Sophie was a frizz of blue eyes and dirt and white fluff that stuck out in every direction to tangle in James' own mess of hair. And she was drunk.

Which was delightful, in a fuzzy kind of way; she stopped worrying about her Commodore for long minutes to watch the dirty-gold reflections of light in glass bottles. They sparkled.

Sparkle, sparkle, sparkle. Shatter.

The room lurched dizzily, or—no, that was James again, intent on killing the Sparrow-bird. Because he loved him. Or hated him, or—of course it was both, Sophie decided. It always had been with those two, and the weather certainly hadn't helped. Silly hurricane.

James snarled, Sparrow turned into a plant, and the tavern turned into a brawl. A male version of James' ex-fiance knocked them over the head with a bottle of rum, then they were thrown out.

Quiet. Wonderful, wonderful quiet. At least comparatively. Every strand of hair aching, Sophie relaxed into the mud of the pigsty. Right now, sleep sounded good.


Later, tucked safely away in what had once been a uniform, Sophie began the long task of grooming herself to her customary perfection. Acknowledged in his rank or not, her Commodore deserved no less; and as for herself, she never wanted to see another speck of dirt in her life.