“Perhaps that is only you, crécerelle.”

“It is not, I assure you. You say not to look down, and I immediately want to look down. It is evil temptation at its worst.”

“All right, then. Look down, my fair Miranda. Look upon the raging sea below, waiting to swallow you and deposit your lovely form on a beach, a mermaid flung from the ocean for all to admire.”

“My lifeless, bloated and fish-nibbled naked form? Anyone who admires such a thing ought to be taken to prison on the spot before they commit some horrible atrocity.”

“It seemed much more romantic in my head.”

“Then I fear for your sense of romance, Dr. Dupuis.”

“All right. I would prefer you not to look down because I would prefer you not to die. Is that more romantic?”

“Much.”

While my arm is still giving me trouble, I am determined to reach the crow’s nest, and I do. I am also pleased to know I am not the only one who finds the climb exhausting, as Nicolas pauses for breath. It is not merely the climb but also the wind, her tendrils tugging most insistently.

Nicolas directs me on how to climb into the lookout. Then I am there. In the crow’s nest of a galleon, gripping the railing and gazing out to sea.

“Careful you do not lean against that railing,” Nicolas says as he stands.

“I won’t.” I turn to look east, and from this angle, I see nothing but the ocean meeting the starry sky. A light wind catches a tendril of hair, and I pull off my cap and let my hair catch the wind as I tilt my face into it, the smell of the sea washing over me.

“I wish I were a woodcarver,” Nicolas says. “I would fashion you as a figurehead for the finest ship on the sea.”

I turn my head, hair blowing in my face as I grin at him.

He stares. Only stares, and I’m about to ask if all is well when he says, “You are . . .”

I know what the next word will be. Beautiful. I have heard it often enough. I would not be so vain as to say I am beautiful, but rather that I believe men feel honor bound to say it, perhaps in recognition that—despite being plumper than is the fashion—I am still conventionally attractive.

“Remarkable,” Nicolas says. “You are remarkable, Miranda, and I . . .” He swallows and then shakes it off with a wry smile. “I do not believe I am quite as sober as I thought.”

“Do you only offer compliments when you are drunk?” I say.

“Non. I would say the same sober, but I fear that tonight I may say more than I should and embarrass both of us.”

“Well, then, let us share the future embarrassment as I return the compliment.” I meet his gaze. “I find you equally remarkable.”

He moves closer, hand rising to smooth blowing hair back from my face. “I should very much like to kiss you, Miranda.”