The Connollys were securing the stowage of some casks. The one facing the master stopped his work and stared.

‘Skipper’s in queer duds.’ By the lack of restraint in the comment, I guessed it was Angus.

Declan turned to look. A faint chuckle escaped him: confusion, not humour. ‘Oh, this is goin to be a trip all right.’

‘Mind your work,’ I snapped, ‘and not your opinions.’

The lad looked chastened. Argyle did not react, but moved past him to replace the chart in its drawer. His body fought the dress: it moved as a man’s does. Above the straight-line bust, where a woman’s chest might slope and swell into her bosom, were hard plates of muscle beneath his collarbones, a valley of sternum down the centre. The bodice was made to a woman’s shape: the dress strained dramatically. Likewise his arms, flexing under the short, puffed sleeves, were those of a working man, bulky and thick.

From his position against the cabin wall, Dr Gideon craned his neck to see what had caused the reaction. He took in the sight calmly.

~

By late afternoon we were on open ocean, travelling well down the coast to the south. The land met the sea at a long, dark escarpment, a narrow plain at its foot. I could see the stacks of the colliery there, on the site where Srinivas and Clark and the imposter had made a fire from that first, foundational lump of coal. The ensuing stampede of coalminers was a part of the story I knew well, a part that reflected progress and industry. Unlike the darker pages.

No other sail blemished the perfect meeting of sky and sea, and the Moonbird rode heavy over the chop, smothering it with her reassuring bulk. Longer, deeper swells rolled under, lifting and lowering the boat as they passed beneath, heading for the end of their lives on the rocks and beaches.

My father started on a bottle of madeira around the same time Argyle draped a shawl over his dress. The Connollys had the sails tuned to the nor’-wester. A state of rest descended. I heated stew in the galley’s tiny stove and set two places at the table—I assumed the rest of them would look after themselves. My father came without complaint and I sat him before the food. He kept one hand on the bottle—wary that I might take it from him—as he scooped food with the other.

‘Where did it come from, Father?’ I began.

‘What?’ He stopped and looked up. Oh, the tedium of these exchanges!

‘You know what I’m talking about.’

‘The bottle? Among the provisions,’ he said casually.

‘Remarkable. What stunning luck for you.’