Were he a Divine Being, Clifford would have lodged a formal complaint with God regarding the third day of Creation. Not that Clifford was truly convinced the Church was right about a seven day creation, but for the moment, it made aiming his truly heretical complaints easier. Damn the ocean to the bottom of its own depths, he truly hated the sea. A week ago, he had no ill will toward the roaring tides, but after a week adrift pulling the dead and dying from the waves, he had every right to change his opinion.

Trudging from the belly of the ship’s hold where he said a short prayer for the dead, as was becoming his grim habit, Clifford set eyes (and unfortunate ears) in the shrieking Miss Selwyn. Were he an unmarried illegitimate trapped at sea, he may shriek as well, but he rather liked to think he would ponder his damaged prospects in silence and spare the other survivors the noise. But what knew of the debutant’s mind could fit on the tip of his wand.

Before bothering to look at the water where he expected to see only water, Clifford slapped on his best ‘Healer knows best’ smile and approached. “Come Miss Selwyn, I am sure it is just a trick of the starlight. You should rest while you can.” And please, for the love of all good things, hush so that I may sleep. He added to himself. Then he heard the rumbling. “I don’t see a thundercloud in the sky.” He mused allowed, looking heavenward anyhow.

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