An unexpected package

Day 3

     Just what I need, more driftwood!  That now unmistakably erroneous memory of being alone when I crashed was lifted from me like the weight of a stack of books comfortably resting upon the top of my head.  I awoke this morning to the soft mewing of a bit of my forgotten cargo, thought to be washed away by the tide.  I was foolish enough to believe my involvement in that affair was lost along with that padded crate.

     It appears that the spiteful Neptune saw fit to deposit the oversized mahogany cat-kennel a short distance from my camp, with its contents relatively unharmed, royal command included.  If only I had taken to the skys as soon as I discovered that I had been misled to the nature of the cargo on the docks in Howling Valley.  If only I had turned a blind eye to the parchment baring Her Majesty’s seal…

The good Miss-Friday

Gwendoline Footman

     I previously met Miss Footman the night of our… I mean my arrival.  (I’m not sure why I can’t shake the feeling that there was another presence aboard The Brubu’s Servant.  Without a doubt, I was alone when the ship crashed.)  I met her again the other night during an informal social gathering in the Bordello.  I had arrived rather late to the gala to find only a few drunken lingerers discussing the location of a mislaid orange and myriad strategies for separating the rind from the flesh.