Today miss James came ashore. She'd crashed on the neighbouring islet, but she swam here after she saw the great amount of smoke rising from Violet's wet cooking fire.
Captain Swan was so glad he nearly bit my ear off.
I could use this as an opportunity to write a play about stranded pirates. It should give us all something to do. Violet will compose music for it, miss James will construct the set and I shall write it. I hope more crewmen to find us so they can perform it. We can have coffee from Bel Baliad, with honey from Corcotia and cake for dessert.
Miss James has started constructing a shelter.
Violet has corrected me that her instrument is a muselaar, not a harpsichord. I don't know what the difference is, I thought all instruments with the little keys are called harpsichords. She also told me she is from Westerlin, and that my hands are dirty.
Violet looks strange in a shirt and a pair of trousers. She's peeled out of the layers of her dresses, like she was when the sailors stripped her naked on the deck after we boarded her ship. Her thin arms and angly bones make her look like an insect. Her high forehead and bulging eyes add to the appearance. Her skin was white like fresh laundry, whiter than Swan. And she wasn’t afraid.
I held my breath in my hiding place, waiting for the violence to start, but they just stared at her, intimidating them by her presence, until James stepped out to assure touching the insect girl was a bad omen to the ship.
The crew had thought she knew how to listen to the spirits and breathe magic, but I think she just sees opportunity where opportunity is present.
