Jago had been there in church as their guest when Lowenna had married his captain, sitting with John Allday and his wife, Unis. There must have been more than a few yarns after the ceremony. And a lot of memories.

“Mornin’, Cap’n! Up an’ about already, I see!” Jago was putting down a steaming mug and turning up the solitary lantern, apparently indifferent to Onward‘s motion as the deck tilted again. “Wind’s steady enough-nor’east. We’ll need a few extra hands on the capstan.” He flicked open the razor until the blade caught the light and glanced at the old chair. “Ready when you are, Cap’n.”

He watched as the faded seagoing coat was tossed onto a bench and Adam lay back in “the chair with a frog-sounding name,” as Hugh Morgan, the cabin servant, had been heard to describe it. So many times… Jago could shave his captain in a storm without effort, and the razor was very sharp; he always made sure of that. Adam glanced at the stern windows. He must be mistaken, but they seemed paler already.

“‘Ere we go, sir!” Jago steadied Adam’s chin with his thick fingers. He could think of a few throats that wouldn’t have risked being in this position. One in particular.

He heard the sound of voices, feet scurrying across the deck: the morning watchkeepers preparing the way for all hands when the moment came.

He dabbed Adam’s face with a towel still hot from the galley fire. The first lieutenant was making certain that nothing would go wrong, with every naval telescope trained on Onward, ready to find fault if there was any misjudgment or error. And this man under the blade would be the target.

The captain was unusually quiet, Jago thought. Getting under way: a thousand things to remember. Maybe you never got used to it. He recalled the lovely woman in the church, the way she and Bolitho had looked together, surrounded by all those people and yet apart. He couldn’t imagine what it was like. He thought of the painting in the sleeping cabin behind him. And she had posed for it.