The majority of the crew slept belowdecks, in the large compartments with row upon row of canvas bunks, or else in the smaller but nearly as crowded staterooms, which were reserved for the officers and academics. They were typically located as far down as possible, because at the base of the ship the rocking caused by the waves was little more than a gentle lull that actually tended to help men sleep, rather than keep them awake &mdash, and, of course, because that was where there was the most room to house a large number of men. Alfred, on the other hand, had his cabin behind a door right on the main deck of the ship, just below the bridge. It made for much rougher nights, but it was also essential. A captain, after all, had to be readily at hand to deal with any crisis that arose, and though he was certainly hoping to avoid any crises altogether if he could, Alfred wanted to be accessible to try and stem off any disaster, no matter what time of day or night.

Even so, the screaming itself hadn't woken him up; it was the gruff knock on his exterior door as someone tried to rouse him. It was funny how, even a week back at sea, he'd fallen in to the same habit sailors had of being able to sleep through anything except very certain sounds. Even a light knock would wake him up; the worst storm Neptune could conjure up likely wouldn't be.

He was still hastily pulling on a shirt when he staggered out onto the deck, blinking at the girl (the child) drifting slowly up past the base of the main sail. "Well, someone get her down," he ordered, hoping that someone who was on watch at this time of night had a wand on them — it wasn't a requirement for the often uneducated sailors, and he'd left his own on his desk before he'd gone to bed that evening. "Where the hell did she come from?"