So, all my pleading had been for nothing, he had gone anyway. He just lay there in the bed. His stillness was so unnerving, I had never seen anyone that still. For a beat of my heart there was absolutely nothing, no feelings at all, the world had stopped. And then it passed and there was only one word in all the world- no. No, no, no. You cannot be gone, you will not be gone. I asked you to stay, and you said you would do anything for me, but you left. You left me alone.

I shake him but he doesn't respond, his skin feels odd and it takes me a moment to realise it's cold. Cold, but still soft and yielding like skin should be. I scream his name, a banshee couldn't have screamed any louder, but he still doesn't move. I try to cling to him, one last embrace, but the coldness of his skin isn't comforting, it's revolting. His blue lips don't yield to mine any longer. I run from the room, my hastily thrown on dressing gown flapping at my ankles and threatening to trip me.

I don't know where I'm going, I don't have a destination in mind. I don't seem to have anything in mind, it's blank and hollow and as cold as his skin. I cannot believe he is gone, I cannot comprehend it. I don't know what my life is without him in it.

I realise I'm in the drawing room and that I'm not running any longer. The early morning sunlight is glinting on the cut crystal decanter. I pull off the heavy stopper and drink straight from the bottle. I don't know what I'm drinking, I know it isn't my sherry, the one I sip from dainty glasses of an evening after dinner, I know that it burns my throat as I swallow it. It feels good to feel at all so I carry on. The decanter is half empty by the time it falls from my numb fingers and smashes on the hard wood floor.

I wake with a start, the sound of the smashing decanter still ringing in my ears. The early morning sunlight steams in through my little port hole, horribly reminiscent of my dream, of my memory. I put a shaking hand to my thumping head and felt the beads of sweat that cooled on my brow and wet my hair. I must look a soggy mess. I eased myself off my little bed, half expecting to feel the chunky shards glass beneath my toes, and filled my basin from the jug brought down the night before. Stripping off my damp nightgown and enjoying the warming feel of the morning sunlight on my skin.

My husband and I used to lie naked in a little clearing in the woods, a few miles into the grounds of our manor. We would ride out in the heat of summer, going slowly through the woods, enjoying the cool dappled shade, knowing no one would disturb us. We would make love in that clearing, the sun heating our skin as much as each other, listening to the sounds of breathing, the breeze through the thick summer leaves and a distant brook bubbling over its smooth pebble bed. We would lie for hours, tangled in each other, the breeze and his fingers trailing across my skin in almost exactly the same way. The sunlight would pick out colours in his hair that were never there in winter, gold and tawny, chestnut and deep russet brown; I would tangle my fingers in that hair as he breathed love into me.

I don't know why I don't ever dream those memories. I wander the lonely manor corridors for hours, but I never visit the woods, the lakeside or the meadows. All my dreams ever held was the horror, the loss and the loneliness.

The dreams had started the night I came aboard. The incident with Randall and the letter had set of a chain of memories and emotions that would not be put from my mind, and being alone let them fester and bleed. My hands healed quickly but my spirit had taken a knock it was unwilling to forget. I would walk on deck, plan my provisions and route, but there was never enough to keep me busy for long. The officers would stop to converse when their watch allowed, but there always seemed to be orders from above to draw their attention, I was starting to feel my every move was watched by the overbearing Captain and his cronies. Randall and his friends were quiet, but the looks they shot surreptitiously were full of malice and intent. The door was always locked at night.

I put the musty hallways from my mind and splashed my face with the cool water, what good were ashes and dust? Today I would be departing the ship to begin my mission in earnest. A little over a week had passed since we left port, it must have been one of the longest of my life. Nothing of great import had happened but the atmosphere on the ship was strained to say the least. There were no more supper invitations, I dined alone in my cabin, my food brought by the obliging midshipman, Wellard. He was a sweet boy, but poor company, he could not linger long as he was always needed elsewhere by the Captain.

