Bad weather plagued the Misty Lady's entire voyage to Ireland. The storms never really ceased, with only a few hours of relative calm before the next one blew up.

The weather meant Roxanne was in the rigging almost constantly, doing repairs as soon as it was calm enough to do them safely, keeping the sails maintained as best she could to keep the Lady's speed and handling up to Teague's standards.

She welcomed the labour, as it kept her thoughts away from Soracha and Teague.
Despite how much she tried to convince herself that it was none of her business what the relationship between the two was, she found her mind lingering on it when she was idle, so she tried to keep herself occupied.

The fact that Teague was in the surgery unless at the wheel or asleep did nothing to alleviate her thoughts, only making her more sure that he and Soracha were more than friends and providing an effective block for her growing feelings.

Or so she told herself anyway.

As hard as she tried to convince herself that she felt nothing but respect and friendship for her captain, she was finding it increasingly difficult to deny that there was something else stewing in her pot of emotions.

Something she'd never felt before.
Something unfamiliar and frightening.

As she stood on deck, under the sky which seemed to be permanently overcast when it wasn't storming, her gaze automatically shifted to the wheel.
Teague was there, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind, eyes fixed on the horizon.

White, foaming waves hit forcefully against the Lady's hull and the ship rocked.

Roxanne held a rope to help keep her footing as the ship steadied itself.

Teague looked completely unbothered by the rough sea, one hand on the wheel, a half bottle of wine dangling from the fingers of the other.

As she watched, he took a drink, his gaze briefly scanning the deck before returning to the horizon.

She carefully crossed to stand beside him.

He glanced at her quickly.
"You're doin' a good job as sailmaker."

"Thank you," she said quietly in response.

Silence fell between them briefly as she considered asking him about Soracha. But she realised he probably wouldn't give her a straight answer, so she stayed quiet.

"Do you miss England?"
Teague's question pulled her thoughts away from Soracha.

She waved a hand. "I don't think "miss" is the right word. I certainly don't miss the dresses and parties and all that. I have no desire to go back. But there's something there...nostalgia, maybe..."
She trailed off, unable to put her emotions into words.

He opened his mouth, then turned at the sound of a voice calling him.

Sahara emerged from below deck, a threadbare coat pulled around herself.
"Do you want to go and sit in the dry with Soracha and let me steer?"

"Aye, suppose so. How's she?"

Roxanne didn't hear what Sahara said, but she saw Teague's expression change as he left the wheel, walking swiftly below deck.

Sahara took his place, knuckles white as she held the wheel, a grim set to her mouth. She shook her head slightly, tossing her hair back, her shoulders tight.

Roxanne noticed her gaze scanning the deck warily before focusing on the binnacle.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, crossing to stand beside her.

"No," Sahara said quickly, her usually friendly demeanour replaced by a harsher, warier one. She shifted the wheel slightly, eyes still on the binnacle.

Roxanne didn't believe her but didn't press the subject; instead going to tidy and secure things on deck in preparation for the storm that was starting to brew once more in the distance.

************************************

The cabin was dimly-lit by a few flickering candles, a bit of spare sailcloth hung over the window.

Soracha lay with her back to the door, hand resting on her side.

"Ye awake?" Teague asked quietly as he entered.

"Aye. Fevers high, so dreams woke me an' I don't want to sleep again," she murmured, turning slowly onto her back.

"D'you want a cold cloth?"

Soracha nodded, pulling the covers tighter over herself as he went to fetch a cool, damp cloth.

Returning, he sat carefully on the berth beside her, gently feeling her forehead before putting the cloth on it.

"Quite a role reversal ain't it?" she murmured, a smile appearing on her lips.

"Aye. Is the wound infected?" asked Teague, wondering the reason for her fever.

"Mm. How, I don't know cause I've been washin' it with whiskey an' boiling water, but aye, it's infected. I am now internally damaged and infected but not dead."

"You are not going to die. The witch will fix you up fine. I'll put a pistol to her head until she does."

He then raised an eyebrow as a thought occurred to him.
"Do you even know how to find her?"

"Somebody will," Soracha said with a shrug.
"Folk usually see her at that holy well but I don't know how she gets there."

