Night had fallen. Bethany sat at the scant desk in her cabin, on which a paraffin lantern burned. Before her was the beginnings of a letter to Marah - only the beginnings. It was easy enough to say she was alive and that she missed her, was sad for how they parted. It was far harder to explain that she was never coming back. It was not that she expected to die at sea - she was too inexperienced to know that fear - but that finding her, joining her, meant throwing away the life she had only just been returned and she could not do that. She felt heartless, but being apart from Marah pained her as deeply as it ought to have, she knew however, that poverty would pain her still more. She could, and had, endured the hunger and deprivation of that life and could do so again, but then she had possessed no better options. Now she had her name, and, soon enough - her father could not live forever - she would be the eldest living Esterhouse, and so the mistress of a small empire. She could free her sister from whatever luxurious purgatory she had been consigned to, and then find Marah. Find her and beg her forgiveness. This assumed that Marah wanted to found - perhaps she had already forgotten Bethany - they had never talked of a future, together or apart.

Bethany put down her pen and rose, carrying the letter. She stepped through her cabin door into the brisk night - they were far enough north that autumn could again be felt. The lights of a village and a train burned in the distance. Bethany dropped the letter overboard and watched it disappear into the Fletch’s churning wake. A sailor appeared as if from nowhere and offered her his moth-eaten coat, which she declined.

“Signal, ho!” Another sailor called from the opposite side of the yacht. Granger shot from his cabin, a boat cloak draped over his night clothes.

Drawing his spyglass, he regarded the signal lamp that was flickering across the water from a darkened ship.

Bethany heard him mouthing the words as they came over, but could not make them out. When the flickering ceased, Granger announced: “It’s Dunstable, they made better time than expected.” He padded across the deck and climbed onto the bridge, manning Fletch’s own lamp. He looked at it puzzled then snapped: “Matches! One of you lads bring matches.” Shortly, a book of smoker’s matches were tossed to him and he lit the lamp.

He began sending his signal, speaking it aloud for the benefit of Bethany and the sailors. “Dunstable this is Fletch, begin steaming on your course we will come about and be alongside promptly.”

Dunstable answered with a short hoot of her whistle. The helmsman had already put his wheel over and the deck crew began to reorient the sails to suit the new direction of travel.

Granger retired to his cabin to don his uniform, by the time he emerged Dunstable towered like a vast tenement over Fletch, whose masts reached only to Dunstable’s boat deck. Bethany saw neglectful streaks ofrust and coal dust all along the larger ship’s hull. Above her, men were working to crank a lifeboat out on its davits.

Granger lifted a speaking trumpet to his mouth. “Dunstable, good evening, might I come aboard?”

A uniformed silhouette wielding a speaking trumpet of its own called back “Indeed, sir, we are sending a boat now.”

Granger returned a while later bearing a look of deep concern. Speaking to Badrine, who had come on deck to oversee the ship in his absence, he remarked “Whatever we do Dunstable is on a one way trip.”

Badrine’s faced glowed by the light of his cigar. “How do you mean?”

“She’s a tired freighter, not as old as some but cheaply built and run hard. Barely seaworthy by the look of it. She’s only enough coal for an outbound trip. They intend to beach her at Kjell, and send the boys over the side down great nets.”

Bethany’s gray eyes flicked between the bosun and her canvas. Boyle was seated by the window of her cabin, evening light streaming across his face. The sea was a flat calm, leaving Fletch to proceed on steam alone and the bosun virtually idle, so Bethany had roped him into to acting as a model. His face was a strange thing, it had either aged quite well or quite poorly, depending on how old the man was, and the lines cut by salt and sun were for her a lovely challenge.

Noticing that the bosun seemed almost to be holding his breath, she showed a half-smile and remarked: “You can move around however you like, you know, it’s not a photograph, you won’t smear my paint.”

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Boyle relaxed and Bethany painted on until the sun set so far that she felt the need to light her lamp. As she turned around to do so, Boyle asked: “Are you mad, love?”

“Come again?” Bethany asked. As she turned back to the canvas, it and her face now glowing by the paraffin lamp, Boyle went on with greater diffidence: “I’m from Bray, I know who you are. Of those what care, half say you are a fiend, the other half swear you’re mad. Your poor sister is.”

“Did you know my sister?”

“Not personally but those what work for your father saw enough to say so.”

Bethany sighed. “She was sane enough when I knew her, but then she was a little girl, I’m not sure how one would even spot madness at a young age. As for me, well, I wasn’t born mad, but perhaps I’m a touch, a bit that way. You are from a family of sailors, are you not?”

The bosun seemed puzzled by the question, but nodded.

“You expected to go to sea all your young life, then?”

“Aye, I was before the mast with my father and uncles at 10 years of age.”

“Imagine, one day, suddenly finding you could never go to sea again, and had to leave Bray forever. Would your mind rebel at such a thing?”

“I ‘spect it would.” The bosun agreed.

“Then you understand. I was raised an Esterhouse, bound for a rather silken life, then, in a flash, I was less than nobody, I was alone and wanted, with blood on my conscience.”

