Several hours later, when she's long since switched from coffee to cocoa, and she's listening to a poet recite a tale of lost loves in a fathomless fog, a messenger bursts in.

Apparently her crew is in jail. The runner stammers something about a bar fight.

She shakes her head, gives the kid enough of a tip to buy a meal, and strides off to hear first the constables' and then her crew's versions of the story.

When she finally speaks to her hired hands, as they plead for bail, she's fed up. Her hair is gant, all color drained away save violant curls that drip like old blood and twine around two streaks of apocyan. She will not let them forget this lesson.

"This is the third drunken fight in as many ports. This is the third time in a row you've asked me to spring you from lockup after insulting the locals and getting in over your heads. I can't afford to keep enabling this. I'm done. Beg the constables for mercy instead."

And she turns on her heel and stalks out.

When the Skipper comes aboard, the Fierce Figurehead of the Heart's Handbasket has settled up the tab at the café and is there to meet her with a gentle embrace.

"You gave them every chance. You gave them every warning. It's okay, love."

She guides her captain back toward their quarters, and reconnects herself to the rest of the ship as she passes the end of the tether.

That night, someone climbs up onto the ship from the zeeward side. 

The Handbasket creaks idly, as ships tend to do. She is also aware of the child-weight presence stepping onto her deck, which is a rather less common trait.

For now, the Stowaway is merely silently observed.

The Stowaway pokes around on deck for a bit, locating the entrances to the crew quarters and the cargo hold. 

And then she creeps into the cargo hold, investigating for any discreet gaps in the crates. Whether she finds one or not, she slowly, very carefully, starts to arrange as hidden a cubbyhole as she can. 

The hatch to the hold is unlocked, and its hinges do not creak; it swings silently open. The pallets and crates of surface produce are fairly tidily arranged, and stacked two high toward the back. With a little bit of scooting things around — the crates slide surprisingly easily and quietly across the deck and each other — she can arrange serviceable nook for herself under one crate supported by two others, all the way to the far side from the hatch. If she looks around attentively, she might notice a stack of soft blankets off to one side, used for padding delicate artifacts.

...Tempting. But they might have counted the blankets. Better not. 

She curls up in her cubbyhole and is soon fast asleep despite the objectively uncomfortable conditions. 

The Figurehead smiles sadly in her captain's quarters. This one seems harmless. Decent instincts, avoiding the blankets, but it's a pity the child will have such an uncomfortable surface to sleep on. She returns to her half-sleep, arms tenderly around her love.

She wakes slowly at first, and spends a few moments gradually accruing self-concept as her mind sloshes to life. A slow, peaceful smile stretches across her face, shreds of dreams slipping away and awareness settling.

And when selfhood has finished settling about her, a kiss is pressed to her cheek from unnaturally soft wooden lips.

"Good morning, love. We'd best shove off toward London, and we're making breakfast for two today. We acquired a stowaway — child-weight and seemingly harmless — during the night."

"Well. That certainly starts today off interestingly. Didn't get up to mischief?"

She sits up and starts carefully preening her feathers.

She helps with the harder to reach ones, and rubs her shoulders.

"Not a bit. Arranged a little nook out of the crates aft of the hold, either didn't trust or didn't notice the blankets, and went right to sleep."

She stands with a nod, stretches, and gets dressed: underwear, sturdy trousers, socks, boots, blouse, and a long black coat — the last two items with slits for her wings. She cracks her neck and gives her ship a kiss on the cheek.

"Cast off while I start breakfast, and we'll greet the ragamuffin together?"

She nods and smiles, and sets about untying the moorings and firing her engines. The ship is soon underway.

Breakfast is made, a lid is placed down to keep it warm, coffee is brewed (one mug being sipped from, the other as a peace offering), and Skipper and Figurehead quietly walk into the hold and over to their Stowaway's nook to observe for a moment.

She is sleeping...peacefully might not be the right word. She looks uneasy even now. 

She's definitely not a small child. A little short for her age, yes, and more underweight than can possibly be good for her, but she's definitely a teenager a ways into puberty. 

Lucky ragamuffin, then, that she chose this ship to stow away on. The Skipper crouches down, considering things. She probably needs clear expectations, clear kindness, and few if any demands. And she definitely needs someplace she can call home. A welcoming, patient smile stretches across her face at the thought, and a few cosmogone and viric streaks blossom alongside the streak of irrigo in her peligin curls.

She holds the still-full mug forward just a bit. The savory aroma of fresh coffee wafts toward the girl.

"Wake up," she says gently. "I've got fresh coffee for you, and we can talk over a hot breakfast."

Her eyes snap open, and she freezes, staring at Sable like a rabbit looking down the barrel of an elephant gun. 

"Okay," she says cautiously, taking the offered drink with trembling hands. 

She's careful as she lets go, watching to be sure the girl doesn't spill any on herself.

"Best have a sip or two before you get up, or pass it to me when you do. It's still pretty hot. There's sugar and powdered milk in the galley if you want some."

She sips it. 

It's REALLY bitter. 

She doesn't make a face. Any kind of generosity has been far too rare to be picky. 

Asking for sugar and powdered milk would probably be risky, but...sugar and milk are food, she's not sure she can afford to turn that down when she has the opportunity to get some without stealing. 

She nods with a smile, and scoots back to be more thoroughly out of the way, then stands. "Up you get, then. I've got a hot breakfast, with enough to share, under a lid in the galley."

She holds out a hand at an angle that could just as easily help the girl up or hold the coffee for her.

She cautiously takes the hand, still holding the coffee in the other.

And a gentle but strong tug helps her to her feet. The captain lets go of her hand once she's steadily vertical, and turns to walk out of the hold and toward the galley.

She follows her cautiously, looking out for a chance to bolt if it presents itself. 

The dismay when she sees they're already out at zee is swiftly hidden. 

Nope, escape attempts were predicted and disallowed. If she wants to leave after hearing them out, they'll gladly let her off in London, but they're not mentioning any of that until they've made their offer.

The hatch to the galley swings smoothly open as they approach. The Skipper and Figurehead step inside and sit down on one side of a small, booth-style table, just big enough for four people, or six if they're cozy. The captain pulls the lid off a serving platter in the middle (which rests in a convenient indentation in the table to keep it from sliding), revealing a steaming pile of scrambled eggs, with melted cheddar and bits of sausage mixed in, and fresh scones on the side. A jar of preserves sits in a divot next to the platter, alongside two glass dispensers for sugar and powdered milk. A plate, fork, and knife rest on each side of the table (again in little dips).

She sets her own coffee in a safe spot and serves herself a big helping of eggs and a scone.