The captain's quarters of the Storm Tossed were barely large enough to deserve the name.
The cabin was tucked beneath the raised deck at the stern, so low that Rose Marie could have laid her palm flat against the beams without straightening her arm. A narrow bunk was built into the curve of the hull on one side, with a sea chest bolted to the deck beneath it. On the other side was a folding table, its surface covered by a chart of the northern isles held flat with brass weights.
Two small stern windows of thick, greenish glass looked out over the harbor, frosted at the corners. The whole room smelled of tar, lamp oil, wet wool and the sour ghost of old pipe smoke.
It was cold, too. Cold enough that her breath clouded in the light of the lantern Gwil had hung from a hook in the beam overhead.
