Goodsir takes stock of his practicals.

There have been stranger love-matches made at sea. Probably.

Susan and the man in black make a palaver.

Ding Rong, in his narrowed dagger-keen focus on his task, is unsure of the time when he is first made aware of Wang Zhi’s approach. He knows only by the dark of his workroom, dim-lit by his low-burned candle, that it is well into the evening. He knows only that it is no other visitor but Wang Zhi, circling into his periphery, portended by a flutter of draping fabric, because no other but Wang Zhi would dare to come unannounced.

Nathan is there in the kitchen, waiting for him, unwrapping his hands.

Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness.

Irving gets pissed on and has the time of his life.

Solomon Tozer proves harder to tame than other men, and Hickey faces his own mutiny in miniature.

William Gibson has a past, but Cornelius Hickey has a future.

Old Billy Gibson has an eye for likely prospects.

Jonathan was much the happier, being mourned by one king and loved by two, and do not the loves and griefs of kings exceed those of other men?

Or, capture and death.