After struggling to swallow, she groaned. Wayland’s tincture tasted worse than it smelled. The wretched mixture scalded her tongue and urged her to spit it out. Yet she badly wanted to sleep, and Wayland had promised the brew would do the trick. She would have rather drunk the pools of stale ale that formed under the taps at the Quail and Queen. What a fool she had been to ever sneak on board Nolan’s ship. Or to fall in love with him. He had broken his promise. He wasn’t coming. Though she shouldn’t be surprised, considering the state of their relationship, she had somehow convinced herself he’d put aside his restraint in light of her misery. Never before had he seemed less guarded than when comforting her on deck. Perhaps her desire and need for him had overshadowed her judgment. She’d revealed herself miserably to him, and perhaps he’d merely said what he must to calm her down and encourage her to go below. As usual, she’d been another problem someone had to solve. She held her nose and forced down a large swallow of grog.
