The morning glimmers dull and restless along the Sunlit Rose, fog clinging in ragged patches to the gunwales and rolling off the sea like a breath withheld for too long. Out on the weathered starboard rail, Borin sits, one thick leg propped on the rope fender, the other swinging above the water in time with the ship's slow rock. Smoke curls lazily from the bowl of his pipe, painting pale trails into the mist. He listens, or half-listens, as Jareth prowls nearby, his boots hitting the deck in a steady, disgruntled rhythm.
Grumbles spill from the captain as easily as breath. He curses a loose shroud here, mutters about lazy hands here, voice pitched low so only Borin truly hears. Between complaints, he scowls at a half-mended coil of rope, jaw working as if chewing on something far more stubborn than cordage. The old Bramling makes a small noise—a grunt of vague acknowledgement—eyes focused on the rolling horizon, pipe perched at the edge of his mouth.
Waves slap softly against the hull, a comforting rhythm. The ship feels settled; crewmen busy themselves along the main deck, some checking lines, others cleaning salt from brasswork or hauling barrels in pairs. For now, the world holds its peace, interrupted only by the occasional mutter and Borin's slow exhale of smoke.
Light footsteps approach from behind, a gentle patter distinct from the booted tread of the other men. Thorn appears at the edge of the quarterdeck, hovering uncertainty for a moment before drifting closer. His usual brightness—always a ready smile or a soft quip waiting to slip from his lips—is dimmed. Something uneasy shadows his gentle features, enough that Borin's attention sharpens.
The Faerie pauses a short distance away, hesitating as if deciding whether to interrupt. Jareth, impatient, is the first to notice this chance. His brow furrows, lines deepening across his forehead as he studies Thorn with wary suspicion.
"Mornin', Thorn," Borin calls, voice soft but expectant. The warmth he reserves for the youngest crew is clear. "Ye look like a fish outta water. Somethin' wrong?"
Thorn's gaze flickers between them, nervous energy working in the flutter of his wings. His hands fidget with the hem of his tunic. "Would you… would you both come with me for a moment?" His words are light, but the usual sing-song cadence has gone flat, replaced by an anxious gravity that makes Borin's jaw tighten. "Someplace a bit more private, if you wouldn't mind."
A meaningful glance passes between captain and quartermaster. Jareth straightens, crossing his arms as he follows Thorn's gaze toward a quieter stretch of the deck. There behind the windbreak of canvas and barrels, they gather, shielded from prying eyes and ears.
The three stand together; Jareth, bristling with impatience and a faint shadow of concern; Borin, watchful and steady; and Thorn, who seems to shrink in on himself as he gathers his thoughts.
For a heartbeat, Thorn struggles to find the right words. His gaze drops to his feet, the laces on his shoes suddenly fascinating. When he speaks, it's with uncharacteristic hesitation. "I've been watching Naomi. Only a little! Not strangely," he adds hastily, glancing sidelong at the captain.
Jareth's arms tighten across his chest. A cold glint sharpens in his eyes, a subtle warning rather than an outright challenge. He says nothing, but the message is clear: keep talking, and choose your words with care.
Thorn catches himself and lifts his hands in gentle defence, a soft laugh slipping out despite the tension. "Not like that, Captain. She's just… well, hard to miss, isn't she? New faces always draw the eye. But there's something odd." He glances at Borin, seeking support. "She's… thinner than I expected. Too thin for fae, even after a week aboard."
Jareth scowls, shifting his weight. "She eats fine," he snaps, voice bristling. "Saw her at breakfast yesterday. Had a bowl of porridge. Nothin' strange about her, far as I can see."
A sigh escapes Thorn, softer than the wind brushing through his hair. He gives a small shake of his head, gaze full of gentle exasperation. "She takes just enough to avoid notice. That's not the same as eating well, is it?" His words carry no accusations, just quiet worry. "Her arms, her wrists… there's hardly any flesh on them at all."
Borin's frown deepens, the lines of his face drawing around thoughtful eyes. "Aye, I've noticed it too," he admits, puffing his pipe in slow, measured intervals. "But what do ye think's causing it, lad? Sickness?"
Thorn hesitates. His wings flutter, and he folds his hands together, gaze flitting between the two larger men. "I can't say for sure," he confesses. "It could be nothing, but… has anyone seen her really eat? Not just a nibble, but finish a plate?"
