Look Before You Kiss

"Lord! I wonder what fool it was that first invented kissing."
-Jonathan Swift

The girls were walking ahead, talking about things that the boys had absolutely no desire to listen to or be involved in. It had been that way for some time, really; they kept their own counsel, as though some invisible line had been drawn a year or so before that neither side felt the urge to cross.

Harold didn't mind. When he did happen to listen to their conversations, it usually only took him about a minute to figure out that he really wanted no part of understanding the female mind, even if those minds happened to belong to his sisters.

He had, however, started taking a bit of interest in the female body. Most emphatically not his sisters, but there were a few girls in school that he stole looks at here or there. Just sometimes; most of the time, he still thought that they were a little too weird to associate with.

But today, at almost-twelve, he had stolen more than a look.

"All right, what'd you do this time?"

George was no longer in school; he had started his apprenticeship recently and was therefore a proper 'working man' of sorts. Still, there were days that he was finished early, and even on some of those days, he showed up to walk with his siblings back home. He was even starting to look like a man; Harold wondered occasionally about the unfairness that not only was his brother always taller than him, but now he was much taller.

At the question, Harold found himself something else to look at. In this case, some weeds growing rampant along the roadside. "What makes you think I did something? You always think I'm up to no good." He made a face, even if he still wasn't quite able to throw it at his brother. "You should give me the benefit of the doubt."

George scoffed. It was not a surprising reaction. "What makes me think...? Besides the fact that you look like the kitten when it brought home that mouse?"

The kitten had been quite proud of itself. It had strutted right up to the girls with its head and tail held high, the living embodiment of self-satisfaction, and dropped a dead mouse at their feet. The little furball had been so very happy with its accomplishment; of course, the pudding was in the shrieks from the girls at being offered a mutilated mouse carcass.

Upon a moment's reflection, Harold had to admit that he probably was showing some of the same self-satisfaction, despite his best efforts not to. He was a little ambivalent about whether or not to brag -- on one hand, he really did want to tell. On the other...

Nevermind.

"I kissed a girl," he said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing utterly.

On the other, gentlemen weren't supposed to kiss and tell. Luckily enough for him, he had never proclaimed himself a gentleman.

His pride was a little stung, though, at the amusement in George's answer, "Oh, did you? Did she scream and run away?"

That was enough to prompt Harold to level a black-eyed look over. "As a matter of fact, she was quite happy with it!" He stuck his nose up in the air for a moment, then after a pause had to admit, "I don't really see the appeal. I mean, it was nice... but I don't understand why men have been going on and on about it for centuries."

"I think you'll figure that part out sooner than later." The amusement was only growing in George's voice. "Just tell me that she wasn't a nag."

"No, no. It was Helen. You know--"

"--the preacher's niece?!"

Harold stopped in his tracks for a moment, and George stopped a pace later. "Is she?"

George raised an eyebrow and nodded, though it was obvious that he was trying very hard not to smile. "You blasphemer. It never crossed your mind, did it?"

"Well, no! She didn't mention it!"

"And you didn't notice her sitting with his family in church?"

Harold didn't really care for church. It wasn't so much that he didn't believe in God, but he didn't honestly see much of a point to sitting still and quiet in a pew, listening to a sermon while wearing a too-stiff-and-clean shirt, especially when he would much rather be out on a boat. He couldn't understand why he couldn't just believe in the Almighty on a boat; why did he have to go and bother with the formalities?

In as such, no, he had not noticed; he usually just browsed the prayer book or stared out the window, brought back to focus only by a sharp pinch from his mother or one of his sisters. He didn't bother saying that, though. "Do you suppose that she'll say something?"

"If I were you, I would hope not." George finally couldn't contain himself anymore and smirked. "I can see it now: Scandal! Preacher's niece defiled by Barmouth's most notorious hellion! Hellion driven out of town with pitchforks and rocks!"

He knew, of course, that his brother was just teasing him. There was no way that he would end up driven out of town for something as silly as a kiss, no matter who was the one being kissed. He might just have to apologize or something likewise humiliating; on second thought, that might actually be worse than being driven out of town.

Knowing full well that this was not the last he would hear of it, at least from George, Harold frowned to himself and started walking again.

He did take with him one piece of "wisdom," though.

"It might be nice. But it's sure not worth this."

