The sailor led him down a narrow hallway and knocked on the ship master's door.“Enter.”“Here he is, sir.” With more of a leer than a smile, the sailor pushed Ian into Henry Moore's private chamber.Henry sat at a desk in front of him, ink and parchment on its surface. He wore spectacles, which gave him a bookish air and eased Ian's fear slightly.The room they were in was small but comfortable, with a sleeping berth and desk, a shelf of books with leather straps buckled over them to keep the tomes from falling out during rough weather. Maps were tacked to the walls, with even more scattered across the one table. “Well, Mr. Douglas.” Henry slipped off his spectacles and stared at Ian sternly. “How are you to account for yourself?”“I'm sorry, sir. It was an accident.”“An accident? Or simple carelessness?”Ian flushed. “Carelessness, sir,” he whispered. “I know I should've taken more care...”“Have you been down to the surgeon's quarters, Mr. Douglas?” “No, sir.”“The sailor who was tangled in your careless rope is there presently, with a broken leg.
