Arianna Thorne looks like a woman who learned to carry the sea in her bones. Her skin is weathered where wind and spray have rubbed fine lines into her cheeks but is kept strangely meticulous around the eyes, as if she spends an extra moment cleaning salt from the lashes. Her hair is cropped short at the back to keep it from snaring in rigging and left in a longer, wind-twisted slate curl at the front that perpetually falls across her forehead. She moves with the same economy as a well-trimmed mast: no wasted motion, a slight forward tilt as if listening to a coming wind. Unexpectedly, she wears a narrow, hand-stitched silk scarf beneath her collar — a luxurious, almost delicate touch beneath oilskin and scars. When she walks aboard The Matilda people instinctively clear space; when she smiles, which is rare, the motion is quick enough to be mistaken for a grimace until the color comes into her eyes.