Leaving Home

"I know well what I am fleeing from but not what I am in search of."
-Michel de Montaigne

He stood on the loading docks in the darkness before the dawn, and listened to the creaking of wood. It was a familiar sound; one didn't grow up on the seaside without being drawn to it, almost constantly, and Harold had already spent quite a few of his fourteen years learning how to handle small boats.

This was different, but he wasn't afraid.

When he had made the decision that he would live his own life, no matter what, he had known somewhere deep down that it would mean giving up a lot of things. Had known even that it would mean leaving home.

His father wanted him to become an apprentice. On a matter of principle, Harold refused to work for anyone without being paid for it -- he firmly believed that he should get back what he had earned. Needless to say, the past month or more had been spent in near constant arguments, which occasionally even became shouting matches, though both of them kept it out of the house.

His father also would not let him go to sea; there could be little doubt that he didn't want to lose another son to drowning. But to Harold, there was no other calling that he felt. So much of his life to date had been spent with the elements of wind and water; it was too much a part of him now for him to spend the rest of his days tied to the shore. There had never been any other plan in his mind.

In the end, he made the only decision he felt would be honest: He packed a few things up, and crept out of the house once he was sure his parents were asleep.

It wasn't easy. He knew he couldn't tell Ada, so he woke Annie up and told her what he was doing. And then he had to struggle with the heartache that came with it.

He had done his best to protect the two youngest boys, though he hadn't allowed himself to become close to them. Instead, with the silent knowledge that he might not be around to see them grow up, he had been the quiet guardian on the side, swooping in whenever one or the other might be in trouble, or to break up a squabble. The girls had long since been going in their own direction, though their different worlds sometimes intersected neatly and reminded them that they were still all related.

His last look at the boys had been watching them sleep, not wanting to disturb their peace.

His last look at Annie had been of her tear-filled eyes, as she struggled with the idea of losing another brother.

If he weren't so certain of his intentions, even though he didn't know his destination, he probably would have stopped there, unpacked and went back to bed. Despite his determination, it was hard not to feel a little like he was abandoning them, even if it was in search of himself.

Still, in the dark hours before dawn, he stood on the loading docks and waited. He knew that he would probably be able to find himself a position; while being able to handle small crafts was nothing like true seamanship, it was still better knowledge than most landsmen had. He also knew that he would be starting on the very bottom -- a ship's boy, who would have to contend with being treated like less than a human being until he had enough experience to pass himself off as an ordinary seaman.

At least, though, he would be at sea. And at least it was on his terms, and no one else's.

There was no going back from here.

When he last looked at his childhood home, long minutes passed in quiet contemplation. And when he was done running over the memories, he said only one thing -- to his parents, to his sisters and brothers, to the house...

...and to George.

"Goodbye."

Here Hia

"Ideals are like stars: you will not succeed in touching them with your hands, but like the seafaring man on the desert of waters, you choose them as your guides, and following them you reach your destiny."
-Carl Schurz

He was drenched in sweat, bathed in firelight, and whatever Taya was doing to him hurt like Hell. The funny part of that was that he would rather be here and gritting his teeth than anywhere else in the world.

Cape Horn had beaten the ship and her crew nearly to death; even when the weather calmed briefly in the Southern Ocean, their time was still spent making repairs as quickly as they could before the next gale came out of nowhere to undo it all. And Harold had realized that they weren't the exception; the Horn tried to kill everyone and a frightful number of times, it succeeded.

There had been no celebration when they finally crossed the line of fifty south in the Pacific, but he did remember a strange sense of calm that seemed to sweep from the bowsprit aft; a metaphorical sigh of relief. The next several days were spent in repairs; at least, though, the cargo hadn't shifted and they were able to concentrate on making the ship more seaworthy again.

Then the captain did something that few ever did, and reminded his worn crew why they sailed with him -- on a stretch of two days, he assigned only so many men as he absolutely needed to handle the ship, in two hour watches, and let the others sleep, eat double-rations, mend their clothes, dry out, tend to wounds and generally recover from the brutal battering they took. Just that small act of compassion and kindness did wonders for all of them.

The whole crew would have been more than content with that fair treatment, so putting into Tahiti for a few supplies and some further repairs had been positively unexpected, as well as being given some liberty.

Later, of course, Harold would have a better understanding of why they actually ended up in Tahiti. But before he could figure it out, he had gone and fallen in love.

