The boat to Novyi Zem is overcrowded. Cramped and damp, with the miserable murmur of voices from every corner as a dull susurration accompanying them night and day. The tenor changes along with the sea; panicked scatterings of prayer when the waters are rough, pattering, easy conversations when waters are calm.

Their trio of companions make themselves at home one way or another. There are days when Mal joins Jesper to gamble on the deck, or observes Kaz making a circuit of the deck, or climbs up into the rigging alongside the sailors. The restless prickle of anxiety he'd carried out of the darkness with him has settled, grown muted in the course of their crossing; there is only so much planning to be done aboard this ship.

It still circles at the edges of their conversation. A snippet of when we disembark— or we must be sure to—

But there is not yet conversation tonight.

There is the two of them, tucked close on deck. The sea is choppy, and their cloaks are damp, and Mal stands very close to her, arms bracketing her to keep Alina steady as the boat plows forward towards the uncertain future they've chosen for themselves.

"Are you tired?" is an idle question, perhaps not worth breaking the quiet over. "It should be safe to go down. Madame Apolena should be asleep by now, so we won't hear of her bad knees and neglectful sons."