Bethany had risen before dawn. The fire in her stove had died, waking her with bitter cold. She suspected the shoddily fitted flue was not quite up to the task of keeping the fire all night, but like the sailors she could not see a better way to route it. Nevertheless, by five bells in the morning watch it was burning again. She sat near it on the edge of her bunk, brushing out her hair. Soon she was wondering about breakfast. Fletch was too cramped for officers to dine below deck, in the gun room or a proper mess, and the cold had ruled out eating on the fantail. For the last several days some meals had been served in Granger’s cabin, but this was not guaranteed, the Master did not always allow it, sometimes because he had important work and others because, Bethany theorized, he wished to sleep in. She pulled on a boat cloak and went to investigate. The decks were lively despite the cold, Boyle presided over a huddle of men mending a rip in the foremost jib, the large sail spread across the forecastle. Nock and a few of his crew busied themselves with the deck gun, cleaning corrosion and bird droppings from the barrel and oiling the gear-train on which it elevated and traversed. Tess had fallen back in the night and was now nearly abreast them. Wisps of smoke from the galley fire and Luft’s beloved stoves emanated from short stacks on her main deck and ran down it off her stern, leaving a second wake. In enough time she would grow as ashen as Fletch.

Granger’s cabin door stood open, a hopeful sign.

“Good morning,” Badrine greeted. He stood over the map table which had been cleared to make way for a basket of hardtack, jars of preserves, a tray of bacon, and several boiled eggs, courtesy of the steward’s hen. Granger sat in his chair, his breakfast on a tray in his lap. Farley was in the far corner of the room, tossing back a cup of coffee with a copy of Cooper’s Manual of Marksmanship hanging splayed in his free hand. Eyeing the book, Badrine observed, “you’re finally going to learn to shoot, then.”

Farley looked at Badrine, explaining peevishly, “I mean to work up a curriculum of sorts for the sailors. Every man on this ship should be able to shoot as well as a Marine cadet if we are to truly hold our own, but most of the sailors plink away as if they expect providence to direct their shots. This is a basic text, yes, that is more than appropriate for them.”

Badrine stepped toward him with a magnanimous wave of the hand, “I suspected it was something in that line, you would not need that for yourself, to be sure, your shots do seem to be guided by providence.”

Satisfied, the Marine softened and went on, “in truth I did need it. I got my start shooting from this book, when I was 11 years of age I sent for it after an exhibition came through with the new repeaters. There was a fellow who could toss five plates into the air with his own hand, take his carbine from a scabbard on his back, and shoot each one before they were even near the ground. He recommended it highly, though now I reckon it’s because he was paid to. Anyway, what I think I will do is begin...”

The steward came into the cabin. His face looked sour and Bethany had heard him nearly running down the deck. He saluted the room hastily, saying “if the officer of the watch would come with me, please.”

Granger struggled out of his chair, “would you believe that is me, for once,” he beamed.

The steward’s eyes darted about, “Mr. Farley, Mr. Badrine, you'd do well to come too. I am not versed in the procedure but witnesses could be called for.”

Farley advanced on the man, “what is it?”

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The steward stepped back onto the deck, bidding the men to follow, “I won’t discuss it in the company of a lady, please come along.” They did, leaving Bethany alone in the cabin, the door flapping in the wind. She tried to eat and drink. She managed to have some coffee but the food would not go down. There was a tightness in her stomach and head. The steward was a lay surgeon, his ability to feel disgust was surely deadened, and yet he had looked taken aback, visibly unsteady. She was certain that whatever he had come to report was going to ruin at least the day, maybe the voyage. Perhaps a man had awoken showing all the signs of a contagious disease with which they may all now be infected. Perhaps, though Badrine would have likely noticed this first, there was a fire in a coal bunker liable to consume the whole ship.

She went out of the cabin and asked a sailor, “where did Mr. Granger and the others go?”

