1st July, 1889 — Somewhere in the English Channel
Conall MacKay

It had never occurred to Temperance for a moment that amongst the challenges this expedition would pose her own equilibrium was also to be tested. She felt sick, no, that was an understatement – she felt as though her entire body was aggressively rejecting every attempt at moving in a dignified manner she attempted to make. Nothing but sheer pride – not the sinful kind of course, but rather a sense of decorum - had prevented her from hiding away in their cabin and wallowing in her own discomfort. It wouldn’t do of course, she had to hold her head high and it was already significantly better than it had been several hours ago.

She had never met a bout of nausea that could survive her potions indefinitely but this one had put up quite a fight. The fresh air was doing her good though, as was the solitude from the others of their party, and Temperance scowled as she heard boots approaching though didn’t move her head.

There was only one person aboard this boat that would dare to approach her when she had specifically asked to be left alone. Only one person who apparently lacked the decency required to take a lady at her word.

Of all the trials the Lord had ever sent her – Adeline, the boy, the general state of spirituality amongst her kind and now sea-sickness that would fell Blackbeard – she was quite sure that this man was one of the worst. She had thought him an ack pirate before and it came as little surprise to find that he was here at sea, looking every inch the scoundrel she had taken him for and, even more gratingly, looking more at home than she certainly felt amongst the spray and sea water.

“I don't know if you've come to offer sympathy or mockery Mr Mackay but I can assure you I require neither."

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   Blythe Fairchild

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It was a relief to be at sea.

It would have been slightly more of a relief if the greatest part of the population on board weren't all diligent Christians, but he'd been prepared for that. Besides, the journey was not a long one, and as soon as they reached the Niger delta he would blissfully be able to turn his back on their mission, and set off on his own instead. Only three days to get through, and then he'd be studying wild Fwoopers and trekking across towards Burkina Faso to see about some Runespoors.

Only three days. Conall, rather more comfortable on board than some (...most... all) of these Irvingly folks, had made sure to hang back whilst the churchpeople went belowdecks to get settled, and took a wandering tour of his own, more conscious of avoiding the former gaggle than the sailors aboard. Only three days... only there was one of the churchpeople he knew. Or, rather, knew enough: enough to know she was an insufferable sort, enough to know she most certainly did not like him.

So he would have been more than happy to give her a wide berth - or as wide a berth as the vessel allowed, anyway - but she could not claim the whole deck for herself, and, trying though she was, Conall could hardly claim to be intimidated by her. What was the worst she would do? Sermonise? Slap him again?

Conall only shrugged. "Wasn't offering," he explained pointedly, making a face to suggest he couldn't care less about her presence on board. He had thought she might look a little too green at present to care about his. "Left my things somewhere around here." He looked over a couple of crates nearby, trying to recall where he had set his bags down, and whether they might have been moved. As his gaze drifted back to Miss - Fairchild, was it? - he considered that she might find a way to be offended by this truth just as much as she might've been by either of the options she had given, so Conall (torn, admittedly, between the two) regarded her with a straight face, and added blithely: "It'll pass, though."

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   Aldous Crouch, Elladora Black

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“What did I just say!?” Temperance snapped, whipping her head towards him before immediately regretting it when sickness rose within her so quickly it nearly made her topple over. She gripped the railings tightly, turning her knuckles a shade of white to match the clouds in the sky, and leaned forwards unconsciously to prepare for an expulsion that, blessedly, didn’t come. She moaned softly as her head swam and closed her traitorous eyes: she could just about cope with the sickness, it was terribly undignified but manageable, however the feeling of being off-balance, of not being in control of what her body did because everything felt like it took twice as long for her brain to process, was utterly intolerable.

She carefully opened an eye and twisted her head slowly to look at him, leaning heavily on her arms and feeling like an utter fool. “Truly?” She asked, in a much calmer, almost humble voice, desperately willing him to tell her some secret trick to make it all go away. He certainly seemed to be faring better than anyone else onboard, even others that claimed to be experienced sea-farers – though Temperance had severe doubts about some of their claims. Either these waters were exceptionally rough or they were lying and Temperance had more reliance upon people’s dishonesty than she did the whims of the weather. “I’m not sure I can take this for the whole voyage.”

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   Elias Grimstone

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He'd been expecting that outrage, this time. It lost a little of its effectiveness, admittedly, with the way she had to give up and cling to the taffrail like she was going to die from it, but one had to admire her commitment. And nothing had come back up yet, as far as he saw, so that was something. All the same, he remembered the sensation, somewhat. From the crossing to Canada years back - though never after that again. (Conall wasn't even sure that it had been seasickness, that tumult in his insides as soon as the ship had left Ireland. It might've only been nerves, that fear of going halfway across the world into a whole life that was new, or perhaps that fear of that girl aboard the ship and having to talk to her, with his tongue in as many knots as his stomach.)

