The sea undulated slowly below me; the satyr-shaped figurehead rocking gently back and forth. I pulled the furring of my coat closer to my neck, trying to block the chilly westerly blowing in my face. My visage did not attempt to hide my disdain for the entire situation. You see, I had not wanted to come to the New World. Not one bit. I had friends; I had status; I had everything a woman of my age could want.

But, no, here I was, on the larboard, or was it starboard?, side of the "Holy Mary," a splenetic sneer plastered on my face. I tried to keep my disrelish for the entire situation as obvious as possible, for then someone of power, other than those damn scurvied plebians and scullions; someone might do something to get me off of this goddamn boat and back at the manor where I belong.

"Fidelity?" I heard behind me. I sighed discontentedly and turned around, careful to keep my face as bland and disinterested as possible.

In front of me was a handsome boy of not more than 20. About my age, I'd presume. He was tall, with sinewy arms and a lanky body. His hair was golden; his skin slightly sunned. Obviously a sailor.

I poised my harshest sneer at him.

"Ms. Wheaton, to you."

"My apologies, Ms. Wheaton," he said, in a tone that sounded almost like a rebuff. I straightened slightly shocked.

"And, just who are you to speak to me that way?"

"Owen Russell."

"And what are you doing speaking to me, Fidelity Wheaton?"

"Letting you know that we're engaged."