A long silence stretches. Jareth's mouth pulls tight, and for once, he struggles to find his usual quick defence. "Nerrick told me she left her stew untouched," he admits reluctantly. "Said he found the bowl still full come morning." He looks away, the memory of his own failed attempt at conversation—the awkwardness, the strawberry—making him scowl harder. "I went to talk to her about it, but…" He mutters, trailing off.
Borin's gaze sharpens. He lowers his pipe, giving Thorn his full attention. "Ye think she's starvin' herself, then? On purpose?"
The hollowborn Faerie frowns, thoughtful rather than condemning. "I don't know if it's on purpose. It's just… it's like she doesn't know how to take more. Like she's always waiting for someone to eat first. I remember seeing it once before, when I was living with my kin. It's common among those who've gone hungry for too long. Even when there's plenty, they act like every meal might be the last. Fae aren't meant to be that thin, not unless something's wrong inside."
Jareth's expression shifts, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face. "She looks healthy enough," he tries, stubbornness clinging to his words. "Works hard, never complains. She'd say if she was ill'."
Thorn's head tips, a smile hovering at the edge of his lips, more rueful than amused. "You'd be surprised, Captain. The quiet ones rarely say anything, especially about themselves. Besides, you know as well as I do that pride and habit can hide a great deal."
For a while. The only sound is the distant cry of gulls and the faint rush of waves against the hull. Borin weighs Thorn's words, pipe dangling forgotten between his teeth. "You think we've got a case of Ghost-Bitin'?"
Thorn's brow furrows. "Ghost Biting?" he echoes, searching Borin's eyes for meaning.
Borin shifts, boots scraping on the deck as he sets his pipe aside. "Sailor's term. Means someone's got it in their head they don't deserve their share. Usually happens ta folks who've been through lean years—children, mostly. Land dwellers call it the Voluntary Starvation Reflex. They act as if they're haunted, like they're stealin' from a ghost at the table."
Recognition dawns in Thorn's eyes, mingling with a flicker of sadness. "That fits," he says quietly. "I think she's carrying more than she lets on."
Jareth grunts, the sound guttural and uncertain. "She's never said as much. And she's not a child. Should know better by now."
Thorn gives him a look of gentle patience, almost teasing. "Sometimes, Captain, knowing better isn't enough to change what's been learned. Not if you've lived with hunger, or fear, or shame. Old lessons are the hardest to unlearn. You, of all people, should know that."
Borin leans forward, elbows on his knees, gaze turning inward as he considers. "So, what do we do about it, then?" The question hangs heavy, laced with genuine concern. "Can't have her fadin' away before she's found her sea legs."
Thorn brightens slightly, some of his usual playfulness returning. "Well, if you want my advice, you don't corner her. You don't make a fuss." His eyes linger on Jareth, pointed but kind. "Sometimes, the best thing to do is to make the table feel safe. Let her see there's enough for everyone, every time. No one goes without, not even her."
Jareth's jaw clenches. He doesn't like the feeling of helplessness, of problems that can't be solved with orders or a firm hand. "Fine. We'll keep an eye. I'll… make sure she knows there's plenty. That she's not in anyone's way."
A small smile flickers across Thorn's lips. "That might be the best start, Captain." He tilts his head, wings shimmering faintly in the morning sun. "And maybe next time there's fruit at the table, let her be the first to reach for it."
Borin lets out a soft, rumbling laugh, his eyes glinting with approval. "Aye, lad. Subtle as always. Well done." He claps Thorn gently on the shoulder, the motion affectionate and solid.
The morning deepens into clearer skies as Borin and Jareth pace slowly back across the deck, return to the routine that anchors their day. Sunlight spills freely now, touching each corner of the ship with warmth and colour. Seabirds call from somewhere overhead, their distant cries weaving seamlessly into the rhythm of the crew's work.
Jareth keeps his gaze pinned firmly downward, watching the well-worn planks move steadily beneath his boots. Thorn's words cling stubbornly in the corners of his mind, nagging him like a splinter he can't ignore. Truth, unwelcome and raw, simmers in his chest. The knowledge demands action, yet his pride tangles every instinct. He clenches his jaw, teeth grinding in restless frustration.
Beside him, Borin walks calmly, the measured tread of his shorter legs making a distinct counter-rhythm to the captain's longer strides. The Bramling quartermaster lifts his head, thoughtfully watching the sky for a moment, then slides a sharp sideways glance at the brooding captain.
