“Surely, the world must allow for this.”
The Journals of William Harwood #4
Spring Thirdmoon, the Seventeenth,
Year of Returning Light 645
The Dremia Sea, five miles east of Vetorna
Merchant Ship Ilaria’s Promise
As I awoke this morning, I heard a rustling among my personal effects. Thinking a member of the crew was set on robbing me, I reached for father’s old dressing knife, a blade that I always kept close on these trips. But when my hand crept into the nook between bed and nightstand, there was nothing to find there but wood splinters.
“You’re a very sound sleeper,” she said. The voice was familiar but so very much out of place. As my eyes came to focus on the figure hunched over my desk, I could see a glint of lantern light upon her eyes, and I knew for certain it was her. Impossible as it might seem, Dianora Sibelia was there in my cabin, pawing through my documents. My heart leapt in wonderment, but was soon drenched in a cold dread as I considered what her father—my business associate—might think about this.
She bade me good morning in that silky voice of hers, and tossed my knife down beside me. An admonition. Or a boast. I could see by the baggy clothes she was wearing, that she’d been posing as a member of the crew–had been for three days now. Long enough for me to think twice about turning the ship around.
While I was laying there, mouth agape as I struggled to adjust to this new reality set before me, she stepped in close and kissed me. This, again, was designed to set my mind in her favor, but I didn’t care in the slightest. If every difficult negotiation might be finished by the touch of Dianora’s lips, I think I might go bankrupt for it. This particular negotiation was lost before it was ever started, and I resolved that I would not be taking her back home. Though I would be sending word back to Federico at my earliest opportunity.
At present, I am delaying the agony of such correspondence by writing this log entry.
We entertained each other for much of the day. I worried that there might not be much to keep her interest on a cramped, barrel-stuffed carrack like this; but it was her first time on a sail ship, and she was determined to learn every part and function of it. With no small amount of effort I convinced her against climbing into the rigging, but she was all-too-eager to involve herself in any other task that included a rope or a belt of tools. I suppose it won’t be long before I’m pulling out a sextant and showing her how to navigate. She’ll be captaining her own ship in less than a fortnight.
The crew seem to like her well enough. I believe they’ve come to understand her significance here, that there’s a good and a bad to it. Though there was one who was a bit too familiar. Sensenmann was his name, I think. I had the deck chief warn him off. As much for his own protection as hers. Though I must admit to a fiery jealousy all the same.
I want to hold her. It’s all I can think of in this moment, and a welcome distraction from darker preoccupations. But I must show restraint. Propriety must be upheld. The future hinges upon it.
Though I do also wonder what she might say if I divulged the true purpose of this voyage. My obsession with Traulish heresies. I can’t say it’s easy to imagine her warning me off such a thing. It would be like the rigging for her. Enticing in its perilous avenues of discovery. A chance to see the world from a new vantage. I worry not that she will think ill of me, but instead that she will take a hold of this same endeavor with untempered zeal.
On the other hand, would it not be prudent for at least one soul in this world to know the manner in which I plan to endanger myself? One, just one, with whom I might share the leaps and tumbles of the chase? Surely, the world must allow for this.
I will tell her. When lamps are lit and voices are low, I will tell her about the things I seek. She will decide on her own what to do with it. From there, the winds of fate carry us as they will.
