It was frustrating that one had to practically be shanghaied to get aboard a ship bound for somewhere interesting. Margaret leaned against the ship’s railing, watching the land disappear, unable to summon the proper nonchalance for her role, despite the flutter of her hacked-off hair, the itch of the woolen trousers she wore, or the still startling brown of her hands. An entire summer of lectures she’d endured to make herself as tanned as a boy, and it still took a layer of dirt to accomplish the disguise.
It was worth it though. This was much better than an atlas.