The Storm-Grey Sea

Chapter Eleven - Four Bells in the Morning Watch

When she heard four bells chime in the morning watch, Rosalind was sure she would not be able to sleep again. She had managed to seek out her rest when, exhausted from the battle, she had been rocked to sleep in the embrace of the rowdy men celebrating their spared lives, but now the ship was eerily silent. Not a single soul made a sound and there was only the sound of waves and the breathy creaks of the Dauntless's timbers to lull one into sleep.

That would have soothed Rosalind had she been in a quiet mood; as it was, she restless, unhappy, perturbed, and certain feelings weighed heavily upon her spirit. When she closed her eyes to rest, disquiet snatched slumber from her mind and came to settle in her breast. She felt ragged and raw, as though something had begun to eat away at the contentment of her soul.

And so she rose and threw on her robe. Bare feet made little noise on the timbers of the deck, their planks worn smooth by the rough, naked soles of the sailors as Rosalind ghosted out of her cabin. After a mere ten steps, she rapped upon a cabin door.

She heard a low snarl from inside. It sounded barely human; had someone told her there was an irritable wolfhound in attendance and not an exasperated Vice-Admiral, she would hardly have disagreed.

"Beggin' y'pardon, sir," she said, the a thick accent and a man's low rasp coming as naturally to her as her own voice. "It's Miss Marlowe, sir."

In a breath the door had been wrenched open and there stood Rosalind's father, his shirt awry, his clothing all in disorder. A quarterdeck growl was rolling from between his clenched teeth, rumbling all the way up through his straight, steely posture, when he saw her.

"I didn't lie," she told him, smiling as winsomely as she could. "It does concern Miss Marlowe, sir."

He gave a little sigh and then a smile. He took her hand and pulled her into the cabin. There was barely enough room to turn about, let alone for two people to sit together. But closeness had always been Rosalind's shared pleasure with her father, and so the room was sizeably ample to allow him to settle her onto the hammock as he took up a seat on the stool by her feet.

"My dear, what in Heaven's name are you doing out of bed?" he asked, as though he already knew "And at such a time?"

"I could not sleep," she told him. She had been staring at her hands but lifted her eyes to him now. His gaze was upon her and she knew she did not have to explain - she had felt it, and he must have, too, he was as disquieted as she. "I feel...restless."

Her father nodded. Rosalind would have gone on had she been speaking to anyone else. With her father there was no need; not only that, but even in his presence, even in feeling his firm gaze upon her, in being seated so close by him, that ragged worry had begun to mend, the soothing comfort of his presence stitching neatly to repair her frayed spirit.

"Not the battle, surely? That did not disturb you?" he said.

"It could never have bothered me," she retorted, momentarily irked that he would question her bravery. She glared at him until he amended his statement.

"I know that, my dear girl," he said, and gave her a glowing smile. "I, too, found it difficult to sleep - an uneasiness plagued my mind." Upon conclusion of his sentence, he frowned, as if angry that he could feel uneasy.

Rosalind said nothing, letting herself counter the rumbling sigh that he produced with a comforting hum of her own. His eyes fell to his hands and both were silent for a moment, until the Vice-Admiral's voice, at its lowest and most piteous, a voice that no one save Rosalind had ever heard, quietly asked:

"Suppose I had been killed, my dear?"

"Papa, do not talk like that," said Rosalind, and she surged forward to grasp his hand in both of hers. She fought against the grief that threatened to overwhelm her at the very thought of her father being killed and so she stared as hard as she could into his eyes.