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"Alright, look. Let's not rush into it, okay? We have three days. Let's gather some information first. Getting into his cabin seems like a logical next step. I think that's rightfully your job."
He sees you prepare to go on another tirade, so he hastily adds: "You don't have to do anything, just... get in there. All naive-like, alright? 'Ave a drink with the cad. Laugh at his jokes. Nice and slow. Scout out the place. See where the safe-box is. Try to get an inkling where the keys might be. Excuse yourself on account of some lady problem like you're feeling hot or your bodice is too wrinkled or whatever. That sort of stuff. Then we meet again and come up with a plan."
You think it over. He's right. Three days is plenty of time.
"You're pretty sharp, for a coal shoveler."
"Well, you're less of a shrew than I expected, for Kraut royalty."
"Was there *anything else*?" you ask, trying to dispel any notions that he is allowed this sort of familiarity with you.
"I don't suppose you want to have a go at shoveling the furnace?"
You roll your eyes and go for the door. As you shut it behind you, you hear:
"I'll be here every evening after two bells. And lady? Good luck."
You fasten your harness and walk slowly along the railing, trying to collect your thoughts. You feel that you are absolutely done socialising for the evening. This business with Newt's man drained the last drop of energy from you.
Rank amateurs, the lot of them. A wannabe spymaster - but in reality nothing more than a base blackmailer - sending you across half the Continent to try and find papers but without knowing what the papers even are? And somehow you are expected to make it work? A spoiled rich boy spending Gods know how many thousands of pounds on a necklace just to impress his friends and potentially get a lady to like him? And if that man is a mere coal shoveler, then you are the Archduke of Altmark. And last but not least, a baroness who hasn't ever been touched by a man playing at socialite and seductress.
You close the door of your cabin behind you. Your bed is draped with only the finest silk sheets. And it beckons so sweetly...
As you get into bed, rubies the size of houses, archimedean airspeeds and safe-boxes spiral around your head for a while. The last thought you have before the sweet oblivion of sleep claims you is:
"What the hell are two bells, anyway?"