It had been purely an accident. He hadn't wanted to go boozing with the crew, naturally, and he hadn't wanted to spend time with the apprentices, so he'd struck out on his own and found a girl, and immediately rethought his previous notion that kissing wasn't worth it.

The fact that they didn't even share a common language to communicate had not put him off; the fact that he couldn't properly pronounce her name had just amused her and had not put her off either.

So, over the course of two days and three nights, he followed her everywhere he could and on the second night, both of them breathless and laughing after being chased around by older and wiser people, she taught him the common language of love.

Harold, needless to say, was more than a willing student and a very quick study.

Which left him now, on their last night together, trying to hold still while she tapped bone and ink into his skin, marking him forever. Sometimes she would say something that sounded beautiful but that he couldn't understand, except for her tones, and those tones were warm and patient and amused. So blurred were the lines between pleasure and pain that he would have let her tattoo his entire body, if only it meant that she would keep touching him and he could hear her inflections, and feel her skin, and her hair brushing his skin when she leaned over to check her methodical work; he would have endured nearly any torment just to stay there in a world without words.

- --------- - --

He was only vaguely aware of the bright sunlight shining down, the sound of birds and the distant notion that he was already supposed to be back onboard the ship. But he was more than aware of the warm, soft body laying against his; without even opening his eyes, he pulled Taya even closer, and felt her stir slightly.

When they did bother opening their eyes, they exchanged a slow smile and he forgot about his sore hip; even the distant notion of reporting back to his ship vanished without a trace. It was just them, and good humor, and the occasional laugh; just them and the kind of intensity people could only feel when they had to live in moments and make those moments a lifetime.

- --------- - --

He figured out why they were in Tahiti when he spotted Captain Riley, holding a Tahitian woman in his arms in a way that he longed to have with his Taya; as though this were some oft-repeated ritual, and not just a one-time thing. Even as young as he was, even as new as he was to the whole ideal of love, he could recognize an old one even as he had his new one.

And wanted, not surprisingly, for this new one to become an old one.

He had not planned on being spotted, however, on his way back to the ship. The captain saw him, and then glowered and let go of the woman he'd been holding to stalk over. "What the f*** are you still doin' here?"

Harold cleared his throat, hoping that the answer would magically come to him in that moment, and tried to explain in a suitably vague way, "Well, sir, I was--"

"-- not content with what liberty you were already given, you little..." and then Riley trailed off, looking past the OS and pursing his lips. "You'd damn well better be aboard before I am."

"Yes, sir," Harold answered automatically, wondering what had stopped the captain from blasting his ears off, then sending him back to the ship to have the first mate blast his ears off. He waited until the captain had turned to go back to his woman, though, before he looked.

Taya raised an eyebrow at him from where she had stepped out of the shadows of the trees, then grinned and shook her head; a petal from the flowers in her hair fell, glanced off of her shoulder and hit the ground, and he had to fight himself so that he would not grab her hand and run off into the interior of the island, back to a world without any words that belonged only to them.

He didn't, but he thought about it; when she laughed, he just shook his own head, smiling, and took her hand to walk with her back to the harbor.

It was hard to let go of her hand when they got there.

"I'll come back for you," he said, even though he knew she wouldn't understand the words.

She understood the meaning, though, and nodded solemnly. No tears; she just looked at him with the sort of seriousness that was befitting two young lovers parting ways for however long.

"Ua here vau ia oe," she said after a long moment.

He didn't need to struggle to understand what she meant; instead, he took a breath and kissed the hand he had been holding, and tried to think of the quickest possible way that he could return and turn this new love into an old love. In fact, he would have probably lingered there thinking about it until it happened, had not the three members of the crew (likewise trying to sneak aboard two steps ahead of the officers) in the boat shouted to him.

Finally, reluctantly, he let go of her hand and headed for the boat, but not without returning the endearment:

"'Rwy'n dy garu di."

The Common Lesson of Love

"Hate leaves ugly scars, love leaves beautiful ones."
-Mignon McLaughlin

He didn't even bother packing anything; in fact, it was a wonder that he even waited for the anchor to be dropped. But he fidgeted endlessly as he waited for the captain to allow him to go, and then rowed like a demon once in the boat.

It had taken Harold three and a half years to get back to Tahiti; he likely could have made it in two, but he had made his share of mistakes.

