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friend reminds me daily. But we have fine botanists, scientists, and husbandmen.”
    “You would not like my ships.”
    “Ships?”
    “I make them out of bones, scraps, things others throw away. They are not useful, my ships. They do not even sail.”
    “But perhaps they would be useful for teaching. Teaching children about ships, navigation?”
    “Do you have children, Judith?”
    She lowered her eyes. “No. There is only my father and me. But I visit many children.”
    “As you visited the prisoners at Dartmoor?”
    “Yes.”
    “And these children you visit, they would like my ships? Learn from them? So you will give me your hair?”
    Judith touched her cloak’s hood. “My hair?”
    He shook his head. “I am not doing this in the correct way.”
    She touched his arm. “Do not be distressed. Speak plainly.”
    Washington let the calming warmth of her touch spread through him. “I cannot raise the sails on my ships. I had found nothing fine enough, or strong enough, or light enough. The combination of all three, you understand? Until I saw your hair. It would flow through one of your needles, it would become the lines my ships need to raise the sails. To be complete.”
    Her hand left his arm. “I would be privileged to contribute the leavings of my brush for thy purpose,” she said.
    “And this would not violate your precepts?”
    Judith laughed again. Hers was a religion of joy, Washington decided. Why did Fayette scorn it so? She pulled a bound book from her scarlet bag. Washington felt a familiar tingling at the tips of his fingers that the sight of a book always produced.
    “Look,” Judith Mercer said. “Nature’s own art, the shadow.”
    Centered on the first creamy white page was a black paper silhouette. A portly gentleman in a wide hat stood, his attention absorbed by a broad leaf in his hands.
    “Who is that?”
    “Eli Mercer. My father. He collected plants during our time in London. The windowsills were full, vines around every doorway.”
    “Who made this, Judith?”
    “I did. In partnership with nature’s shadow, of course. I’ll bring Papa tomorrow night, so thou can judge the image with reality.”
    “Good,” he said, meaning it, but hoping she would not bring Eli Mercer every night.
    “But he needs his sleep, so I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer my company alone for most of the crossing.”
    His smile widened. A spot of color appeared at her cheek as she returned her attention to her black paper sheets. “It is a simple craft, but I take joy in finding details to heighten, illuminate my subjects.” She turned the page.
    “There’s Stanley, the captain of the forecastle!” Washington exclaimed.
    “Yes! How do you know him?”
    “By his swinging waistcoat, his wild hair, his hold on the rope.” Washington turned the next page eagerly. “And here’s the purser with a tight grip on his keys and lips both. And First Lieutenant Mitchell, tilted from wearing only one epaulet—so long has been his wait for promotion! Judith, how do you do this?”
    She leaned over the book, pointing her slender fingers at slit collars backed with white paper and delicately cut buttonholes. Her deep, richly
toned voice explained the craft that had captured the crew of the Standard as they engaged in their daily living.
    “Shall I bring my scissors and my black paper tomorrow?” she asked.
    “And I’ll bring one of my ships. We can raise the sails together, yes?”

3
    Captain Willis spun the fine crystal glass by its stem. The mulatto servant in satin livery poured brandy to fill it again.
    The captain’s sneering smile cut through the ugly saber-scars. Despite his manners and the polished reflection of his quarters, this was a man who’d abused his privilege of power, Judith sensed. And he bore the intemperate palsy of the hunted. How much longer would this interminable meal last? She watched the steam rising from her tea.
    Judith usually slept during this time, the dog watch between