A knot had formed in Blythe's stomach before she had even boarded the vessel, but as she stood on the ship's dock looking back at the city—the last vestige of familiarity she would get, ever if she died on this damned trip—that knot twisted and tightened and moved hither and fro with the motions of the deck beneath her feet, the water beneath the ship itself. Deep, slow breaths were all that kept the witch from losing her mind entirely. She did not want to be here.

But the Lord (with ample assistance from Aunt Temperance) had entirely different plans from Blythe's preference to stay at home, on land, and though there was no use bemoaning that fact, she did still—just a little. Mostly, though, she was focused on staying upright: apparently there was something called 'sea legs', and she did not have them.

Noise, commotion, and then they were off. While many around the railing chose to wave to those on shore, Blythe's grip remained firmly upon the polished wood, knuckles whitening with the strength of her grip as her lips moved in silent prayer.