The biggest mistake was deserting Riley's boat in the hopes that he could get back to Tahiti without waiting for the next voyage around Cape Horn -- it was the only time in his life he had ever forsaken duty for anything to that point.

Unfortunately for him, the circumstances that lead to his first landing on the island were not duplicated in any other vessel he shipped aboard, and he paid for it by spending time aboard two different barques, both of them with hot-tempered officers and far less compassionate captains. But at least he took with him a great deal more experience.

It had been a sheer stroke of luck to see Riley's ship when he was finally back on British soil. And it was, perhaps, pity that secured him his old berth aboard -- certainly he had to endure a great deal of bellowing, from the captain and both mates, and he had to contend with some of his former shipmates handing it to him, but at least he knew he could get back to Taya.

They rounded the Horn again; it certainly hadn't become any easier, despite prior voyages, and this time they nearly dipped to the sixty degree line in hopes of making headway. It was there that Harold saw his first icebergs and growlers, though they wouldn't be his last.

There were terrors that came out of the night and snow, fading into existence like ghosts. Despite the overwhelming exhaustion, he still remembered too well how it felt to see the iceberg melting out of the blizzard and passing only a hundred feet leeward.

That was behind him now, though, at least until such time as he had to round the Horn again.

Once he was on shore, he didn't say a word and just bolted off to see if he could find the girl he came back for.

- --------- - --

She looked the same and different; all of the same features, but her figure was fuller and there was a... strange, easy certainty to her movements. She had always been more confident and graceful, but this was different.

He watched her for a few moments, not hiding but not interrupting, and felt the surety of the past few years, but also felt a little like the fifteen-year-old who had fallen in love with her. He had saved up as much as he possibly could, even to the point of having to patch his three shirts so many times that they were almost quilts... was close to rating as an AB and he had at least a tentative plan for a future. That tentative plan involved her.

It did not, however, take into account the little girl that came out of a hut.

At first, he mentally scrambled to find a reason there; perhaps she was minding someone else's daughter. But even as he looked for excuses, he already knew what it meant.

Taya saw him then, and in only a look, that knowledge was confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt.

- --------- - --

"I said I would come back," he said, trying not to allow too much of the hurt bewilderment into his voice. But it was there anyway. He had a plan; while he hadn't lived every moment in the past three and a half years just to return to Tahiti, there had never been a day that had gone by when he didn't think of her.

She had learned some English, though it still wasn't very certain, and replied, "Yes."

"Then... I mean, when...?"

Taya shook her head as they walked, slowly, along the winding paths. "When it was time."

Harold tried to absorb that, but it was hard. Hadn't she had the same feeling as he did when they parted... that it was only a matter of time before they found each other again? Certainly it had been a long time -- not so much for him, who lived constantly by the whims of the sea, but for her; even then, it hadn't been an impossibly long time.

Had it?

"I suppose I should..." he trailed off again, trying to figure out what he should be doing. Suddenly, he didn't know.

"You are not happy," she said, bluntly, looking over at him. It wasn't a mean tone, though, just straightforward. "Why?"

He frowned, shaking his head. It took a moment to figure out how to word what he wanted to say, but eventually he did, "I wanted to come back to you. I even made sure I'd be able to take care of you... at least, as well as I could." He was at such a loss. "I don't know what to do now."

She thought about it, seriously; even when they weren't able to communicate with the same spoken language, she had been that way -- never dismissive. Then she said, "Go on. It is not the end of life." There was a long pause, and she added, "It is not the end of love."

"It feels like it is." Not an admission he wanted to make, but it was an honest one. "You belong to someone else, and I still belong to you."

"No," she said, immediately, stopping and taking his arm to stop him. "You think to..." she stopped, then got the word she wanted, "...wish to, but you do not. A part does. But the rest -- you belong to chasing wind on water. "

He just shook his head again; he didn't know what to say to that, even though his first internal reaction was to disagree with it. He likewise didn't know what to do when she wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder.

They stood like that for quite a long time; after awhile, he put his arms around her in turn and tried to grasp at what a future would mean now. He still had the sea, still was close to rating as an AB. He just didn't have her.

But it was slowly sinking into his head that maybe in part, he did.

They were in no hurry to let go of each other, and left words behind for the sake of going back to that world without them, where for two days and three nights they were young and carefree and reckless and joyful. He probably would have stayed there until some outside force made him let go -- he loved her, loved her humor and her patience and her kindness, and the memory of a flower petal falling from her hair.

