Even when he was alive, Wellard never took a tan from the sun on his pale skin.

It is certainly not the sun now, as he moves through the rigging to the mast and mizzen. Carefully, now- as the wind is

("She loves a stiff breeze." "-a bit more than a stiff breeze.")

-picking up. Wellard frowns, looking up and scanning the whole horizon. To the south east, there is a rising darkness that was not there a few minutes ago-

A storm, rising fast. A rather big one.

"Captain! Mr Kennedy! Storm sighted, East- sou'east!"