Phoebe noticed clouds massing low on the western horizon. But they were much too far away to be of concern. After an hour’s hard work she pegged her washing inside the hammock netting, rubbed a nourishing calendula and arnica cream into wrinkled reddened hands, and retired to a corner of the stern. Sitting on the warm deck, dry now after its early scrubbing, she drew her legs up, tucked her feet beneath her skirts and opened her book. If Romulus Downey came topside she would enjoy his company. Meanwhile she was content to be alone. Glancing forward she was surprised not to see the surgeon taking sick call at the mast. After the recent poor weather she would have expected him to take advantage of the sunshine. But perhaps none of the crew had reported ill or injured. Or maybe he was seeing them below deck. That would obviously be more convenient as he had his drugs, dressings and instruments to hand. She caught herself. The pattern of Jowan Crossley’s working day was none of her business – unless and until he made it so.
