April 19th, 1888 - The Sailors' Last Hurrah

Zelda had spent most of the day waffling on whether or not she was going to come. It was her last chance to see him, but he didn't want to see her. Their last interaction felt unfinished, but what good could come of finishing it? She was going to embarrass herself. It was undignified. He made her sad, and her father would be mad at her. But she really wanted to see him. He might die. If he found what he was looking for, then he was going to come back and be even more famous and want nothing at all to do with her.

She may not have gone at all, except that Julian was going because one of his friends was leaving, and if Julian was going she had an excuse to tag along. She lost him almost immediately, her brother darting off to get a drink with his friend. Zelda pulled up the hood of her jacket, holding to shroud her face from some of the scrutiny that could come. But she doubted it would. Everyone here was a bit sloshed, and if this was anything like last time - well. Mr. Darrow would refuse to have anything to do with her.

Merlin, why was she even here? (Because, despite the consistent sense that this was just embarrassing, there was that hopeful wave in her heart.)

Zelda got a pint of something-or-other from one of the sailors. She didn't even know how she was going to find him here. She brought the mug to her lips and took a deep sip, standing on her toes to try and spot him. She was going to have to get somewhere higher if she was ever going to find Mr. Darrow, and ducked around a small group to skitter up the ladder to the Voyager, mug tucked against her chest.

And perhaps she would have given up, or changed her mind, or tried somewhere else - but then she saw that familiar cloud of ridiculous hair on the same boat she'd clambered onto. Her heart pounded. Zelda ducked under a man's arm, scurrying past a tiny crowd just to reach him.

"Mr. Darrow."  

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