Clarissa hadn't realized she had fallen asleep until a hard rap struck her door and startled her awake. She sat up, pulling the sleeping bag with her to her chin, held her breath, and stared wide-eyed at latch.

She waited for the door to open. But nothing happened for a moment, long enough that Clarissa wondered if she misunderstood what she heard. "Hello?" she asked plaintively.

"Chow's hot, if you're keen," a voice came from the other side of the door. The somewhat melodic baritone was vaguely familiar to Clarissa, who recalled it belonging to one of the ship's crew, Leslie Madrigan. Tentatively, Clarissa stepped to the door and pulled the latch. The door was fiercely heavy, and took a great deal out of Clarissa to push it open it even a hair. But as soon as it moved, someone pulled on the other end, and the door swung open as if it were made of paper.

"Ah, good," Leslie said, blocking the path with shoulders wider than the doorway. "Was worried I had made Calmoorian curry for nothing. Care to eat?"

"Oh, no thank you, I-," Clarissa began, intent on refusing the offer. But her stomach spoke louder than her nervous disposition when it growled loud enough that even the big man noticed. "Please." She fixed her eyes on his feet, rather than looking up at this creature the size of two grown men.

"Sorry I didn't introduce myself before. Leslie Madrigan, gunnery officer," Leslie said, and he extended a hand nearly as long as Clarissa's forearm. Clarissa took it hesitantly, but the giant man's grip was astonishingly gentle. "Also the ship's cook, when we have time."

Leslie led her towards the bridge and stopped at the last door before the end of the hall. "It's nice when we have time to sit down together to eat. We don't do it often as a crew. Even if I don't count Yannick, he rarely leaves his room. None of us sit down together as often as we should. Always something happening."

Leslie opened the door and lead the way to a small, square room with two tables. The Bankerloft passengers were on one, claiming five of the six seats. They leaned forward as they ate, engaged in a hushed and sporadic conversation. At the other table, four members of the crew ate in silence. The Captain was looking at a notebook held open with one hand, tilted slightly so that Tonya could read it as well. Mercy had her hat on the table beside her, and her long hair had partially fallen over her eyes. The other woman Clarissa hadn't met, who the Captain had called 'Tinker' earlier, was eating with gusto.

"Madman! You outdid yourself," Tinker tried to call out, with a mouth half-full of food. The woman was wearing tan overalls that bore a litany of tiny wounds. Burn holes dotted the billowy sleeves enough to turn the shirt beneath into a cotton sieve. The tan colour was uneven, looking more like a collection of grease stains that would never get clean. Tiny burn marks littered her chest and arms. The woman wore two pairs of goggles; one on top of her to hold her thickly curled and somewhat scorched hair back, and a pair of nearly black welding goggles that hung around her neck.

"Wait for the day I have the time and ingredients to make a Bankerloft Piebald," Leslie replied, as he stepped around the table and moved into the attached kitchen behind them. He took two metal bowls from a cupboard and started pouring what looked like a pale-orange stew into it.

"Promises, promises," Tinker replied, before she looked back at Clarissa and gestured to an empty seat at their table. "C'mon, dearie, have a seat! Yannick's not like to step out of his hold while we have guests. That chair'll just collect dust if you don't take it."

Clarissa sat down across from the woman, who leaned forward and extended her hand across the table. "Anita Hoffman, ship's engineer."

"Clarissa," she said as she shook Anita's hand. The engineer's skin felt like holding a hand full of gravel, and the woman was unnervingly strong.

"Heard Tonya was trying to talk you into running away," Anita said as she picked up her spoon again. "Can't say I blame her, I'd trade a crate of Ivarian brandy for a chance to study at the monastery for a month. But Tonya'll stop prying, and I won't start. Captain was clear 'bout that."

Clarissa let out a slow sigh of relief. Every conversation could reveal something about her home that shouldn't be shared. The less she had to talk about it, the better.

"Though I should get you to look at the engines sometime. Best ship in the wild blue, she's got a bit of the best of everywhere in her design. Swivelling propellers like the Wayfarers, sails like an Olencian windlass, and propellers straight from the foundries of Vol Ayre," Anita continued.

"What is the ship called Ravens' Child?" Clarissa asked, not sure if she had just interrupted.

"Oh, Captain set you on that task, did he?" Anita chuckled. "Well, it ain't an answer I can just hand out. Mostly cause I ain't got the foggiest idea. Even asked a few times, Cap ain't particularly forthcoming with easy answers."

Clarissa glanced over at the other table and saw every eye was focused on her. Their expressions were pointedly bland, but she recognized a certain gleam in their eyes, something unpleasant that wasn't present in any of the crew.

It was greed, though Clarissa couldn't fathom why.