He looked unsure as to whether he was allowed to answer, finally reporting, “below deck, miss.”

Bethany went below. She saw two of the officers standing in the corridor. Farley was holding a lamp, shining it into Threlfall’s cabin. Bethany came up behind him and looked in. The steward was on his hands and knees with Granger stood against the bulkhead. Both men looked intently at the floor. There lay Threlfall, in his nightshirt. A shaky circle of moldavite and salt surrounded him. Bethany could only catch glimpses as Farley shifted. He caught sight of her and turned, “go back on deck!”

“No,” Bethany snapped, “what has happened, is he hurt?”

Farley looked at his boots for a while, then to her. He moved away from the door, “go in.”

As Bethany went in, the steward rose. His hands and the legs of his pants were soaked with blood. Looking at the floor of the cabin Bethany saw why.

Threlfall’s throat was cut.

He had cut his own throat, his razor was still in his right hand. Bethany fell onto her knees, she could feel her mind falling away and fought the desire to faint. She did weep. Granger came over to her directly, stepping over the corpse. He stooped shakily, leaning on his stick, and offered her his handkerchief.

“I am terribly sorry. I know you were his friend.”

Looking beyond Bethany he glared at Farley and Badrine in the corridor, “who let her in?” he demanded.

Bethany crawled toward the body, reaching a hand toward its face. The steward swatted it away, “it’s mortally ill luck to touch a suicide.”

Bethany stared at him, sniffling, “what will you do with him then?”

“On my last ship the purser did himself in after being caught skimming the accounts. We levered him onto a strip of sailcloth with a couple of oars and put him over the side, never had to touch him,” the steward replied.

Bethany stammered, “Threlfall was not a thief, that’s not the same at all!”

The steward began to speak but Granger intercepted him, “you’re right Miss Esterhouse, he was an officer and a gentleman, but he died in an indecent state, the men may well call it a cursed state, and that is all that matters now.”

Bethany stood but could barely walk, she stumbled to the bulkhead near Granger. Her tears slowed but did not cease. The men in the room stood silent, seeming to wait for her. “Can’t he be taken back to the mainland and buried properly. I will see to it, I will...”

“Naval officers who die at sea are buried at sea, without exception. Besides, we will not be to the mainland for months, we have no ice to put him on and are not equipped for embalming,” Farley responded.

“...and he has no living family,” Granger added.

“How shall it happen, then? When will the service be?”

Granger, Badrine, Farley, and the steward looked on Bethany with sadness and surprise. “Even on the mainland, miss, even for plain civilians, there is never a service for a suicide, that is blasphemy,” the Steward explained.

“A party of sailors will carry him above deck and inter him in the sea at midnight, with the officer of the watch present so that it can be noted in the log,” Granger noted solemnly.

Bethany was again alone in the world. She sat at her writing desk with the case of papaver open, only a few doses remained, and so to stretch them she elected to drink as well. The steward had brought her rum happily enough, her request had seemed to amuse him. Neither the papaver nor the rum made her forget anything, rather, they helped her be idle without immediately breaking down in sobs. She had done plenty of that as well, since the morning she had not left her cabin. She looked at the papaver syrettes standing in a short, neat row. There was enough there, yes, and she had never been closer to taking that choice. The thought had come and gone many times now - she could not do it, though. If she could, she would have long ago. Besides, if Threlfall was right, and he was clearly very sincere in his conviction, she would be slain soon anyway.

She considered going to Clotilde but her ban from Tess still stood and she was in no condition to dispute it. She flopped from her chair to her bunk, lying on her stomach. The ship’s bell rang - four hours to midnight. She would not sleep until they dumped him in the sea, she would witness it. Bethany sat, fearing she would drift off if she stayed that way. No one would wake her, they would see it as a mercy to inter Threlfall while she slept. Her bleary eyes shone, she was watching her lamp now, if only as a distraction, and the flame was reflected in them.