"Ye know what I'm gonna ask ye, lad," Borin starts mildly, a rough edge of humour colouring his words as he taps his pipe against his palm, ash scattering softly on the breeze.
A short, annoyed curse escapes the captain's lips as he kicks at a stray coil of rope on the deck. Irritation flickers deep in his blue eyes, but beneath it lies a faint, begrudging resignation. "If you're asking if I choked out an apology yet—then no," he growls. The words scrape reluctantly past his lips, roughened by pride. "I tried yesterday. Gods know I tried. But things got… complicated."
The quartermaster's brows lift in silent inquiry, the lines of his rugged face deepening into amused scepticism. Borin's silence holds patient expectation, an invitation rather than a demand.
Jareth huffs out a weary sigh of exasperation. He pauses, scratching absently at his beard, eyes narrowing as he recalls the incident. "Went down to the second galley, meanin' to tell her about Nerrick's worries and set things right," he mutters, voice growing quieter as he speaks. "Didn't even manage half a bloody sentence before she shoved a strawberry straight into my mouth. Caught me off guard, it did. Then, before I could gather my wits again, Bram barged in, yammerin' about how she was needed in the medical wing."
A snort of laughter bursts free from Borin's throat, the gruff sound both incredulous and delighted. He tips his head, chest rumbling heartily beneath his rough-spun shirt. "Gods below, lad. A strawberry?" He wipes tears of laughter from his eyes, shaking his head. "Only ye could turn an apology inta a fruit assault."
Jareth glares sharply down at the quartermaster, unamused. His face burns brightly beneath his beard, embarrassment and irritation warring openly in his expression. "Aye, laugh it up, old man," he grumbles, a scowl pulling the corners of his mouth into a deeper frown. "You weren't the one standin' there with juice dripping down your chin, lookin' like a damned fool."
The older man's laughter softens into a gentler chuckle, the humour fading into something warmer and more thoughtful. He claps one broad, sturdy hand against Jareth's elbow; a friendly gesture, the highest he can comfortably reach on the towering captain. "Don't be sulkin' now," Borin says warmly, voice losing its teasing edge. "Apologies and Thrundels ain't never exactly walked hand-in-hand, have they? Least ye tried. Most men I know would've never got even that far."
A faint, reluctant grunt escapes the captain. Beneath his irritation simmers genuine frustration at how quickly control had slipped from his fingers, how easily Naomi's gentleness had unsettled him. He scrubs a hand roughly over his face, a growl of irritation rumbling softly in his chest. "It doesn't matter how close I came if the bloody words never left my tongue," he mutters bitterly.
The older Bramling watches the captain closely, wise eyes narrowing slightly. He puffs thoughtfully on his pipe, smoke wreathing gently around his head, drifting with the breeze. "Maybe not," Borin says quietly, a softer, kinder note entering his voice. "But I reckon it matters more that ye want ta say it. Ain't like ye ta worry about such things… not unless the person matters ta ye more than ye let on."
The captain's stride falters slightly, a brief hesitation betraying his surprise at Borin's words. He presses his lips tight together, refusing to answer directly, though the quartermaster's knowing gaze pierces sharply through his feigned indifference.
Silence wraps around them, heavy yet oddly comforting. The gentle roll of the sea beneath and the distant cries of gulls overhead form a steady backdrop. Borin waits patiently, giving Jareth space to sort through the tangled threads of his own thoughts.
Something moves lightly across the far side of the deck, catching Jareth's eye and pulling his gaze upward. Naomi flutters quietly between the crew, her small figure moving gracefully amid the bustling men as they hoist crates and scrub decks. She works diligently, helping wherever her slight frame allows, never drawing unnecessary attention to herself.
This morning, however, the captain's gaze sharpens into scrutiny. Thorn's words returning with unexpected clarity. He studies Naomi discreetly, finally allowing himself to truly look—to see beyond the quick glimpses and polite glances. What he finds unsettles him deeply, a weight settling painfully upon his heart.
She's pale, far paler than he realised. The sunlight, bright and unforgiving, reveals hollows beneath her eyes and a quiet weariness softening her usually bright expression. Her cheeks, once lightly flushed and healthy, now appear drawn and delicate, as though even gentle winds might bruise them. Jareth's eyes trace the slender lines of her shoulders and arms, unease tightening in his throat as he recognises how slight she truly is. Her wrists, so finely boned, look fragile enough to snap beneath even the slightest pressure.