"So she's leaving the monastery?" a voice asked from the other table. "Been cast out?"

"Left to find her own way beneath the sky," the captain said before anyone else could respond. Clarissa looked over at him with her mouth open, confused and a little angry about being misrepresented. She took a breath, ready to protest, but the Captain was giving her a hard scowl, and when they made eye contact, shook his head just a little.

"Left alone? The wild blue's a hard place for a child to be left to the winds," a woman at the other table said. She had a sweet voice, but there was an undercurrent of something that made Clarissa's blood cold. "Reckon we could find a place that would take her in."

"Much as it's a nuisance detour, I doubt you could outbid the current contract," the captain replied blandly.

Clarissa sniffled and stood up from the table. She blinked away the tears now blurring her sight. She ran out the open door, across the hall, and back to her room. Her shaking hands shut the door just before the first sob escaped her lips. She fell onto the bed and buried her head into a pillow, and the tenuously bottled anger burst like an over-pressurized canister. A medley of anger, grief, and fear coursed through her like a fever, forcing tears from her eyes and sobs from her throat as she rocked back and forth on the bed.

Clarissa wasn't sure how long she had been crying, but fatigue warred with her sorrow before someone knocked. She had just enough time to look up, before the heavy door opened and Mercy poked her hat through the gap. "Clarissa? Leslie poured you a bowl. And as much as his head's been concussed a time too many, he cooks too well to let his curry go cold. Sit up and eat, I ain't got any duties too pressing."

Clarissa sat up and moved to wipe her eyes with her sleeve, but Mercy pushed the bowl of curry into her upraised hands. Clarissa complied before she could think to object, and blinked away her tears while her hands were occupied.

"Never use a coat to wipe tears, you'll pack dust into your eyes and make it worse," Mercy said as she pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket. She sat down beside Clarissa and leaned forward.

Clarissa shied away, but looked back when Mercy chuckled. "They're tears, not boils. Worst I can do is catch a bad bout of sadness, and it's been at least a year since I last had makeup to smear." Letting Mercy dab at her tears, Clarissa noticed the woman's hand lingered near the brim of her hat. Mercy's held her hand in a loose fist and traced the scar below her eye.

Mercy noticed Clarissa's observation and grinned wryly. "Too polite to ask, but too curious to put it out of your mind?" Mercy asked, pointing with her thumb at the scar. Clarissa nodded. "Tell you what, I'll tell some of it, if you start eating."

Clarissa agreed by taking as large a scoop as her spoon could manage and shoving it into her mouth. She gave Mercy a defiant glare and pulled an empty spoon out of her mouth. But her eyes widened in wonder as her taste buds began to sing, and she sat back and chewed happily.

"Well, I certainly wasn't born with it," Mercy explained as Clarissa ate. "Guess it was six or seven years before we christened the Ravens' Child. My life before that, well, I was a slave. Indentured servant is the term on the books, owing debts for family crimes. Volante has laws against slavery, same as any civilized place, but civilized places treat debts like sacred obligations, unless you're rich. A robber baron purchased my contract and took me on a ship. I was being pressured into becoming a prostitute. Short version is I got hold of a knife, and put this scar on my own face to make my contract cheaper."

Clarissa dropped her spoon, where it splattered back into the bowl. "You did that to yourself?"

"I did. Cheaper to buy out your contract when you're less valuable, and on a ship there's no magistrate to complain to and hold things up for years. Captain was there that day, serving as a mechanic. He helped smooth things over."

"The captain," Clarissa murmured, and her head tilted down towards her bowl a little. "He said things. They hurt, and they weren't true."

"Suspect he did that to throw those other passengers off the scent." Mercy guided the spoon in Clarissa's hand back towards her mouth. "Not just you, but the black box in the cargo hold. Monastery knowledge is the most valuable thing in the skies. Better they think we're finding a home for an outcast than the truth."

"I see," Clarissa said, and she took another spoonful of curry to avoid trying to follow up the question. "Is the sky out there really so dangerous?"

"Pirates and corsairs, and empires looking to make themselves larger. There's a lot of new interest in acquiring the knowledge the monastery teaches. It's the reason we now do the supply run for the Shield."

Clarissa took another bite and smiled a little. It wasn't happiness, but it was better than she had felt since she first stood on the docks, waiting to be taken away from her home. She poked at the curry, and just before she took another bite, said "this is pretty good."

Mercy laughed and smiled, and the scar on her face didn't look quite so terrible. Clarissa listened intently, sitting up and picking her way through the pleasant curry, as the older woman recounted an interesting tale involving a daring race and a woman convinced she was Leslie's wife.

She listened and smiled well past finishing her food and almost felt at home when Mercy tucked her into the sleeping bag. Clarissa was half asleep already, and quite content to drift off into sleep.