They've been lying off the coast, for a day, drying out the hull- nobody's going to believe a waterlogged boat, and it might be reported- so it's not until the evening of the second day that they're actually make for Westcrown.
By the time their hull rocks against the jetty, the cold shark eyes of the stars are already glaring down them. The captain- a full agent himself, with a role that takes him all across the world- nods good-bye, at the gang-plank. They've talked, of course, but nothing of consequence. You don't do that. He has his mission, she has hers.
Only a few minutes later, her feet are already aching, unused to their own shape and Westcrown's uneven cobblestones. She pauses for a moment, ostensibly to adjust her dress, but really levitating slightly, just to take the edge off.
