(no subject)
Half a world away, the sun has only just risen over a stolen ship and her unconventional crew.
An ocean away, the sun hangs hot and heavy in the sky over an island fortress and the gallows that have been erected within its walls.
In London, the sun is about to set, though a murky cloud cover all but hides it from view. An East Indiaman lies at anchor on the slate-grey waters of the Thames, and until a few moments ago her commander had been in his cabin, on the point of dropping off to sleep in anticipation of an early morning watch.
He is far from asleep now.
Whatever he had just felt was nothing like the vague, distant echoes that he had come to expect as a result of keeping all of his senses open and attentive. This was something quite different, and quite inexplicable.
The officer in charge of the watch gets very little in the way of explanation for why the commodore is leaving the Pridewin and going ashore. Before the poor man has a chance to do much more than lower his hand from his salute, there is only the sound of a walking stick tapping briskly along the wooden planks of the dock below.