"Simon finally looked up to meet his eye, timidly now. "People talk..." was the only clarification Zech received on Whitby's cultural expectations. "I'll show you the pier..." and he started walking, well aware of the fact that he had started something he could not finish. There was one comfort. Everything pointed in the direction of Mr. Meijer being like him. And he seemed less of an arse than Hurley, too.

Tall, broad, tough-looking Simon Ward made eyes at his belt in private and yet shrunk from his touch in the light of day. Zechariah pursed his lips and glanced away, though gave a short nod.

“The pier,” he said lightly, drifting to arm’s length once again.

But he still cast a boyish, giddy look Simon’s way when he thought he was not looking.

Simon walked, not looking at Zech for a while until he glanced for a second and just caught Zech glancing his way. He stared ahead again and bit his lip. "ere's the pier." he said unnecessarily. Simon stepped on to it and started walking. The water clashed loudly against the pier as heavy waves were rolling in. Where the pier turned to form half a circle, the waves clashed into each other from different direction and water splashed up high in the air.

“Oh! A pier,” he answered with feigned surprise. “What do you do on a pier?”

The latter ignorance was not entirely feigned. His only real experience with piers was getting on and off boats to go somewhere else.

Simon took a few steps on the pier snd then leaned forward against the railing, watching the waves touch the beach. "Defining the harbour when you're out on sea. And people fish from the lower decks." he said. "S'pose it could also serve as a defense if the French get any weird notions..."

“What, such as … Vive la Révolution?” he said with an over-the-top, not-quite-right French accent. “I rather like some of those ‘weird notions’.”

And then, with a devil-may-care look over his shoulder, he unbuttoned his outer jacket and set it on one of the posts.

"What?" said Simon, who didn't speak a word of French.

The sun was starting to set, but it was not that dark. Especially with Zechariah’s stark white against navy blue waves behind him. He turned to face Simon with a quizzical look, then smiled.

“Long live the French Revolution.” He pocketed his gloves, and undid the next button on his vest.

"Oh." The only thing Simon could remember about the French Revolution was that there were guillotines. He watched Zech unbutton another button of his vest. His eyes glanced up at the gentleman's face for a second and then he quickly turned his head to stare out over the water again. His expression was ambivalent, something between a smile and a grimace.

Zechariah’s hands halted immediately. One moment, the fellow was acting like he could not wait to get him alone. The next, as though he had just smelt something foul.

… The fish odor was potent. Still.

He buttoned his waistcoat back up with haste and a nervous laugh.

“Ever been on a ship?”