Even her clothing, items he'd purchased specifically for her comfort not a week past, seem loose on her now. Fabric bellows gently where it should fit snug, hanging limply around her thin shoulders. The sight is quiet yet powerful proof of Thorn's worry. Guilt coils sharply in Jareth's chest, the knowledge of his oversight suddenly bitter and painful.
"Godlings," he whispers roughly, more to himself than Borin. "Didn't see it before, but Thorn's right. The lass is fading."
Borin follows Jareth's gaze, eyes softening with concern as he watches Naomi's gentle form drift quietly about the deck. He nods slowly, a quiet sigh slipping from his lungs. "Aye," the older man agrees. "'Tis easy ta miss what ye don't expect ta see. But now ye have, the important part is decidin' what ye'll do about it."
The captain grunts softly, acknowledgment rather than agreement. His pride, stubborn and ingrained, still resists the thought of openly admitting fault. But beneath his gruff exterior, worry digs sharp claws into his chest.
He looks away from the Faerie and meets Borin's steady gaze. In the older man's eyes shines an understanding that few others aboard the Rose possess; the understanding of a man who has watched the captain grow from a reckless, prideful youth into the fierce but complicated leader he is today.
"The crew depends on me to notice things," Jareth murmurs, voice heavy with quiet admission. "To notice her."
Borin's weathered features crease into a faint smile, tempered with patience and affection. "And ye have noticed it, lad," he says gently. "Now comes the hard part—swallowin' yer pride 'n showin' it."
Jareth straightens, forcing his gaze back toward Naomi, a faint crease of determination settling between his brows. A silent promise forms within; an oath to himself, to the crew, and to the Faerie who'd somehow slipped quietly beneath his defences. He'll not let pride or embarrassment silence the words that need speaking again.
He squares his shoulders, resolve stiffening in his spine as he watches her for a moment longer, commitment etched firmly in the set of his jaw. "Aye," he finally answers Borin, voice steady and quietly determined. "I'll show it."
The Bramling gives a small nod, pride clear in the simple gesture. He reaches up, gripping Jareth's forearm, offering a reassuring squeeze.
Morning work settles into its quiet rhythm, and a pattern reveals itself before the hour turns. Every time a task finds her, the captain is not that far. A knot to the check at the mainmast, and he's there testing the tension of the strays. A ledger to carry to Thalro. And he appears at the quarterdeck rail, reviewing headings with Vak. A bucket run to the galley, and his boots pass the hatch just as she slips by. None of it looks deliberate. He never turns when she does. He never hovers in the obvious way men sometimes do. Yet the nearness repeats enough to tug at her attention until it feels like a tide.
To make sure she's not imagining it, small experiments follow. She lifts into the air and drifts toward the forepeak with a coil of spare line; below, his stride angels to the bow under the excuse of checking the anchors. She drops beside Ghaesh to help coil a salt-stiff hawser; a moment later, the captain pauses there to ask about the weather. She ducks into the shadow of the longboat to sort a crate of lamp oil; his hand appears in view to test the lashings.
Wind carries the sharp scent of tar and citrus soap, the soft creak of old timbers and the quick chatter of Kaspar needling Murdoc into a reluctant grin. Sunlight flashes along rigging like thin blades. Her wings catch the light when she shifts, a scattering of colour that fades as soon as she holds them tight again. The crew moves in lines and loops learned by habit. In that rush, she feels steady. Useful. Still, the awareness of Jareth close by keeps pricking at the edge of thought.
Memory tries to slide another prickle in with it: the strawberry she pushed into his mouth yesterday rather than why she hadn't touched Nerrick's stew. Heat climbs her neck even now. The act hadn't been planned; it leapt out of her palms before sense could catch it. Fruit is easy. Words are hard. Her father always said a Faerie's hands tell on her heart when her voice hesitates. By the look in the captain's eyes—the startle first, the flush after—her hands told plenty.
A trio of gulls shriek and wheel low, snapping the thread of embarrassment. She sets a crate of sail patches down by the mainmast and brushes her palm on her trousers. Across the deck, Thorn lounges on a coil of rope, all careless angels and bright attention, trading jokes with Hamish. He shoots her a small salute when he notices her watching; playful, but the look behind it weighs and measures. Borin smokes near the rail with the patient calm of old trees, his pipe smoke drifting into the icy glare of the morning. None of them call out. Still, she feels seen in a way that's not hostile, only cautious.
