The Rosalie sailed smoothly for three months, blessed by good weather and a good crew. Rosalie slowly came into her own, learning more Gealic and even learning how to intimidate the cook. New regulations began to happen such as a bit of a queue for men who wanted clothing mended, and hauling up buckets of sea water to scrub hands in before dinner. Even with the depated from the Kathleen leaving a whole in the veteran’s hearts, the bonds started to close in.
It helped that the Captain only had private dinners with his family and first mate on Sundays. The rest of the days he was with his crew below, singing and drinking. Mass was a nice affair, every morning above deck. They sat on the ground, singing and praying with Liam at the helm, reading form the Bible.
What did not help, of course, was how Helene took communion without fail: licking his fingers inconspicuously when given her piece of bread. They had been doing a dance of their own aboard ship. She had not returned to his bed, in fact they had not been so intimate over those three months.
But Helene teased: mercilessly so, sneaking into his quarters at odd times to attack his throat with burning kisses, squirming so that his seeking lips never met hers. His kisses were too powerful—they made her weak. During these little boughts (that more often than not over turned books and chairs), however, there was usually not a word spoken.
When they did talk, surprisingly enough, it was usually over dinner, in grid locked debate. From religion to regulations, to monarchy to books, they would fight like a cat and dog, the rest of the crew watching them, heads swinging from side to side.
This of course, was always observed by the captain. Happy as he was for his brother, and as dear as Helene could be (for a such a cold lass), doubt and fear for his baby brother began to freeze him on the inside.