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by Gabriel Murray

The—woman—took snuff.  “Good morning, Captain,” she said, Capitaine in her accent.  “This is a colder day than I imagined.”  She looked out over the swells, her mannish periwig bobbing as she tilted her head up to regard the horizon.  “Do you know, I hardly expected to see it.”

Gregory Everett clasped his hands behind his back.  “Your Captain did the correct thing,” he said.

He had.  Galatea‘s American captain had struck colours almost as soon as the Indefatigable beat to quarters.  If he hadn’t Gregory would have sent him to the bottom of the sea.  Gregory had no way of knowing that the privateer Galatea carried but one petty sorceress, not one of Bonaparte’s magi that could kill him and his men with an incantation and a splinter of Indefatigable‘s hull.  He’d have sunk her.


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