He returned to his own bunk, unbuckling both his revolver and sword; the logbook he had left with the captain. He sat for a moment, wondering what to say. No ideas appeared, and every moment he waited would probably make it worse.

A breakfast he quietly assembled from the galley, too distracted to take anything for himself. He knocked on her cabin door without having had so much as the faintest inkling of how he was going to make it right.

He was still thinking when she opened the door, but it got easier.

“I heard you missed out on the cook’s excellent breakfast,” he said with a somewhat rueful smile, “and he insisted that as such it was my duty to enrich your morning.”

If she was running from me, then why the crying?

He paused, sensing something; changed tack abruptly.

“I’m sorry, you know. I really am. It wasn’t my intention to drive you away.”