flora
Flora’s grin tilts apologetically as Jack gives her the look, but the expression falls to genuine surprise when his Kingmaker coat arcs through the air. She catches it against her chest, the familiar weight and worn softness settling over her shoulders and making her feel all the warmer for how big an act of kindness like this is when coming from a man like Jack. The leather still smells of brine and wind and something sharply, stubbornly Jack, and the scent pulls a brittle hitch from her lungs before she composes herself.
The reprimand about swabbing earns a low laugh, half-fond and half-exasperated. "Please—we both know there are a thousand other things I can do to make things up to the crew that we'd all enjoy a lot more." She flashes him a crooked smile, then turns toward the door. "Maintenance kit..." She wrinkles her nose. "You’d better come look for yourself." With that she descends the narrow stair, lanterns flickering to life as they sense motion.
Below deck, the Sugartide is every inch Flora: a riot of colour and clutter packed into tight quarters. Woven runners in Torchline blues and teals stripe the narrow floorboards. A galley kitchen—not magical, despite her boast from earlier—sports hand-painted tiles and tarnished copper pans jangling overhead. Shelves brim with seashell curios, half-finished sketches, and little jars of beach glass. Beyond a beaded curtain lies her bedroom: layered quilts on a bed that takes up the entire room, mismatched pillows, a string of glass lanterns casting warm, honeyed light.
She leads Jack past the bench-seat, flipping open a lacquered cabinet. Inside is a jumble—spools of rigging line, a hammer, a feathered boa, spare lantern glass, even a set of jeweller’s tools. "I...was not in the best frame of mind when I packed all of this," she admits, cheeks warming. "But the kit should be here." She reaches for a duffle bag; opening it reveals a serviceable selection of wrenches, spare pulleys, and a tin of sail oil—if somewhat glitter-dusted.
Flora steps back to give him room, arms folding inside the too-long sleeves of his coat as she turns to fetch two glasses and a bottle of rum from one of the cupboards.
The reprimand about swabbing earns a low laugh, half-fond and half-exasperated. "Please—we both know there are a thousand other things I can do to make things up to the crew that we'd all enjoy a lot more." She flashes him a crooked smile, then turns toward the door. "Maintenance kit..." She wrinkles her nose. "You’d better come look for yourself." With that she descends the narrow stair, lanterns flickering to life as they sense motion.
Below deck, the Sugartide is every inch Flora: a riot of colour and clutter packed into tight quarters. Woven runners in Torchline blues and teals stripe the narrow floorboards. A galley kitchen—not magical, despite her boast from earlier—sports hand-painted tiles and tarnished copper pans jangling overhead. Shelves brim with seashell curios, half-finished sketches, and little jars of beach glass. Beyond a beaded curtain lies her bedroom: layered quilts on a bed that takes up the entire room, mismatched pillows, a string of glass lanterns casting warm, honeyed light.
She leads Jack past the bench-seat, flipping open a lacquered cabinet. Inside is a jumble—spools of rigging line, a hammer, a feathered boa, spare lantern glass, even a set of jeweller’s tools. "I...was not in the best frame of mind when I packed all of this," she admits, cheeks warming. "But the kit should be here." She reaches for a duffle bag; opening it reveals a serviceable selection of wrenches, spare pulleys, and a tin of sail oil—if somewhat glitter-dusted.
Flora steps back to give him room, arms folding inside the too-long sleeves of his coat as she turns to fetch two glasses and a bottle of rum from one of the cupboards.
what doesn't kill me makes
me want you more
me want you more
