Geneva spent a few days down below. She didn't dare come up into the light of the main deck. She had never been so embarrassed in her life. And she was completely infuriated.

It was impossible. She couldn't have hoped to beat someone the size of the first mate. She hadn't been the problem. Everything about her stature and stance had been perfect. She couldn't have performed any better. Any other man would have fallen to her blade. He should have been cut down as well.

But the odds were stacked against her, and she wished she could have seen it sooner. It might have saved her a sword. Geneva glared at the thought. She would never forgive him for that. Her Spanish rapier, her prized sword, the one she had earned after years of practice—complete garbage. Useless. And it wasn't her fault.

She knew enough about swords to know that they didn't just break in half. Rapiers were well made. They didn't just snap. Unless, of course, you were fortunate enough to have a run in with the bloody first mate and his damnable longsword, and then he'd cut your sword in half and blame it on your technique.

Geneva fumed. That was not her fault. She knew exactly how to handle her own sword, contrary to what that arrogant brute thought. How she loathed being overshadowed. If anyone was unworthy of a well-standing position in the hierarchy, it was the first mate. God, she despised him for stepping all over her.

And as much as she wished to tear him apart herself, she knew even trying would result in instant failure. He was massive. And he was skilled. If he had been any smaller, his skill wouldn't have mattered. Geneva was convinced. It was his mere size that allowed him leverage enough to beat her to the ground in everything she did.

It took a while to swallow the bitterness. But she knew she would have to if she was ever going to make it off that ship. If she could best the first mate, nobody else would stand in her way. She'd have a straight shot at getting off the Dutchman. So, she would have to be a lot smarter about things from now on. If she couldn't beat him physically, she would have to beat him mentally.

That was the area in which she held the ace. The first mate wasn't stupid, but Geneva had a lot more in her favor. She could learn quickly, much faster than he would catch on. By the time he did, she would already have surpassed him in both skill and strength. All it would take was patience and a daft mind. She could do it. She had finally found a certain way around him. All she had to do was go right through him without him even knowing it.

So, after three days of seclusion in the lower decks, right at the break of dawn, she climbed the stairs to the main deck and stepped into the scattering fog, into the blinding golden rays which catapulted from the east, shattering the western darkness. The wind swept and curled, catching the hasty fog by its sheepish tail and sending it sailing straight into the sun, and the waves burled under the hull, the ship rising and falling in rhythmic, majestic sways.

She weaved into the morning labors, manning the sails, tying the rigging lines, climbing up the masts and across the yards, swabbing every inch of wood when the waves swelled and sprayed over the rails. She folded herself into the men, just another plodding body, and when the sun had finally risen over the highest yard, the whole congregation stopped and made themselves as comfortable as they could, and hardtack was passed around for the midday ration. Geneva found herself a nice niche between rigging ties on the starboard side of the deck, snatched a decent piece of hardtack from the quartermaster before he threatened her with extra labor for sorting her rations, and settled herself just out of reach of the sun under the shadow of the forecastle deck. She enjoyed her hardtack as much as she could, for it was not without the usual unpleasant moisture, and when she had finished, she sat up and scanned the ship with a purposeful eye.

The first mate was on the portside catwalk, speaking nonchalantly with the man called Palifico. He was only crewmate who could stand next to Maccus and not be completely dwarfed. His entire lanky body constituted of nothing but coral, and where his eyes should have been, hesitant tubeworms protruded for only a few moments before retreating back into his skull. His pacific voice would roll from somewhere on his face, gliding forth from an obscured mouth that probably existed, but likely wasn't at all pleasant-looking, and nobody was courageous enough to inquire.

Geneva crossed the ship and climbed the stairs to the catwalk, finally coming to stand behind the first mate, waiting with an uncanny patience. Palifico could see her from where he stood, and before long, Maccus was finally forced to turn and address her, but not without obvious annoyance.

"What do you want?" he growled down at her. He definitely stood at an intimidating height. But Geneva held her ground easily.

"I want you to teach me to swordfight," she replied, unfazed. She had decided. She would learn his skills and fall into stride next to the rest of the men. If made herself one of them, she would earn her respect. And, she would have a chance to make a break for it when the opportunity presented itself. This was merely the first step in that direction. It was as simple as that. A bloody good plan it was. She really had to congratulate herself on that one. It was the most unexpected scheme she had ever thought up, especially since she had done it without the use of her hypnosis.

But, just as abruptly, as if she had slammed into a dead end, Maccus' single right eye narrowed immediately in suspicion. The scowl lines on his face deepened.

"No," he asserted simply, and he turned away from her.

Geneva was dumbfounded. She had not expected that. He had no reason to decline. She had been sure of it. How could he have suspicions?

"What?" she demanded, nearly speechless. "Why?"

Maccus heaved a long, irritated sigh and faced her again, already irked enough for one day.

"Because you lack the ability to be taught anything," he snorted. Geneva narrowed her eyes.

"You lack the ability to teach," Geneva shot back, crossing her arms. She would win this.

Maccus fully faced her now. "Then why'd you ask me?"

"Because you beat me," she answered simply. "Why'd you turn me down? Afraid I'll be an embarrassment to ya'?"

Maccus glowered at her now, and it was clear that she had struck the right nerve. He didn't say a word for a few moments, still trying to look less stumped than he was, and for a brief instant, Geneva felt a hope rising in her chest. He was going to give in. She was sure of it.

"Go work the damn rigging," he growled at her finally, which wasn't a "yes," but it wasn't a "no." Geneva could take that. She turned away and followed her orders diligently, as if she hadn't spoken a word to him.

She couldn't help but smile. She could feel the heat of his frustration, and that delighted her. She had the upper hand when it came to intellect, and she knew it. He was nothing but a brute. She had figured him out. She didn't even need her eyes to analyze men now. All she needed to do was strike a nerve and she was a god over puppets.