Covariance

Chapter One

Lifting the lid, Quenton looked down at the box's true worth — its gold compass. It had been a wedding gift from Quenton's father, Keaton Dahl, to his blushing bride. Though Quenton remembered little of his life before losing his parents, he did remember that his mother had treasured the compass, always keeping it in its box, and storing it high up for its protection. Quenton could only remember one time in which his mother had let him see the compass, and that had been to show Quenton how it worked.

"You see, my love? There's the rose at the center. That's the compass's heart. And like all hearts, there's the jewel at the very middle, on which rests the compass's needle. The needle tells us which ways are the directions of north, south, east, and west, so we'll always know where we are!"

"But, Mama, why do we need to know where we are?"

"Well, so we don't get lost, darling. It can be difficult to tell which way you're going without a compass to aid you. When you're lost, a compass helps you find your way home."

"Always?"

"If you use it properly."

Careful to not drop the box, Quenton laid back down on the bed, eyes trained upon the needle of the compass, the needle slowly beginning to turn. Quenton watched the needle move, and his faunish brown brows began to knit together as the needle turned north.

North.

An absolutely illogical change from yesterday's chosen point of east.

"Blast," Quenton swore for the third time. He'd been worried that the compass had been damaged during the storm. Yesterday, the compass had pointed east. The day before that had been west. The abrupt change in position had concerned Quenton, but he'd resolved to not panic until he'd given the compass a couple days to right itself.

And it had not.

"What if the compass is wrong?"

"The compass is never wrong, my love. The only error made is by the compass's owner."

Quenton closed the lid of the compass's box, fingers pressing into the grooves of the carved initials.

"I made an error, Mama," he whispered to the empty cabin.

Quenton had thought he could escape fate, but, really, he'd only ended up trading one terrible fate for another.

-

Quenton allowed himself to sulk for an hour more before the discomfort of his bandages forced him to get up. Using the small pocket mirror in his single trunk, Quenton assessed the wound, and, to his immense relief, he found no sign of festering.

"If Harod could see you now," Quenton humorlessly mused to himself as he began pulling two bottles from his trunk. Inside one bottle was the disinfectant, which Quenton used to wash the wound. He winced twice as the concoction began to sting, and had to bite his lower lip to keep from letting out any sound of pain. Once the stinging stopped, Quenton used the second bottle's content of cream and carefully spread it over the now clean wound. Finally, he replaced the old bandages for clean ones, depositing the soiled bandages to the side for cleaning later.

The first time Quenton had tried cleaning his wound after the storm, his hands had been shaking. Now, his fingers barely trembled as they worked, used to the habit of smoothing and pressing out the material to keep the wrap secured.

With his wound cleaned and covered once more, Quenton started the routine he'd constructed days prior to keep himself occupied, going above deck.

He first discerned that he'd woken in the morning hours, the height of the sun in the sky Quenton's only reliable timepiece since his favorite pocket watch had gone overboard during the storm.