When she finally picked her head up off of his shoulder, she rested her cheek against his and whispered, "It was good." Then she drew away and smiled, and it was warm and loving and then he understood what she meant when she said that love had not ended. "Leave it there."

He nodded, slowly. And taking a breath, and a plunge into a future he had not planned on, he asked, "Could I meet your family?"

- --------- - --

He spent two days and three nights with them; playing with Taya's daughter, and even going out fishing twice with her husband. The warmth and good nature of the man she married made it easier to believe that things would be all right -- he was a big man, and not given to many words, but what conversations they did manage in simple English were enough to put Harold's mind at ease that she would at least be taken care of.

When it was time to leave, he knew that he probably would never see her again, except perhaps in dreams. But he also knew that he left some part of himself there with her, and took a part of her away with him; despite the heartache he felt initially, when it was time to go, he just felt loved.

She walked hand in hand with him back to the harbor, neither of them speaking, and they stood there watching the waves coming in. It was only the boat crew (the same three men who had been dashing back to the ship last time) calling to him that broke the moment.

He'd heard the words so often in his head since she had spoken them, it was almost easy to give them back to her, even if he butchered them with his accent:

"Ua here vau ia oe."

She smiled at him, slowly, then let go of his hand and nodded once as she stepped back and replied:

"'Rwy'n dy garu di."

At Home on the Line

"No one can possibly know what is about to happen: it is happening, each time, for the first time, for the only time."
-James Arthur Baldwin

The steam from his coffee rose up, and became a part of the fog.

The second mate looked into the blanket so thick that it was impossible to see the dead water past fifteen feet. He was still trying to wake up. Twenty minutes until the bells were struck for his watch, and he could hear his rousted men stumbling about the deck, getting their heads together. The deep gray light of morning was telling -- this would start to burn off with the sun, and the breeze he could almost sense would finish off the rest of it.

Harold held the coffee cup two-handed to ward off the chill, and thought about what was ahead. Passing his BOT certification had pushed him from his 'acting third mate' position to the afterdeck, at least on paper. More realistically, though, he was standing the thin line between his former crowd before the mast, and the officers with more experience than himself. He kept his certificate of continuous discharge on hand, in fact, just in case he ended up thrown back to being an AB.

It wasn't an easy line to walk. It had taken him all of one day out in his new position of rank to realize that he couldn't appear the least bit hesitant, or they'd be on him from both quarters. He held himself properly aloof; no trouble there, as it had always been his natural state, and made certain to bark just as loud as the mate.

He didn't drive his watch mercilessly, but he didn't cut them any slack either. If they started out thinking he'd give them quarter, then they would use it -- Hell, he would if he had a new and green mate commanding him and he was still one of the fo'c'sle group.

After the first few weeks, pulling up anyone who was a step too slow to follow an order, snarling when necessary, they didn't test his limits any further. Nor did the captain and first mate, both of them far older than he was; he could still feel them watching him, though, waiting for him to slip.

They didn't test his limits now, but the Horn was yet again in his future, and not a single living soul aboard didn't feel the oppression that wouldn't ease until they were around that damnable rock. This was the third time he was pitting himself against it, and he knew that if ever there would come a test of his mettle as an officer, commanding men, it would be in the Southern Ocean.

He tipped his head up unconsciously, narrowed his eyes faintly at the fog, and then took a sip of his coffee. Despite the determined look, though, and the ferocity he maintained a reasonable level of since starting this voyage...

He felt good. Certain. He knew his job; knew it better than most second mates, who had been blown through the cabin windows as apprentices. He knew he could hold his own aloft with his watch, could bellow loud enough to give orders over the shriek of wind and crash of waves, could even stand toe to toe with the first mate, though he didn't want to.

Briefly, then, just for a few moments, he let his guard relax.

The light was growing stronger, turning the world silver-gray; somewhere in his distant thoughts, Harold thought of the fog on the mountains that pinned Barmouth to the sea. He still got no more sleep than he did sailing before the mast, and with his coffee and the morning fog, he felt like he was dreaming just a little.

He could smell the sea, and thought of the dolphins; could predict the breeze and thought about the gale winds at the end of the earth. Mostly, though, he thought about this moment of peace, where it was him and his coffee and the fog that obliterated all but the small world surrounding him.

