Silence echoed around the double-height room; the absence of sound prompted Emma to scan the walls from the floor to the mezzanine gallery. The brass railing stood out, not with the shine of polish and hours of work. Instead, the tarnished brass tube stood out in contrast to the colors of the crew's hands holding onto it, hundreds of hands in all colors and hues. Shoulder to shoulder, they all stood waiting for the show to start.

Emma's eyes dropped to see a group of the crewmen had gathered in a semicircle. Backs to her, looking inwards. A desk or table in the center was barely visible.

"Officers," she thought.

The officers circled to the back of the desk as one living mass. A great hubbub and roar rang out from the gallery above. And still, no one acknowledged Emma, standing at the door looking at collected shambles.

"Enough of this business," Emma thought.

"Eyes front! You scurvy-ridden dogs," Emma yelled at the center of the room. Her voice bellowed up and out on the high ceiling. At this, the crew on the mezzanine jolted into a hush, but the officers remained absorbed in their ministrations and ignored Emma's call.

"Well, alright, then," Emma strode forward.

"That's a fiver from each of you. Thank you very much," a new voice called out from the rank of officers, and the crew above began to laugh.

"I am Captain Emma Rollins of the Vicious Fall. Where is your master? Speak dam you and be quick about it," she commanded, in the tone of a Captain and one accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed.

Emma moved towards the desk at the center of the room, and a woman turned to face Emma, "Look at her, here in our home and taking on airs and such. Looking to give us orders." She called out the same tone as Emma. Her Samoan features dark hair, brown eyes gleamed with intelligence and anger, and her hand resting on the grip of a large knife at her waist. Emma noted that her eyes changed focus from Emma to over her shoulder.

Captain Nathaniel Walker had slipped in behind Emma. He was not a tall man, standing equal to Mr. Wolf in height at about 5 foot 7 inches, but he was not as slight as Mr. Wolf. He had a muscled body, a full beard cut in the style of the spartan's, and a balding head and was 20 years older than either of them. He was dressed in a similar garb to the officers, with more refinement on the cuff of the sleeves. A row of medals across his chest, like a line of tombstones in a graveyard. Each and every one earnt not be him, but by someone he had personally dispatched.

"Captain, I would say how nice to see you again, but I was rather hoping that you were dead." Emma addressed him in a cold, dispassionate tone.

"Sweat Emma, my once dashing yet dangerous bride-to-be, such fire in you," Walker raised the back of his hand to Emma's cheek, and she whipped it away and took a step back. He followed that step with one of his own towards her.

"My darling Emma. Are you offended?" Walker asked.

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"Never your bride or anything else, you lunatic," Emma corrected and realized that Walker had trapped her. His crew was at her back, and he was between her and the door. These simple actions made him the South Pacific's most feared tactician. This man was always taking the advantage.

"Our past aside, I demand to know why you wish to talk with me?" Emma said. As she did so, she walked towards and brushed past Walker.

"Come, my dear, no need to act common. And I don't want to talk with you at all," Walker finished.

"You don't want to speak with us? With me?" Emma questioned.

"No," said Walker.

"If that is the case, then why am I here?" Emma asked.

"To paraphrase the stoics, we all have desires. And, in this instance, I have a desire to be paid," Walker said.

At that, the silent crew threw up a thunderous and raucous laugh.

"I have a letter for you," Continued Walker, pointing at Emma.

"From whom?" Emma asked.

"Don't know from whom the letter is, merely that I have one. And, provided I have proof of delivery, a payday in Sydney," Walker said.

"Well, give me the letter," Emma commanded, channeling Sister Mary, the strictest of all the nuns from the convent school she'd once attended.

"Must be important to pay me so much. For such a small thing?" Walker continued.

Emma looked at Captain Walker, his officers around him, then to the crew in the mezzanine and thought, "I have to take control of this situation. This madman will do something if we don't get out of here," She thought.

"The value is in the information, not the letter," Emma said sharply.

"Agreed. Bring me the letter," commanded Captain Walker. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I am going to say no," replied Emma.

"Would you like some tea? I feel like a wee splash of gin," Captain Walker added.

A steward walked through the door within a few moments, carrying a tray with teacups. A steaming teapot spout poking out of a green, slightly stained, woolen cozy covering the teapot in the middle of the tray.

"Clear the way for young Bess," Walker ordered. The officers, who had been waiting, quietly left the room. Bess placed the tray on the table before leaving, too. Captain Walker gestured to the two chairs in front of the desk. Then, with one single sweep of Walker's arm, a rack of lamb and all the trimming was swept to the floor. And for the first time, Emma notes that the officers were far too skinny as if they had not eaten in weeks.

"Shall I be Mother and pour for everyone?" he asked before pouring two cups of tea.

"You should pour the cream to your liking," Walker advised.

"Will it take long for your man to get my letter?" asked Emma.

"Any minute now, I am sure," Walker replied

"Well, this is alright, nice init? Last time we met, it was less of a 'so must have a cuppa and a natter and more of...." Walker waved a hand in the air as if searching for the memory.

"I am going to rip your heart out," Emma offered.

Emma looked around the cabin now that the officers had left. It was a stateroom of opulence. The railings were of brass, which matched the desk where they sat. Emma noted the delicate filigree of silver inlay in the design. On the wall, there were hangings. These were thick tapestries with Persian designs prominent. Then, along the back wall, a line of credenzas with a series of old sailing ships in bottles. They were also scrimshaw, carved into whale teeth. Finally, in the corner were map stands, brimming with parchments and map cases wrapped in leather, with wooden carved stoppers, each depicting a scene of piracy and mayhem that haunted all privateers, even Emma's.

"Is this your quarters?" Emma asked with just a hint of desperation.

"No, lass, my wardroom for discussions, plans, and the such," Walker replied, sipping his tea.

"It is quite nice," Emma complimented. Emma looked around and reminded herself, "In the middle of this civilized chat, I must remember. This man is an absolute nutter,"

"Oh, aye, that is it. And, here be the letter," Walker replied.