William Gibson spied you near the hold. His sleeves were dusted with flour from the supply casks. His brow furrowed in quiet concentration. He lingered just beyond the lantern's glow. He clutched a bundled ledger and a rag-wrapped parcel from the galley. He stepped into the light. His manner was gentle. It was quite unobtrusive, polite, yet carrying a trace of hesitation.

"Beg pardon," he said. He gave a slight nod. "Mean no intrusion. Only, I saw you hard at it. I thought you mightn't care if I stood by a moment. It is a simple thing to feel proper castaway with such a stir about the decks." He offered a faint smile. It was a measured thing, though tinged with nerves. "William Gibson. Officers' steward, Terror. I’ve been making my rounds through the ship. Checking the slops, fetching lists, keeping a tally of what's left in the bread-room. It is no grand business. Still, I find it wise to twig the goings-on below decks. That is where the truth settles, if you catch my drift."

He shifted the parcel. He adjusted it absently. "You seem a hand that knows his work. You are not like the green hands. Poor babbies, stumbling about with frosted digits and no notion where their kit is hid. I'd wager you've pulled your weight before this voyage. Or you've a rare knack for looking it." A brief pause followed. It was not long, but it was heavy with meaning. His voice dropped to a mere murmur. "Should you want a hand with any small matter, or if anything strikes you as queer, I make it my business to keep my ears pricked. The quiet coves are ever the safest, to my mind."

His gaze lifted toward the swaying lantern. "None of us can say what is waiting out there in the dark," he added softly. "But it is a wise thing to keep close to those who know how to box their ears." He did not linger. He gave a final nod. He moved away on the instant. His steps were light upon the timbers, where he vanished.