Somehow, in the midst of unending water, on the deck of a four-posted windjammer always at the whims of wind and waves, he knew for the first time in a long time that he was home.

He gave a half-smile to the sea, then steeled himself and turned away from the bulwark to do his duty.

Dark in the Heart and Through It

A bar of steel?it is only
Smoke at the heart of it, smoke and the blood of a man.
A runner of fire ran in it, ran out, ran somewhere else,
And left?smoke and the blood of a man
And the finished steel, chilled and blue.

So fire runs in, runs out, runs somewhere else again,
And the bar of steel is a gun, a wheel, a nail, a shovel,
A rudder under the sea, a steering-gear in the sky;
And always dark in the heart and through it,
Smoke and the blood of a man.
-Carl Sandburg

The piers were surprisingly quiet. After weeks of hustle and bustle, and more that would start up again in just a short time, the relative quiet was almost unnerving. Not because it wasn't rather precious, in this world where everything was measured on exacting timetables and mechanics, but because it gave him a little too much time to think.

Harold stood in the moonlight-created shadow of the massive leviathan and felt strangely unbalanced in such a concrete world. He felt the same way on the decks of the mailboat, despite his short time as one of her junior officers; no swell so far had been enough to disturb her steadiness, and then there had been the almost unsettling noise of her engines, constant and too loud, even after spending nearly three years now on steamships.

He had spent a year and a half onboard cargo boats, steaming the West African coast. The actual career adjustment wasn't terribly hard -- he was always a quick study, and the knowledge that he needed to do the job was easy to pick up. Engineers and stokers provided the power, so he didn't have to actually watch the shiver of the mizzen topgallants to gauge whether any trimming would need done. If more speed was needed, it was telegraphed to the engine room.

That simple. Mechanical magic. Mastery over the elements, turning the wind into something felt on the face and then disregarded, unless it was so bad as to prove a threat.

It had been a fairly miserable time. Mosquitoes, malaria, cruddy little ports and oppressive humidity. The only good part that he could see was that he didn't have much time to actually think. Only in the dark hours of the night watches, but even that time he usually spent looking ahead to the next port and what that stop would entail.

He'd been more than relieved to be hired onto one of the big lines, one of the premier companies, once he'd had enough free time to gain his masters certification. His experience and hard work impressed them enough that it paid off -- started out on larger cargo boats, and now was rewarded with the North Atlantic mailboat run on one of the biggest and finest of the passenger trade. The pay was better, and the creature comforts weren't anything to sneeze at either.

He looked up at the ship that was his latest assignment, sitting peaceably. Her sheer size was mind-boggling; he still had to check himself, even after a couple weeks aboard, to make sure he didn't get lost. In the usual course of things, he didn't have time to think about it -- standing there now, just off the line of her massive black bow, he wished he wasn't thinking about it now.

Even with the black, double-breasted, brass buttoned uniform, and a strange sense of pride that came with it, and with knowing that he had already been given a spot on one of the finest steamers there was, he somehow felt small.

After a long moment, trying to push himself away from those unsettling thoughts, he looked back out over the moonlit water past this monster sitting at the dock.

A little tug went by, running lights and spots blazing to keep herself and her charge out of danger, leaving behind a drifting cloud of steam and smoke. He watched her as she progressed, slowly, taking due care.

Behind her, silent and ghostlike, a four-masted barque serenely followed -- waiting to unfurl her sails; waiting to catch the wind. Onboard, he knew that the crew was getting adjusted, getting to know each other, speculating on the mates and captain, smoking tobacco, yarning, those old tars. Every year he had seen less and less like her, watched them die exponentially, sent to be broken up.

Maybe this one was bound for Cape Horn. And maybe this would be her last time 'round that natural grave-marker, before she would be sent to be broken; one of the last living ships to pay homage to the dead with a visit.

Obsolete. Just like her men. In so short a time, there would be no place for her in this mechanical world.

He was only twenty-eight. He could still make quite a career in steam, and realistically speaking, he could even perhaps settle into it so well that he would never want to go back. But in this moment, feeling unsteady and too young, he could only think that he was just as obsolete in this new world as she was.

He shook his head to himself and headed back down the way, to reboard this leviathan he was assigned to, looking handsome and impeccably neat in his uniform. He knew his duties now, knew he could equal the challenge, knew that he had a bright career ahead of him.

But it was the heart of a man who burned and was not snuffed out by wind or water that followed the barque to sea.