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[called_lioness]

The thing about a compass is if it points two ways, it's utter rubbish.

Or so Lucy's inclined to think, and she'd be the first to admit that she's glaring at the silver object in her hands as she sits in the sand.

(The sand is rougher here, she thinks, distantly, without wanting to, and not so fine under her feet.)

Lucy is generally inclined to watch her language, but she's muttering curses off and on that would make the knights she once rode with and the sailors on the Dawn Treader and the schoolmates of her brothers good and proud.

It's cathartic.

At least, it's keeping her from throwing the stupid thing in the lake.

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[called_lioness]

She smiles more widely and says, as she walks toward the sail, "Aye, that I can." Not as fancily as Susan, but her stitches are good and firm.

"And in return, Jack," she grins as she sits and finds the needle, pulling the cloth to her lap, "you'll provide a lady a drink, I should hope?"

He laughs at that loudly and it's barely a minute before he fetches the bottle and offers it to her. Her eyes are now only laughing as she looks up at him to take the rum before down at the cloth and begins to hum.

(But the standing toast / That pleased the most, / Was 'The wind that blows, / The Ship that goes, / And the lass that loves a sailor!')

It's not, possibly, the most queenly of songs. And it's not, possibly, the most proper way to spend an afternoon.

But her smile as she begins to mend the first tear (and after taking a long swallow of the liquid) is softer than it was. Softer, but true, and if the compass is still in her pocket, she's not thinking on it now.