The querulous and shrill-voiced native having been paid his fare, Stephen came up the side of HMS Surprise,where she lay anchored in the Bombay harbour, with the tide at high flood, as her captain would've liked noted, the Blue Peter having been flying since dawn, as he would've also liked noted, in such a detached, let us say, removed, state of mind that he quite forgot his habitual caution and could almost have been mistaken for a seaman.

Indeed, it was quite a different Stephen Maturin that Jack Aubrey beheld, having shot up on deck with a face like thunder as soon as he had heard the boat touch alongside, despite being halfway through interviewing his new first lieutenant. Quite different, that is, from the high-spirited Stephen he had last encountered several days before, dusty and bare-shouldered, a wreath of marigolds dangling over the back of his chair, unable to contain his delight as he spoke of Diana Villiers' eminent arrival.

This Stephen was an altered creature, his eyes bearing that regrettably familiar inward gaze.

He was bare-headed, his wig most probably discarded on some temple's steps one morning, cast off as Stephen had cast off all his Western clothing. He was dressed now in the style of the natives, his clothes baggy and shapeless, and wholly practical in the heat. Indeed, he could almost have been mistaken for a native, his skin having been burnt a soft dusky shade. Against it his icy grey eyes stood out quite shockingly, and though his hair had grown long enough to hang over them slightly, it did not manage to obscure that look Jack hated more than anything.

The look that signified something was wholly and horribly wrong, and there was no chance of Stephen telling him about it.

Jack rubbed unconsciously at his damaged ear, a characteristic gesture, and moved forward to hand Stephen into the cabin.

"Well, Doctor," he said, with what was attempted coldness, but sounded damningly like anxiety, or even nervousness, "a pretty pickle you almost made of our getting underway."

Stephen turned cold reptilian eyes upon him, and Jack's hand dropped from the Irishman's shoulder as he recoiled slightly from the look.

It was clear, in Jack's mind at least, that Diana had said or done something monstrously cruel, and this was a shattered Stephen, still reeling from the blow, that stood before him, framed against the stern windows.

As his friend turned and moved towards the coach, Jack allowed himself to feel the flicker of relief that had sprung into being in his chest, feel it, and wish his own soul to the devil for it, in the same moment.

Perhaps finally this ridiculous and misplaced esteem, and indeed, infatuation with a creature little better than a whore, perhaps worse, had been put down.

But at what immediate cost to Stephen's recovery?

Drawing himself up to his full height, and grazing his head on the roof of the great cabin in doing so, Jack moved after his friend.

If the prolonged efforts of the French secret police had not broken Stephen's spirit, that woman certainly would not be responsible for doing so.