“He’s got ink on him that means he’s sailed where frightening things happen to honest sailors who cross that banner.” “Are you one of the honest sailors?” I ask. “No,” she replies, and sticks the marlinespike hard into her boot. “Oh.” I turn forward. She straightens. We both stare out across the gray water, watching England disappear into the fog, and all I can think is that if she’s not one of the honest sailors, it may mean she’s one of the frightening things.
