As it had for days, the Emerald Storm remained on its easterly course, making slow progress against a headwind that refused to shift. Maintaining direction required frequent tacking, which caused the top crews to work all night. Royce, as usual, had drawn the late shift. Getting this assignment was not Dime’s fault. Royce had concluded that the mainmast captain was a fair man, but Royce was the newest member of a crew that rewarded seniority. He did not mind the shift. He enjoyed the nights he spent aloft. The air was fresh, and in the dark among the ropes, he was as comfortable as a spider in its web. This afforded Royce the opportunity to relax, think, and occasionally amuse himself by tormenting Bernie, who panicked anytime his old guild mate lost track of Royce.

Royce hung in the netting of the futtock shroud, his feet dangling over the open space—a drop of nearly a hundred feet. Above lay the dust of stars, while on the horizon the moon rose as a sliver—a cat’s eye peering across the water at him. Below, lanterns flickered on the bow, quarterdeck, and stern, outlining the Emerald Storm. To his left, he could just make out the dark coast of Calis. Its thick vegetation was occasionally punctuated by a cliff or the brilliant white plume of a waterfall catching moonlight.

The seasickness was gone. He could not recall a more miserable time than his first week on board. The nausea and dizziness reminded him of being drunk—a sensation he hated. He had spent most of the first night hugging the ship’s figurehead and vomiting off the bow. After four days, his stomach had settled, but he remained drained, and he tired easily. It had taken weeks to dull the memory of that misery, but nested in the rigging, looking out at the dark sea, he forgot it all. It surprised him just how beautiful the black waves could be, the graceful undulating swells kissed by the barefaced moon, all below a scattering of stars. Only one sight could surpass it.

What’s she doing right now? Is she looking at the same moon and thinking of me?

Royce reached inside his tunic, pulled out the scarf, and rubbed the material between his fingers. He held it to his face and breathed deep. It smelled like her. He kept it hidden—his tiny treasure, soft and warm. On the nights of his sickness, he had lain in the hammock clutching it to his cheek as if it were a magic talisman to ward off misery. Only because of it had he been able to fall asleep.