Now that the master was on deck it was not clear to Lacroix what the correct etiquette might be. Was he the senior person at the table, or was that Berryman, the mate? He would have offered them brandy but he had been instructed not to. They ate with their heads down, forks in one hand, the other arm curled around their plates. He asked the mate what manner of night it was and the mate said it was fair and likely to stay so. After that he let them be. He finished his food, swilled down the last mouthful with the brandy left in his mug, put the bottle in his pocket, excused himself, and made his way cautiously over the uncertain floor to the tied-back door and the passage beyond it.

At the opening to the galley—a room like a large wardrobe, a space Nell would have scoffed at, found useless—he stopped to ask Erikson for some light. Erikson fetched out a candle from the pocket of his apron. The candle had perhaps half its life left to it. The cook trimmed the wick and lit it from the stove with a paper spill. He set it inside a lamp of curved glass, where it faded for a moment then revived. “No putting us on fire,” he said, holding the light beside the sharpness of his face. “Ships burn lovely.”

Lacroix carried the lamp to his cabin. He wedged it by the top of the cot-bed and went up on deck hoping for stars, but the night was black and the only meaningful light came from the lantern hanging at the stern. Fifteen feet below him the sea hissed by in darkness, though by leaning over the rail he could see the now-and-then flash or glimmer of spume. He shut his eyes, breathed deeply. One way—the idea coming to him quite clearly though not entirely in his own voice—one way would be to lean a little further over the rail until there was more of him hanging above the water than there was standing on the deck. Then let himself drop. Would they hear? And what if they did? Would they turn about? Start to search for him? Unlikely. Very. And soon the ship and her stern light would be far away. His clothes would grow heavy. He was a poor swimmer at the best of times but in top boots and clothes in a cold sea, the land invisible, and too distant even if he could see it, there would be no chance for second thoughts. The thing would be certain. He thought of what the master would say to William, or what he would write to him from Glasgow. With deep regret . . . unexplained . . . a most unfortunate accident . . .