*Gabriel*
The galley is too warm for my liking, but I take my usual place at the long bench along the side wall, nodding to Isla as she ladles dinner into battered tin bowls. The crew trickles in, loud and hungry, jostling and jeering, but quieter than usual tonight. It’s the girl.
Sabrina.
She sits nearby, her posture too straight for someone used to hard benches. Her hands are steady around the bowl, but she hasn’t eaten much.
I can’t make sense of her. At first, I thought she might be daft, washed ashore, concussed, babbling in that odd accent of hers. It wasn’t quite English, not quite anything. Too stiff, too sharp, but now, hours later, she speaks like one of us. Nearly perfectly, enough to make me doubt my memory.
I chew slowly and study her over the rim of my bowl. She holds
