When the Dutchman's captain made no move to defend himself, she seemingly halted on a dime -- wincing but once -- and opted instead to tap the back of her hand brusquely against his chest. A token gesture. A surrogate slap. Something, it seemed, kept this woman's anger on a leash. Duty or something else.

Something else like the slowly returning memory of what had occurred. Once again, the El Dorado had been snatched out from under her nose. Bollocks.

"And the Dutchman doesn't steal no living person's soul, so you can leave me be. You can run along and get back to cleaning up the messes of more competent people." Oh, she was a tempest. She was a storm. She was cruel and unhappy and a forceful grief for her ship and her crew had taken hold of her.