I finished washing and dried myself, picking up the small bag I would be taking with me, stuffing a map and clean linen in the bottom before turning to scour my chest for all the provisions I would need. A bag of French francs followed the linen, my stiletto and a small pistol and a small sheaf of paper to report, should I need to. I covered all suspicious items with a rough woollen blanket. I wasn't expecting to find anything urgent, and I would be meeting the Alien Offices Exploring Officer in Rouen shortly at any rate. It should be a quiet trip, and an exhausting one. I was looking forward to falling into whatever inn bed I could find at the end of each day, too tired to dream.

I slipped a linen shift over my head and felt it flutter around my calves, tying it under my collar-bones I looked resentfully at the boned stays I had laid out on the bed. I had been getting away with less restrictive clothing in England, the fashion for empire lined dresses meant I could get away with a less defined waist, but in France the fashions were different. A whole new costume was needed and I wasn't looking forward to being pinched and pulled in again, especially if I had to run or fight. I slipped the offending garment over my arms and began to thread the laces into the eyelets lining the front facing. I tugged the thick laces tight and attempted a breath, not so bad as it could be but I doubted I could be comfortable for long. I had to admit the stays gave me a pleasing shape, it certainly made the most of certain assets.

A knock at the door interrupted my musings and I scrabbled for my dressing gown.

"Just a moment, if you please," I called in the general direction of the door, hastily tying the sash.

I hurried to the door and wrenched it open, a startled Lieutenant Kennedy looked down at me. Without my shoes on I truly felt tiny next to him. His eyes swept my face and flicked downward to note my state of dress. A slow flush started to creep up his neck, pink beneath the tan, he looked away speedily and cleared his throat. I couldn't help but allow a small smile at this.

"Yes, Mr Kennedy, can I help you?" I asked, demurely lowering my lashes.

"Er, yes, I'm sorry to disturb you during your, er," his eyes took in the wash basin and crumpled night gown," ablutions."

"That's perfectly alright Mr Kennedy, I had about finished. Can I help?" I asked again.

He cleared his throat and seemed to take a moment to compose himself, I couldn't help but smile, it was nice to be desired. It was nice to not be pitied.

"The Captain sends his regards and says that we are to make land in the next hour," Mr Kennedy gabbled, "he would like you to be ready to leave directly. He does not wish to linger in French waters."

I got his meaning at once.

"He can't wait to get me off of his ship, can he?"

Mr Kennedy scuffed his foot across the worn floor boards, awkwardness replaced by irritation and unease.

"He was certainly less than polite in the wording of his request."

"Was he raving again?" I asked bluntly.

"I should not like to say," Mr Kennedy replied, "he was certainly… unbalanced."

I knew I should not worry the Captain and his issues, after all I was leaving today and would not see the ship or her Captain for another month, at least. I could not help but worry about those I would be leaving behind, what would happen to the crew? Would the Doctor step in if needed or would he blindly follow his Captain under the guise of loyalty, laziness and inebriation? I looked up at Mr Kennedy, he was the vision of anxiety. If I was worried, I could not begin to comprehend the obstacles Mr Kennedy and his fellow Lieutenants were facing. They had to keep order on this vessel without the support of their Captain, when he was trying his utmost to instil disorder and undermine his officers.

"I'm so sorry, this must be very hard for you." I looked into a face that did not contradict me.

He seemed to be struggling with whether or not to speak; he glanced nervously up and down the corridor. A midshipman stomped up the stairs at the end of the corridor and Mr Kennedy eyed him through narrowed eyes until the heel of his shoe had vanished from sight. After another glance up and down the passageway he put a light hand on my shoulder and pushed me backwards into my room, following me and shutting the door in a single fluid movement. I looked at him in askance and he bent closer to me.

"I fear he may be mad," he whispered, "and I don't know what to do about it. He could do great harm to the ship and its men but I dare not raise any objections for fear of accusation."

"Accusation of what?"

He looked even more uncomfortable, his thumb rubbing a golden button on his coat. He ran a hand through his sandy hair and looked past me though the port hole.

"Mutiny."