If she's imagining trouble, she wants to know. If she's not imagining it, she wants to know that too. Waiting never makes fear smaller.
With the choice made, she tracks the captain until the flow of work leaves him briefly unclaimed. He stands nearby a cleat near the waist, talking under his breath with Jarlok, then sends the helmsmen off with a curt nod. Gulls wheel again. The ship gives a slow breath as a swell passes under the keel. She wipes her fingers on her trousers and crosses the fifteen steps that feel like fifty.
Up close, the little details stand out as they always do. Salt at the edges of his beard, a scar along the knuckle of his right hand. A new stitch of mended thread at the pocket seam of his coat where Borin must have scolded him into letting it be repaired. The sight of the mending, of all things, steadies her.
"Captain?" The question comes gentle to keep from snagging on anyone else's ears. Her mouth tries to shape a smile and thinks better of it. "Have I done something wrong?"
For half a heartbeat, he looks as startled as if she's tapped him on the shoulder in a dream. His eyes drop to her face, then checks the deck mind her. Whatever calculation runs there clears. "No, lass. You haven't." The tone lives little room for doubt. "If you had, you'd know."
Relief loosens the muscles along her shoulders. No trouble. Or not that kind of trouble. She begins asks another question, something softer about the way he keeps turning up near where she works, but he lifts a hand, the gesture quiet rather than sharp.
"Since you're here," he adds, voice low enough to keep the words between them, "I need you in my cabin tonight."
The words land with weight. Her hands tighten around the hem of her shirt before she can stop them. The captain's cabin is a place for orders, charts, decisions carved out of hard hours, not for small fae with too many questions and a talent for getting in the way of knives. The part of her that runs on caution goes still. "… Why?"
"You'll know when you come." He lets the answer stay there. No threat in it. No warmth either. Only certainty, like a line drawn on a map.
A breath slips out that she doesn't remember pulling in. "All right," she says, and finds the edge of poise again. "I'll be there." The pendant at her throat moves slightly as she swallows. She habitually rubs the crescent once, then releases it before he notices.
Work calls her back. Ghaesh needs hands at the capstan and a lighter touch on the timing than Murdoc's temper can give. A run of deck pegs has cracked along the seam and needs replacing. The herb pots in the galley's high window beg for water before the sun turns them to paper. Each task distracts, then sends her thoughts circling to the same centre.
The cabin. Tonight. A talk he wouldn't have on an open deck.
Coincidence resumes as if nothing passed between them. When she takes the ledger downstairs to copy a list for Thalro, the captain appears at the head of the ladder to check on lamp oil. When she returns, he's just finished telling Vak to shift the course a degree or two. She crouches to retie a loose line, and his shadow falls beside a knot a moment later because he's found another frayed end for someone to fix. If she hadn't asked, she would still call it chance.
Now, however, her pulse insists on hearing intent in every step.
"Little wing," Thorn calls in passing, easy and light as ever. "Tell the cook his tea is tasting less like rope and more like actual leaves today. It'll terrify him in the best way." He looks past her shoulder at the captain's back as Jareth moves off toward the mizzen and tucks his mouth into a thoughtful line. "And eat something that isn't air," he add more quietly, not scolding, just present. Then the Hollowborn flicks two fingers in a farewell and lets the ship swallow him.
Nerrick's voice floats up from the galley hatch a beat later, muttering about people who think strawberries make up a full philosophy of nutrition. She winces, not from shame so much as from how clearly everyone seems to notice the things she tries to make invisible. The bowl had gone untouched last night not because the stew was unkind, but because she couldn't make herself lift the spoon when the deck smelled like worry and the galley sounded like knives. Old habits don't care about logic. They care about never taking more than a fair share, even when the share offered is generous.
A task that needs quiet hands comes as a reprieve. Two prayer-ribbons have torn on the spare bell lines, and nobody wants to tempt luck by leaving them ragged. Tucked into the lee of the quarterdeck bulkhead, she threads a new silk where the old has frayed and hums under her breath to settle her nerves. The sea hums back in the boards, deep and even. Halfway through the second knot, a shadow touches the edge of her work. The captain stops, not quite looking at what she does, but not moving on either.