It was nature, now, adjusting to the ship's rocking rhythm, letting the weather carry you. Conall let his eyes fill with the ocean and then glanced back at her, mostly to check that she hadn't actually started retching. She had one eye open, looking uneasy. The outrage, yes, but what he had not been expecting was her changed tone. A kind of plea for reassurance. Funny, that.

He thought he'd spotted his bags out of the corner of his eye but, perhaps against his best interests, Conall ventured towards Fairchild and the rail, coming up a little along from her to lean on it. "Mhm," he said in answer, and then, belatedly considered that mhm was probably not as descriptive as it could be. "Always does," he added. "All sorts of cures to chase it off sooner," he said, with an almost-grin, "but everyone swears by a different one. I take it praying's not getting you anywhere?" He was asking for it with that, he didn't doubt it, but apparently he couldn't help himself.

With any luck, she wouldn't feel up to letting go of the rail just yet.

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Temperance scowled at his mockery but couldn’t summon the energy to lambast him as he deserved – besides which he was quite right that her usual devotions were getting her nowhere. She had always believed unquestionably in the maxim that the Lord worked in mysterious ways but she couldn’t even begin to imagine for what purpose her creator required her to be this uncomfortable. It wasn’t even as though it was true suffering, something that had been sent to seriously test her mettle; some on the ship were weathering the sickness better than she but others, Blythe included, could not even leave their beds. Was she not worthy of being tested as much as her niece?

“Not as yet,” she gritted out, leaning her head down as though in prayer, and letting the railing take her weight. “My potions haven’t helped either,” she confessed, personally offended that seasickness was apparently too insurmountable a height for her concoctions to scale, when at the Infirmary they were renowned for their effectiveness. She certainly hadn’t done anything different but somehow the magic that cured nausea on ground didn’t work at sea.

Another of God’s ineffable mysteries.

“I-” Before the words could leave her lips the rail gave way underneath her hands, not slowly as she would have imagined if she had given any though to it at all, but instead in defiance of the rust and steel that held the frame up the railing lurched from the ground under their combined weight and Temperance, who had been relying on it for her stability, went hurtling forwards before she even fully understood what had happened.

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   Conall MacKay

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Conall suppressed a snicker at her answer, and could not admit to being surprised to hear the sea was playing havoc with even her best medical attempts to be rid of her nausea. Be you magical or muggle, the ocean was one of those creatures one couldn’t often do battle with and win: in fact, the more you fought it, the worse things usually went for you.

He might’ve said something to that effect, but Miss Fairchild had scarcely begun another sentence when the railing gave way right under them. “Jesus fucking -” Conall swore sharply, scrambling abruptly away from the edge, a hand outstretched to clutch at her arm and make sure she did the same.

Only he was too late - found his hand grasping at empty air - because the nurse had evidently not been so lucky, and had instead disappeared from view. Heart thundering in his chest, Conall lurched forwards again to scan over the side of the ship. “Fairchild?!” He called, still trying to spot her even as he fumbled in haste for his wand in his pocket, and, with his other hand, already started tugging the end of a coiled line into his grasp instead.

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For all that she had ever heard about the ocean being a soothing thing no sooner had Temperance breeched it’s waves that she immediately began to panic. No occasion in her life had equipped her for actually being in the sea and she sank like the proverbial lead balloon for a few seconds as surprise rendered her immobile.

The unexpected though was no match for her iron will in the face of logic and reason – by the laws of both she ought to drown but instead, despite having no reason to do so beyond divine intervention, she kicked her legs, flailed her arms and somehow found air again.

It was only a brief respite.

She tried to blink the salt from her eyes, gulped air like a madwoman and managed to gasp out “can’t…swim...” before her strength gave out and she sank again, heavier this time now that her dress was truly soaked, and in the midst of her panic she wondered whether this had been the Lord’s intent all along.

Was it truly his will that she would die without a single one of her loved ones nearby?

  

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He could hardly hear her sputtering, but by the ungainly way she had surfaced, he concluded about the same for himself. Of course she couldn’t swim, that would be far too bloody useful of her. What did they teach women in this society?

