research on my strange white rocks, testing them with all manners of chemicals and indicators.

If you are curious, he did not attend my mother's funeral service. I'd thought to be insulted, at first, but I realize that Simon never—to my knowledge—knew my mother, and he has no taste in me. He had given me odd looks at the dinner table that evening. He had met my eyes once, and the seriousness in his expression had softened for just a moment, until he looked sheepishly back to his book.

I don't understand Simon Woods.

When I'd later asked him if he was lonely, he'd shaken his head, closed his book, and assured me that he was happily married. To whom, I had to ask Dr. Oswald, for Simon did not remain in my company for long enough.

"His work," the doctor had clarified, "He insists that he is married to his work."

I also met Lydia Marks, who will be sailing with us with a keen interest in adventure. She is a travelling nurse, specializing in dealings with only the toughest patients. By this, I mean, Lydia Marks likes to manage the patients that put up a fight. She had just returned from a week-long business trip to Port Hammond, where she had dealt with the roughest salts of the sea, ailed by curses of drink and bullet wounds and infections. She's remarkably well cut-out for our exact voyage, I think. I am glad she is coming along. It is comforting, in a way. She knows how to handle herself and others, and she has got more muscle on her than the doctor, Simon, and I combined. Though, of course, none of us are particularly brawny, and to say such about her would still be an understatement, and maybe even an offence.

She could tackle at least three out of the five men that the doctor hired, I reckon.

Pete, Steven, Brutus, Mike and Rabbit are a band of weapon experts. We'd had around thirty men show up to apply to crew with us, and these were the five that were chosen. Pete and Steven had arrived together, and a few men down the line, Mike and Brutus had also come as a pair. Rabbit had been alone.

I didn't get to sit in on the interviews, but the doctor had spoken highly of each of them at the dinner table. Pete, a man with a very average build and a very tacky old waistcoat, was talented with a sword. Steven, or Stevey, knew everything that there was to know about guns and could have told you the distance a pistol fired with only a glance. Brutus was a fist-fighter and was just as brutal as he sounded. The doctor almost didn't hire him, but his partner, Mike, had charmed him. Mike was a master with knives. He could juggle them, throw them, swing them, or, he had laughed, chop the veggies with them.

Rabbit stood out as the oddest of the bunch. He was an albino, with red eyes and flour-white skin, skinny as a skeleton. His expertise was in arson and explosives, and he claimed to be able to unblock any cave-in or burn down any army. He offered also to take many night watches, for he did not like covering his sensitive skin in the sun.

Simon and Lydia and I listened to the doctor's words on them and placed our faiths in his choices. Personally, I'm still a little skeptical about Rabbit. How practical could an albino be aboard a ship? Even so, it's too late to take away his contract now. We set sail today.

In a matter of hours, I'll be far away from this crumby town, living a life of adventure!

"Just like Henry."

That's right.

"You'll be living a life of adventure, just like Henry."

Just like Pa.

INTRODUCING: THE FAITH HIRES

MIKE

PETE

RABBIT

STEVEY

BRUTUS