She felt her way along the iron hull, fastened her arms to a porthole, and drew herself near. Inside, the galley lay in shambles — broken china, cutlery strewn about. As though the room were briefly restored, a youngling rushed across it, clutching his milk bottle, screeching with laughter. He looked clean as sun-dried sails, as though he had never needed a bath drawn in all his life. Such things were nameless to the beast, nor could she name the flower — the radiant violet pinned to the buttonhole of the lad's coat. As her grip slackened and the current took her, she knew she would return.