"We'll find that out, and worry about payment for her, when we get there. For now, let's worry about managing the pain and keeping your fever down."

"Sounds like a plan," agreed Soracha, nodding as she reached back to ajust her pillow.

She turned the cloth on her forehead, putting the cooler side against her skin before closing her eyes.

Teague took her fiddle from where it sat atop a chest by the bed, starting to play softly.

Soracha let the music lull her to sleep, hoping she'd feel better when she woke.

************************************
Roxanne was asleep when the Misty Lady made port in Ireland. She awoke to find the ship at anchor, her crew at work and captain nowhere to be found.

An interrogation of the ships cook, over a cup of tea, revealed that Teague and Soracha had left together as soon as the ship made port, telling nobody where they were going.

Roxanne collected her sewing things from the empty captain's cabin and got on with proper sail repairs, which could be done now the ship was stationary.
The work kept her hands busy, but as most of it relied on instinct, it did little to take her mind off the man who was now occupying her thoughts almost constantly and had occasionally began to visit her dreams too.

Feelings writhed in her belly like snakes and she decided she had to know whether or not he and Soracha were dating.
Once she had made up her mind to confront him when he returned, she resumed her work with an easier mind and was soon finished.

Returning to deck, she put her sewing things away and lingered in the cabin, figuring out what she was going to say to Teague.

************************************
Worry settled like a cloud on Teague as he picked his way through wild, untamed Irish countryside under a cloudy sky, fat spits of rain falling as he walked.

Soracha's burning body was a deadweight in his arms.
He was no longer sure if she was breathing, but didn't dare stop to check.

His only hope was the witch, who was a local legend. He didn't even know if there was any truth behind the legend, but hoped for Soracha's sake there was, as she was apparently a gifted healer.

The problem was, nobody knew where to find her. He'd been walking for hours, asking everyone he encountered and stopping at every dwelling he passed. Nobody had been any help.
He was starting to think maybe it was just an old wives tale after all.

A stench of alcohol reached his nostrils as a dishevelled old man stumbled out of the whin and heather just ahead of him, pulling his filthy breeches up. His cloudy eyes squinted suspiciously at Teague and Soracha.
"What do you want?"

"Do you know where the witch is?"
Teague asked him, desperate for some kind of guidance or confirmation there was truth in the old tales.

"Up yonder, ye need blood..."
After pointing a gnarled finger at a well, the man staggered off.

Teague frowned, approaching the well, now even more sceptical about this witch.
Soracha stirred in his arms. "Unwrap my side an' throw a bandage in. There's blood on them."

"No," he said, incredibly relieved to hear her voice as he gently laid her down in the long grass beside the well, which looked like any other, made of weathered stone with ivy creeping over it, the wooden cover darkened by the rain.

Taking a knife out of the waist of his breeches, he made a shallow cut on the side of his wrist then leaned over the well's mouth, its cover providing brief shelter as he let his blood drip into the inky blackness.

There was a sizzling sound and a swirl of indistinguishable colours accompanied a sudden gust of strong wind as it hit the water far below.

Bright pink flames erupted violently from near the base of the well.

Teague exclaimed in shock, quickly picking Soracha up as he hastily backed away until he was pressed against a wet gorse bush, thorns pricking him even through his coat.

The flames blazed higher, changing to blue, then a vibrant green as they licked the well, sparks flying into the air.

Almost blinded, Teague turned away, eyes closed as he adjusted Soracha so she was held protectively against his chest. He could feel the heat of the flames on his back and was mystified by their appearance and changing colours but didn't dare continue watching them.

As abruptly as they had started, the heat vanished and he guessed the flames had too but didn't turn to look.

He was suddenly aware he could no longer feel any rain.

Something brushed against his legs, startling him and making him open his eyes.

A pure white fox stood at his feet, head slightly tilted as it studied him with deep blue eyes, which seemed far too intelligent to belong to an animal. The creature seemed to be assessing him, figuring out his every weakness. It was most unnerving.

He turned his back to it.

Another strong wind blew up and a throat was cleared as it died down.

Slowly, Teague turned.

Roxanne Sparrow was standing behind him.