Even for a practised swimmer, however, the waves today were choppy, and the currents might be even stronger. He found his wand and drew it, but she had sunk again out of sight, so, with all the haste he could muster, Conall flicked at the line to see it knot itself securely around the ship. (A sturdier bit of it than the railing, hopefully.) Winding the other end of the rope around his arm in a state of muted alarm, he drew in a deep breath, left his wand in safety on board, and threw himself off the ship, aiming in a dive for the last place he’d seen her.

Summer it may be, but the water was fiercely cold, and the salt stinging against his eyes as he opened them, trying to find her in the murky water. She’d been below the surface already - no doubt her water-logged clothes were three times the weight of his - so it took a moment of frantic searching, lungs half-bursting, before his outstretched hands found anything like a human limb.

Clamping onto her, he kicked with his feet to drag her upwards to the surface, fighting against the waves to break out in the fresh air, catch his breath, and keep Fairchild’s face above the surface to boot. Looked like the line was still holding, at least. “I’ve - got you,” he muttered, not sure she’d hear him anyway, but hoping she wouldn’t start flailing again and make this any harder.

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For a moment Temperance genuinely thought her days were up and that the sensation of being pulled was the Lord finally taking her soul home, albeit with slightly more force than she had imagined the Lord having when he raised a follower to eternal paradise. She was quite prepared to meet St. Peter at the pearly gates so it was a shock when instead she found herself above the water’s surface breathing chilled, salty air and held tight in the arms of Conall Mackay.

Her eyes stung fiercely and so did her pride, but letting go of him would mean a swift return to drowning so Temperance clung tighter. Quite why she trusted in his body to keep them both afloat she wasn’t entirely sure – perhaps because, as she was discovering, it was quite sturdy? – but trust him she did and though the instinct to panic reared up like a cobra in her stomach she refused to give in to it.

Which was all well and good but at least one of her layers was crafted from wool and no sooner had Temperance made her mind up to remain a limpet to Mackay the weight of her skirts pulled her under the water once more.

  

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Though she seemed responsive enough to decide holding onto him was the best course of action without him needing to tell her, Conall had barely tugged them along a metre closer to the ship’s hull before she was sinking downward again with him in tow, and he got a faceful of water for his efforts. Spluttering, he kicked upwards against this and managed to see them both briefly resurface, but this tug-of-war, as it was, was not going to get them very far.

And if she was the reason he didn’t make it to study some wild Runespoors, he was going to have to fish up her body from the depths and murder her himself.

Possibly he should have learned to eat a little less for dinner since living in Irvingly. He was sure he used to have a lot more stamina than this. “You’re going to have to... do without the dress,” he informed her, not waiting for Fairchild to agree before doing his best to unfasten the buttons with numb fingers and tug at least the heaviest layer off her while treading water for them both. People were supposed to be lighter in the water, damn it, not wearing leaden skirts.

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   Temperance Fairchild

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His intention dawned on Temperance a fraction too late for her to do much to stop his fumbling fingers from their intended task and though the very thought would have made her feel as though she was drowning – ironically – she could see the logic in it. Her fingers joined his and she nodded her understanding, each gasp of air being better used on her lungs than any attempt at speech; soon enough she had pulled, tugged and otherwise ripped the buttons from her coat and it sank without her. Her heavy wool skirt followed suit and she clung to Mr MacKay, still too panic-struck to be appalled, in her shirt and underclothes, both considerably lighter and much more able to keep her head above water.

She spotted the rope he was attached too and reached to take hold of it herself, one arm still firmly around his shoulders. Between the two of them they managed to kick their way to the edge of the boat, although Temperance would acknowledge that he had done most of the kicking, and by the time they reached the side of the boat she was shivering, shock and cold combining to leave her limp and clinging to the rope purely by the grace of the Lord.

“I can’t…I…climb…”

  

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That had helped some. Thankfully. (He would have looked rather awkward if it hadn’t.)

Thankfully, too, there was little room to think of else than getting them out of this situation, all Conall’s efforts best focussed on propelling them closer as efficiently as possible. She had fared well enough to get most of the way, but being here was not yet being back on deck, and he drew a weary breath when she protested about the climb.

He glanced up and back at her, deciding he had better not risk trying to carry her up herself. Instead, he nodded at her, understandingly, and ran the rope through his hands, refastening it firmly around her instead. “You’re alright,” he murmured to her - lest she think he was abandoning her to the water - and then he grasped at the line where it lay against the ship, and began to haul himself up the side.

