Iolanthe was settled in comfortably in the captain's cabin of the ship her new husband had commissioned for her, her hat beside her on the bed, her shoes off her feet. She put them on one by one, laced them up, and, with a very businesslike air, went to inspect her ship.

On the main deck, she let out a loud, piercing whistle. "Men!" she shouted, nearly barked. "Which of you is responsible for our provisions?! Are we loaded?!"

A string-bean of a man responded promptly.

"I don't suppose we should be delayed any more than fifteen minutes, Captain," he said without looking up from a log book, "the crew is working on loading the last of the spirits and a few crates of chickens." He then clapped the ledger book shut and stood at attention, eagerly awaiting any further inquiries.

Mr Knight was a slight man, but had the look about him of a human abacus. Straightforward, methodical, and no-nonsense.

One exceedingly unhappy Maximilien Degare trumped up to the woman, his arm still crooked at an odd angle in its sling. Another fortnight and he’d be free to move it as he would. “The last of the port authority’s permissions, ma’am,” he said gruffly, offering her a parcel of neatly sealed writs before nodding at Knight.

"Thank you," Iolanthe said, not even scanning the documents. She looked to the human abacus. "Who are you? Are you always so stiff?"

Knight returned Degare's nod and held back a sigh as best he could. "I am Mr James Knight, madam. I'm the ship's purser," he stated respectfully and bowed his head slightly to her, "My mother was a strict observer of good posture, Captain."

Degare studied Knight for a moment and then nodded, more to himself than the others present. "Good of her to pass that observance along, sir." Degare was a big man, with a rugged scar over his left eye. His uniform was neatly pressed.

A younger man with dark, wavy, longish hair started through the doorway, only to find his progress hampered by the other officers. He raised a hand with a folded, sealed letter. "Madame captain?" And then he seemed stuck as to whether it would be less polite to pass it to her over Knight's shoulder or to shove his way through. "I believe I was meant to be reporting to you. From Grand Commandeur Moreau," he added helpfully.

Knight looked over his shoulder, fast enough that some starch flew off his well-powdered hair into the younger man's face. He gave Dumas a sneer before side stepping to give the younger gentleman room.

"Did she shove a rod down your shirt?" she asked the man, but kindly. "At ease, sailor," she said, before turning to the newcomer. She looked at his letter. "Yes, ah...Mister Dumas?" She eyed the young man thoughtfully, as if sizing him up, and then smiled kindly. "You're to be a midshipman with us. This is Mister Degare, to whom you'll report directly. And this is Mister Knight, who believes in good posture. Knight....isn't Aquitainean, is it?"

"No, madam, it is not," he said, his back faltering a little now that it seemed that full attention wasn't impressing anyone, "it is from Iorrain."