Page 120 of A Flash of Golden Fire

Now he laughed. “Well, well, well. Never been tupped by a witch before.”

I met his gaze with a smug look. “Well, in actuality…”

“Oh, fuck. Yes, I have. Although you struck me more like an angel at the time.”

“Not so bad, then?”

“Not at all.”

“Now look, we’d better get on with this cleaning, or Guthrie’ll have my arse,” I said. “And he’s not the one I want dealing with that part of my anatomy, to be frank.”

Once we’d made a dent in the cleaning, I asked for permission, from Mr Guthrie, to fill two bowls with stew. I grabbed two spoons and carried them to the captain’s cabin.

Boone was in his regular post outside the captain’s quarters with his arm in a sling.

“Oh dear, what happened?” I asked.

“One of the men fell on me. The break is a clean one, Faraday said. Didn’t you hear me scream when he set the bones?”

“No. Did it hurt that much?”

“Aye, and more. Still aches like a bastard. But I’ve got a ration of rum here that’s helping. And Faraday says my arm’ll heal well.”

Since my hands were occupied, Boone used his good hand to rap on the captain’s door.

“Yer witch is here, Captain, with your supper,” Boone barked.

“Thank you, Boone. Let him in, please.”

Boone ushered me in, then shut the door behind me.

The space had been put to rights, I was pleased to see. The errant sextant was in its place on the captain’s desk. Dinesh himself was laid out in bed, propped up on some pillows that, the last time I’d seen them, had been halfway across the floor. A miracle everything had stayed dry. He was wearing one of his everyday linen shirts, with the ties undone at his neck.

I placed the bowls of stew and the spoons on the dresser.

“Come here, Simon,” Captain Martin said, beckoning me over.

“How are you feeling, Dinesh?” I asked. “How is your leg?”

“I’ve had enough rum to keep me from despair and to dull most of the pain. Faraday stitched the wound and says if I can keep the puncture clean the injury should heal completely in a few weeks.”

“Can you walk, do you think?”

“Aye. I might have a limp, though, if the pain is great.”

I made a face. “Oooh. I don’t know if I can love a man with onlyonegood leg,” I said, with much gravity and a pretence of distaste.

He looked taken aback until I gave him a broad smile and confessed to the joke. He rolled his eyes.

“You are a cheeky little devil.”

“Correction: a cheeky littlewitch.”

“Mylittle witch.”

“Will you eat some stew? Mr Guthrie said you might.”

“I’d love some. Thank you.”