For the first time since her mother had died, Elizabeth could stretch.
She felt as though she'd spent two years in a cocoon, curled in on herself, waiting for the chance to break through into the open air and the sunlight. A larger playroom had not alleviated this confinement, nor had any of her father's attempts to draw her out.
But the ocean – the ship – here she could be free, here she could unfurl her arms like wings and not fear bumping into her mother's ghost or her father's private grief.
"Put your hat back on, my dear," he said, tweaking the loose ribbon, and she reluctantly complied. "I'm sorry that we could not persuade the Wickleins to accompany us on this voyage. You must be yearning for a playmate."
"I'm all right," said Elizabeth, wondering what on earth he could mean. She had him, for one thing, and all to herself, too. The sailors were fascinating and she couldn't wait to eavesdrop on their conversations. She might even make a friend of Lieutenant Norrington – he seemed so grave and serious, but she'd caught him feeding chicken to the ship's cat at supper. Deep down she was apprehensive about how the children of Port Royal would find her, but for now she felt herself to be in quite good company.