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She sagged wearily against the rail, her breath rushing out of her. Raising her head and holding her hair flat against her face against the wind, she could see the high stone walls of New Orleans, the French and city flags taut against a restless sky.

The suddeness of Patrice's appearance at her side no longer suprised her; a big man, and awkward-looking, he in fact possessed the stealthy grace of an African feline. Slightly less subtle was the appearance of Patrice's carpenter, Galbraith Hands (known as "Grabber" to the crew), announced as it was by a ferocious gargling and a glob of expectorant the size of a small round shot.

"A long trip, Madame, certainly," said Patrice. "Longer than normal or necessary and my apologies for that."

"You take too much on yourself, as usual," she said, favoring him with a slight smile. "You are a good captain, that's plain, that's why you are in my employ. But not good enough to control the winds or run us fair against the tempest." Next to her, Grabber snorted.

"Aye, an it be not all down to wind neither, beggin yer pardon, ma'am. The bitch been in the water too long's my way of thinkin. You mark my words, she's foul as a witch's taint an no mistake."

"Aye, Grabber, you are probably right," she acknowledged, "I'll talk with Captain Larkin and see if he has space in his yard to lift her dry."

There was a crash behind her, and what had been the steady sound of the first mate, Damien Macklin, encouraging the crew as they assembled the ship's pinnace, abruptly turned into the shriek of cannister through rigging.

"Bleeding Jesus on the $%$% cross, watch what yer at ye disquilious pack of lagpools. Yer not putting this together for a Saturday night jaunt into port to get yer longyard polished. This has ta carry herself in style. And don't you look at me under yer brows, Moffit or you'll be cleaning me pisspot, and while I be usin it in all manner of likely!"

Deoiridh smiled to herself. She was never quite sure where Macklin got half his curses from. He seemed to swim in an endless sea of vowels and consonants and was perfectly happy to combine them randomly as the spirit of the lord moved him. And while it took some time she was now used to the fact that the crew habitually referred to her as "herself." When she had asked Patrice why, he had simply shrugged: "Because they don't know what else to call you."

Finally the boat was assembled and being lowered over the side. She turned to Patrice. "So we are understood then? You will take the Rire"--saying the ship's name like that, so close to her sister's pet name for Deoridh, made her heart lurch into her mouth--"to Grenville as planned, and wait for me there in the Albatross?"

"Of course. But I don't like this. All is unsettled, there are rumors of forces arrayed against us of who knows what name. It is not a good time to be wandering around alone."

"Patrice, your concern does you credit, but it is New Orleans, hardly the heart of the jungle. The Lady's Maid should be in port by tomorrow afternoon with a load of shot and copper from Belle Isle. I'll leave word with the harbormaster for Gregor to wait for me and I won't be more than a day, two days behind you at most. Make sure you talk to the Bishop and retrieve any urgent Confederacy paperwork for me. I fear I will be considerably behindhand for a few days."

"I don't know why you want to stop off at New Orleans any how," said Patrice as she climbed over the side. She paused halfway down the side of the ship and looked up at him.

"No, you don't." She said.

There was a soft thump, the sound of creaking oars, the grumbled words of command from the coxswain. Nervously fingering the fraying sleeve of his coat, Patrice watched the boat until it was lost among the bustling traffic of the port.

[I decided to use this as a prequel to the Walking After Midnight story which I'm now picking up as a solo effort since it didn't really work as the basis for a collaborative RP]