“So you were not mad when you killed the Becker girl, only after it?”

“It follows, yes and I’ve gone hoarse saying so but I should repeat I did not mean to kill her.”

Boyle considered that. “You were pardoned, so somebody must have come ‘round to believing you.”

“But you do not?”

“I wasn’t there, anyway, I think you’ll find what men like me believe doesn’t matter so much.”

“Could you turn toward me for a moment?” Bethany requested, focusing on her painting. “Why ask me anyway? If I you believe me truly mad then you couldn’t trust my answer, and of course I’d deny it.”

“The men have been gabbing about it since they first laid eyes on you. A betting pool is in place.”

Bethany flushed and laughed. “What are they betting on?”

“Whether you’ll do something truly mad, kill a fellow, jump overboard and suchlike.”

“How did you bet?”

“It would be indecent for the bosun to play such a game.” Boyle huffed.

“So you put your Ritters on ‘mad’ then.”

Bethany woke to the sound of a storm. She had slept only by the grace of papaver and so felt heavy and dull. She lay awake on her bunk as Fletch pitched until, without warning, she felt terribly sick. Bursting out of her cabin she vomited over the rail and into the roiling sea. When she was done the horrible cold of the rain and wind became evident and she stumbled back to her cabin. Dripping wet, she slumped into the little chair at the writing desk. Outside she heard men shouting, swearing, and running about.

After a while, superfluous and bored, Bethany pulled on a coat and went on deck. The sails were only half unfurled to reduce Fletch’s weathercocking but the steam engine seemed to be running strong. Downdrafts slammed choking clouds of ash and exhaust to the deck that the rain then chased away. A verst distant, Dunstable fell in and out of view with each wave. Wearing a vast raincoat, Granger manned the helm. Bethany hid from his gaze, knowing for certain he would send her back to her cabin for her own good. She walked haltingly around to boiler room skylight, which was now dogged shut. Looking down she saw the stokers working in a half-trance as chunks of coal rolled about at their feet. Badrine was there as well, his blue coat off, his sleeves and arms greasy and black. “Don’t let it burn through, watch for shifts in the coal!” He instructed while concentrating on the water gauge. Bethany knew that railway locomotives climbing a grade risked having their boilers blow if the water sloshed about too much, and she suspected the Chief Engineer was attending to the same concern.

A massive wave broke over the bow and washed down the deck, nearly over-topping the bridge. Bethany grasped a railing just as it struck and knocked her legs from under her.

“Are we all still here?!” The bosun cried to his men.

Bethany’s stomach knotted, expecting to hear “man overboard!” but all of the sailors reported in. Her legs felt weak and she contemplated returning to her cabin, but instead stole through a nearby hatch and down a narrow set of stairs leading below deck. At the bottom of the steps Bethany found herself in a dim maze, a handful of tightly secured paraffin lamps providing the only light. Behind most doors she encountered only provisions or unfinished compartments, but, stepping into what would have been the dining room had Fletch remained a pleasure yacht, she regarded twenty sailors asleep in hammocks. From one she heard a strange whimper. Approaching it she found a boy sailor, awake, stifling tears. He did not look at her, but whispered: “Go away, Miss Bethany, this is not your place.”

“Never mind that, this is my father’s ship. Now, why are you crying?” Bethany whispered back, leaning in.

“You mustn’t tell anyone you heard me. I’m meant to be asleep.”

“I won’t. How old are you?”

“11 years.”

“I didn’t know we had anyone so young in the crew. Are you alone?”

The boy coughed and sniffled. “My elder brother is aboard, he’s 17. I’ve never liked the sea, but when I tried to join the infantry they wouldn’t have me even as a drummer so my brother said I should follow him.”

“Should I fetch him? Is he on deck or...”

“No. No. You mustn’t. He made me promise I would be a man. If the others find out I’m a coward and learn we are blood he will never know the end of it.”

“Do you miss your family? Is that why you are all broken up?”

“No, my brother ‘tis my only family. I miss the land. I don’t want to drown, least not cause of the weather. If the Bexarians hole the ship and we go under that’s different, but a storm...”

Bethany squeezed the boy’s hand. “You shouldn’t be afraid. Master Granger is very skilled, I saw him up there just now he is unafraid of the weather, and he would know if it was time to be afraid.”

The boy grew more composed. Bethany stood. She had, for a moment, contemplated taking him to her cabin, so that he might have a little more warmth and privacy, but she reasoned his enduring embarrassment from such special treatment would outlive his present fear.

“What’s your name?” She asked.

“Nathaniel.”

“When this all calms down, Nathaniel, I would like to make your portrait.”

Nathaniel was intrigued. “You have a camera?”

“No, I have paints though, and you can keep it when I’m done.”

“I would like that. My brother wishes to buy a trawler when the war is done, I shall hang it in my cabin.”

“With the prize money Granger will find you all, you shall have a fleet of trawlers.”

“Or one very great one.” Nathaniel suggested.

Bethany smiled at him. “You should try to sleep now.”