"You're certain I haven't—" she starts, then stops herself. She can't spare the energy it takes to ask questions.
His answer comes without waiting for the full shape of the thought. "I'm certain," he says. The dryness in it almost makes her smile. "You're not in trouble."
"And tonight?" The words come quietly, but not timidly.
"Tonight," he says, "is a conversation. That's all." He glances at the ribbon and, to her surprise, adds, "Good seam." The compliment is as small as a coin and just as solid. He leaves before it can turn awkward.
For a while after, the ship gives her simple work. Lines to flake, a chalk mark to lie along a splintered rail so that someone with bigger tools will see it and not forget. Kaspar turns up with a loose bolt he insists has developed a personality and needs counselling, and she laughs despite herself. Ghaesh rumbles thanks when she keeps the last of the hawser from sliding into a snarl. These ordinary kindnesses busy her hands while her mind sifts through what tonight could be.
It could be a reprimand dressed in gentler words. It could be a set of rules he wants her to learn in private so the deck won't hear him indulge the fae. It could be a peace offering in the blunt shape of the captain's speech. She doesn't count on the last one. She won't bet on that. Still, the pendant he chose sits warm at her throat, its woven blessings remembering his hand. He keeps turning up when danger swings loose. When she asked if she'd failed him, he didn't reach for anger. A Faerie raised to read small signs keeps count of such things.
A sharp crack of sound skips the water as an Aeravi fumbles a block. It swings wide on its line, scything toward her head. Instinct pulls her back, the breath catching in her throat—then a large hand catches the rope above, grip locking it fast. The arc dies in a hard, controlled jolt, the block coming to rest a hand's span from her ear. Air slips back into her lungs in a narrow thread. When she glances up, the captain's arm is still raised, muscles drawn tight under his sleeve, jaw set against the strain. For a moment they both listen to the thud of their own pulses.
"Eyes up," he says to the rattled Aeravi without raising his voice. "You want your block, keep your grip." Then his gaze returns to her, checks her for damage as if she were a line to in inspected and eases. No fuss. No theatrics. Only the steady assurance of a man who is always exactly where the moment requires him to be. "You all right?" he asks, softer."
"I am," she manages. "Thank you." He grunts, not quite dismissal, and steps back. The line pays through his hand in a controlled slide until the tension is safe. Work assumes around them as if the scare never happened.
After that, the ship feels a shade kinder. The sun edges higher, laying a warm stripe across the deck where she pauses with Thorn to split a piece of honeyed bread that Nerrick swears appeared on the cooling rack by accident. Borin strides past and pretends not to see them steal it. Vak calls for a shift in course, and the wheel creaks at the Rose leans into the new angle. For a handful of breaths, she lets the familiar rhythm sink into her, the kind that marks a ship as a living thing—full of moods and bones—and feels herself understanding them both.
The thought of the cabin doesn't vanish; in fact, it settles heavy as a book in her satchel, something to carry until the hour turns. She considers what to bring. Not flowers. Not food, not after the stew. Words will be enough. The last time she tried to solve unease with an offering, she stole a strawberry from her own bowl and pressed it into the mouth of a man who used to be a stranger. He still is in so many important ways. He's also the person who just caught a swinging block rather than let it bruise her skull. Both truths can sit side by side.
By late watch, the brass of the spyglass gleams in the sunlight at the helm. The horizon behaves itself. No black sails slice the line where sea meets sky. Crew voices blur into a single familiar murmur. At the railing, the captain stands with his back to her, coat tugged by the wind, posture as steady as the mast. The sight hooks at something in her chest that isn't fear, but not quite comfort either. Something like the stillness before a storm, when the air turns sharp and clean in the mouth.
She hasn't done something wrong. Another question waits for nightfall. Until then, there' work to finish, and breath to spend on small things that keep a ship from coming apart. She sets her palms against the warm deck and pushes to her feet. "All right," she tells the quiet part of herself that would rather float above the noise, "we keep going."
Across the planks, the captain turns as if he heard, but he is looking past her at Vak, already focused on whatever the sea plans next. She smiles at nothing in particular, tightens the ribbon at the end of her braid, and heads for the ladder with the next task in mind, the promise of a talk tucked safe behind her ribs like a coin kept deep in her pocket, waiting for the right moment.