Covariance

Chapter One

Oh, wouldn't Baron Dahl love to see his unfortunate grandson in such trouble. The Baron has never had any faith in Quenton's abilities — even Quenton's impressive intellect was a parlor trick in the Baron's eyes. Probably why the man had shipped Quenton off to Sir Harod three-and-a-half years following Quenton's arrival into his grandfather's care following the death of Quenton's parents when he was five years old. The Baron had more important business to which he must attend, than to deal with the care and comfort of his only grandson. The Baron had taken one look at the boy when he first arrived by carriage at the footsteps of Dahl family's manor, and had the servants escort the boy to his new rooms, no introductions or pleasantries made.

The reminder of the memory made Quenton's irritation grow. Feeling rather contemptible, he forced his aching head to rise from the cushioned comfort of the pillow. Huffing out a beleaguered sigh, Quenton then forced the rest of his body upright, the change of equilibrium causing Quenton's stomach to roil with nausea. He'd already emptied his stomach twice the night before over the side of the ship, and he wasn't keen on a repeat of the disgusting performance in his cabin.

Forcing his throat to resist the temptation of regurgitation, Quenton reached beneath his pillow to pull out his spyglass. Holding the tool in one hand, Quenton then made his way across the room, to the cabin's door, and opened it, a beam of slight slipping through the cracks, before flooding the cabin's entrance. Quenton squinted as he opened the door all the way and emerged into the openness of day's light, the young man wincing as the light hurt his eyes and caused his head to pulsate with yet another ache.

"Blasted light," the man cursed as he climbed the stairs up to the topmost deck of the ship, careful to take the steps one at a time so as to not jostle himself and further agitate his nausea.

Clear blue, open sky awaited Quenton up above, the likes of which held little clouds and gave emphasis to the burning, bright yellow sun. The warmth was a welcome sensation on Quenton's skin, and he felt grateful for having decided to abandon his coat and long shirt two nights earlier, when the heat had become downright stifling.

Out in the open air, Quenton felt mildly better than he had belowdeck. He looked past the distance of his ship's surface, out to the calm waters upon which his little ship floated. Blue ocean lapped as far as Quenton could see, just as it had when Quenton checked the day before.

Frowning to himself, Quenton raised his spyglass to one of his eyes, and peered out across the ocean's distance for some sight of green that might signal land. He turned an entire one-eighty degrees, looking in all directions once, twice, and then thrice. But still, he saw nothing.

Nothing but blue ocean.

"Blast." Quenton lowered the spyglass, his hazel eyes having since narrowed into a fierce glare at the waters beyond his ship. They gave him no clue to as to how far he'd drifted since the day before, and even then, he'd come to the same frustrating conclusion he'd made after he'd woken up after the storm:

He was lost at sea.

Resisting the urgings of his temper to hurl the spyglass across the ship's deck, Quenton went back belowdeck, into his cabin. This time, he left the door ajar, so as to let light flood his cabin's dark interior.

He settled back down onto his bed, shoving the spyglass back beneath the soft safety of his pillow. The spyglass stowed, Quenton then reached up to where he'd left his coat hanging from a crack in the shelving. He reached inside of its pockets, producing a compact wooden box, which Quenton gently held with his two hands, fingers brushing the carved design on its lid with reverence. It was an engraving of three letters, NET— the initials of Quenton's mother: the late Norabel Eastre Tolland,