A man deserts at landfall; all the more impressive as the land in question is near enough a deserted island, with a tidy fresh water source not too far from shore and, up the rise, a lovely view of the ocean - a paradise in every sense, save that it's just as likely to kill you as to cure you, if Maggie's what ails you. She packs him a rucksack, does Amita, but the cook's eyes are keener than they seem: a canteen, hardtack, and a chunk of cured meat sets Amita back a dozen lashes and one long night tied to the aft rigging, salt air biting at her stripes.

Maggie deserves better than a would-be deserter, and no reason a man should starve (at least, not quick), but try telling her that. Amita takes up the position and settles in for the wait, ignoring the heckling, singing shanties in her head to pass the time; and deep in the night, stars in the bright millions above and the aft deck gone suspiciously quiet, helmsman gone suspiciously post-deaf, footsteps make the cold raw skin of Amita's back prickle - no man, that step; Maggie's tread is light on the decking, her gait lopsided from that bad hip.

The hot weight of Maggie's body pressed up behind her, Maggie's hands on the ropes, Maggie's breath against her ear so as the harsh edges're smoothed to a low burr, "Thought you brighter than this, lass," Maggie says, and quite right, captain: Amita's just as clever as she aims to be.