Loman John stared into the darkness. He could hear the steamer-ship — could always hear the steamer-ship — before its dim lights came into view. The fog was low in the evenings, and even the strongest lanterns could not pierce the mist for more than a kilometer at most; but the hissing grind of the engines were unmistakable, and it carried even in the Cliffside fog.
The layfolk called it fog, but Loman John knew more names.
“Never!” Yolanda Allingdale hitched up her dress and began to run. Not the expected trot of a petulant child, or the flurry of lace that marked any good girl’s proper retreat to their room; but a bracing stride of a run that carried her out of the room and halfway up the mansion’s stairs before her mother could raise a single protest.
It was difficult to run like that in such thick and tightly fitted clothing, but Yolanda had practice.
Arthur Von Gusse sat quietly, sipping his tea.
It was some dreadful Asian blend — nowhere near as pleasant or aromatic as a solid Brittianian tea; what was the country coming too? The King was becoming far too multicultural, Arthur mused. When Queen Virginia was alive, the Empire always had the best, whether it was English or not. Of course, the best often was English, and if it wasn’t… well, a short war would soon see that it was.
It is a fact universally acknowledged that once a pirate has spent enough time at sea, the Horizon looks different everywhere on earth.
This is not how a sailor begins their career. When they first step onto the swaying ship, young and fresh-faced, they are first overwhelmed by the majesty of it all: a distant expanse of unending blue, swallowing up the past, future, and anything else that the sailor brings with them.