He did not feel as nimble in practice as he had in theory, but if he had managed to scale waterfalls in the Amazon and rock-faces in Australia to catch a glimpse of a rare bird, he had a nonchalant faith in his ability to climb a few metres, and when he had reached the top successfully, he allowed himself little more than a breath before turning to look down. Fortunately at this point some of the ship’s crew had assembled to be of use, and began reeling in the rope, hoisting Miss Fairchild up with it as though they’d caught a particularly large cod.

Still, when she had just about reached the edge where the railing had betrayed them, Conall leant over to offer an outstretched hand in order to silently pull her up the last of the way, deciding he would only feel a prickle of relief when she had her feet safely planted on deck again.

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Being abandoned to the waves, even for a moment, could have easily sent more panic through Temperance’s body than she thought she could possibly have to spare given the circumstances but MacKay hasn’t deserted her to drown – quite the contrary actually, he had quite literally given her the lifeline – and she found him a curiously reassuring rescuer. Quite why that was she had no notion: he was thoroughly reprehensible but he did have strong arms, so perhaps he was a man for certain occasions and this simply happened to be one of them?

Certainly he seemed to be making light work of reeling her in. Temperance scarcely had a moment to grab hold of the rope before it was being pulled up with remarkable force, her boots hitting the side of the boat with a clip that momentarily made her think the heel would go right through the wood. This vessel had hardly covered itself in glory with regards its solidity but somehow she was back on the planks, breathe coming in short, deep bursts as she lay half on the boards, half on top of Mr MacKay.

Temperance recovered quickly – one did not last long in nursing without resilience – and she rubbed the water from her eyes, noticing for the first time that they were not alone. Under the force of her immediate glare the crewmen, whom she held mostly responsible for not keeping the ship in decent fettle, took several steps back. She assumed they were intimidated by her indignation until she recalled that she had lost half her clothing to the waves and, to make matters worse, it was rather cold.

She groaned in utter mortification, quite unable to move.

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   Conall MacKay

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Even for someone who didn't mind a swim, Conall was particularly relieved to be on firm boards again today, and exhausted enough to lay his head back on the boards for a moment, blinking and breathing heavily and still clutching, not entirely consciously, at Miss Fairchild.

In case she stood up too quickly and toppled right off the deck again, probably. Relieved as he was that she’d been recovered (it’d have caused him some trouble, being the only witness to her fall), his concern had not yet been convinced she was entirely well after that, and so, with some urgency he drew himself up, and - being that she hadn’t moved - her with him, only realising as he did so, still grasping at her, what a picture they must look. She was sopping wet from head to foot - so was he - and if he could feel a shiver setting in and goosepimples prickling on his arms through his sodden clothes, then he was in no doubt that she was cold.

And no wonder, given the temperature of the water, and the layers she was... no longer wearing. Conall regarded her blankly for a moment, a little bit dumbfounded, then caught himself staring and hurriedly tore his eyes away. He didn’t need to give her any more reasons for her to think him a barbarian, did he? As for everyone else standing about staring, well - he glared at the faces that looked least dismayed and most amused, hoping to shoo them off to mind their own business, sharpish. One of them had at least the sense to bring a blanket, which Conall promptly ripped from their hand and marched back to Fairchild, throwing it around her shoulders to cover her up and rubbing his hands up and down it against her arms to warm her up. It was at some point amidst this that all the adrenaline and efficiency of his rescue mission thawed abruptly back into awkwardness. (He was sure he had been going to say something to her, but he’d forgotten what.)

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   Temperance Fairchild

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The good book had been the cornerstone of Temperance’s life for as long as she could remember and there was rarely a circumstance to be found in life for which it’s words of wisdom did not offer a guide for how to behave: the gospels, it transpired, had no nuggets of advice for how to manage being half-clothed, dripping wet and surrounded by men.

Perhaps if there had been a Gospel of Mary Magdalene…

“Thank you,” she rasped out, marvelling that her throat was somehow dry after that escapade. Embarrassed anew she dealt with the feeling the best way she knew how and shot a ferocious look at the crewmen until they shifted their useless carcasses out of the way. The danger was past after all, even if they weren’t pathologically incompetent there was nothing more they were needed for. “Truly,” she tried again, feeling some warmth beginning to return to her body and diverting it immediately to her voice, stopping his rough hands with the placement of her own over the top of them. “Thank you.”

And before embarrassment could flare again, and with what strength she had left, Temperance dropped his hands and hurried away, praying to God as she went that Blythe would still be sleeping off the ill-effects of the sea voyage. God knows she wished she could spend the rest of the journey in the same state and a single glance over her shoulder confirmed that Mr MacKay was following her retreat.

Heat flared in her cheeks.

Abominable man.

  

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