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[ She presses her lips together and lifts her chin. The defiance is quite clear. More subtle is the fear - but it's there in the way her hands ball into fists, the way her feet tuck under her, as though bracing for something. ]

As a start. Yes.

[Here, a pause in which Flint tips his head as if to glance backward to the oarman in the ferry with them and then seems to decide better. The man has lapsed into the kind of silence that suggests he is pointedly ignoring everything happening in the boat about him. It presumably makes life easier. So instead he simply looks at her - not patiently, not without some flickering shape of irritation living in his face, but by no means so much as shifting forward in his seat to invade the territory she's staked out there in the bow.]

Then you apparently think I’m a tyrant and a half wit.

[ She shakes her head, lips thinning even further. ]

Not sure what's halfwitted about it.

[Then he will instruct her.]

Have you ever seen someone be tortured, Miss Jones?

[ Her eyes flicker just a moment. She swallows. But then she looks back at him and answers, quietly: ]

Yes.

[Then this will not be a hypothetical lesson.]

And who do you suppose the hand doing the work most wanted to affect - the body receiving the punishment, or the witnesses to it?

[ That seems like a mad question. ]

The person being tortured. Obviously.

Don't be willfully stupid. You're smarter than that. [It is not a compliment.] You know these things are made effective by being seen - that the shame and fear it inspires are what gives the tool its edge.

Do you know why I have no interest in having your fingers broken, Kitty?

Because you'd have to do it in secret, I'm assuming. Because Thranduil and the others wouldn't let you do it openly. You'd get in trouble.

[ A shake of her head. ]

But I think you're wrong about that. That it's got to be seen. It all depends on what you want to get out of it, doesn't it. If what you want is control, then sure, maybe you'd want it seen. But torture for information's different.

[ The boatman is clearly very intent in his desire not to be pulled into this. ]

I wouldn't know. I can't say that I've ever tortured anyone for intelligence before. What I would say, [and here, irritation having been talked into a flat shape, he sets his elbow easily on the boat's gunwale and regards her dully] is that the reason I have no desire to break your fingers is the same reason that I haven't made any effort to reconcile what has clearly been described to be as some kind of misunderstanding. I am otherwise occupied, and you are not so broad that I cannot simply go around you.

Apologies, [he says to the oarman, who has almost certainly heard stranger] We're in dramatic moods this evening.

[ There's some twinge of outrage somewhere deep inside her. Something more important than her? Her thoughts have been on Flint and nothing but Flint these past days. And he has the audacity to tell her -

She swallows it down. She straightens her shoulders and looks levelly at Flint. ]

And when your current crisis abates, Captain Flint? What then?

[He looks back at her, elbow still hooked there and all in darkening shadow from the lantern at his back.]

I believe I made myself clear, Miss Jones. I have better things to invest in.

[Then, fingers lacing easily across his middle, he turns his attention back to the oarman: ‘Now, about this Qunari gold—‘]

[ A pause. It - How strange that it hurts. Why? She doesn't give a shit. She oughtn't give a single shit. But the utter dismissal in his voice makes her breath catch slightly. What an idiot she is. ]

You're such a hypocrite.

[ A little low, a little thick, but it comes out. ]

[There is a moment, whittled thin, in which he definitely hears what she says regardless of how low and croaking it is and glances after her. But the ferryman doesn't catch it or is adamant not to return to the subject of capitol punishment, and so continues to talk as he leans into the rowing: how is the Basilia's refit coming, and when will she be crewing? He knows a boy or two who could use the work if there's still carpentry to be done.

Flint allows himself to be drawn back to that conversation rather than this one. She's already made her opinion quite clear.]

[ That rankles. That he doesn't even acknowledge it. And so it's annoyance, now, that pushes past fear and embarrassment and that stupid core of hurt that she shouldn't be feeling because she has neither need of nor desire for his approval and regard. Annoyance, pride, and righteousness. It drives her to speak over him, Flint, to say - ]

You did exactly what I did, didn't you? And you actually have the gall to keep acting like I'm some - some disappointment to you.

[For some split second, a genuine note of confusion keeps him occupied almost exactly where he'd been in the conversation with the oarman - she gets at best a half cock of the head. Then a pause. Flint's attention swings to her, squinting through the hastening dark.]

Pardon?

[ Even through that gloom, the tight anger on her face is visible. So's the shake of her head. ]

Everyone's absolutely furious at you. Aren't they? Because you put your interest before theirs.

[ She doesn't know the details; no. But Eshal had been clear enough regarding why she's angry. ]

[He snorts. Is that all?

(Who the fuck is telling Kitty Jones more than she needs to know?)]

Are you finished? Or would you first like to make another dozen assumptions about my character before we reach the ferry slip?

[ Tartly: ]

Not sure it counts as an assumption when it's based on something you did.

[ She shakes her head. It doesn't look like she scored even the slightest wound on him. Had Eshal been lying? Why would she, though? God, Kitty just wants to -

She just wants to slap him across his stupid awful face, is what she wants to do. ]

Don't you want this world to get better?

I fail to see what that has to do with explaining myself to a girl determined to believe whatever terrible thing she can imagine.

I didn't toss you overboard, so clearly I believe what you said about not breaking my fingers.

[ Big words for a girl who was literally cowering just a few minutes before. ]

[He'll risk calling that bluff with the sudden, startling beginning of a lunging motion and the purposefully loud BANG! of his heel stomping on the bilge cover.]

[ Her reaction is instantaneous - though not quite as cowardly as one might expect. Instead of falling back, she moves forward - dagger in hand, point driving toward (but stopping short of) his throat. Eyes wide, lips thin, terror etched on her face, but hand utterly steady.

The ferryman is shouting, cursing, but she doesn't look away, holding him at her knife's end. ]

[The flash of the knife is muted in the loitering half-dark and if he is surprised at all by the violence of her response, it doesn't outweigh the satisfaction of a theory confirmed. So while the hand he half raises to quiet the impulse of the sharp point is gentle, he's not flinching.]

You can understand why I might find it difficult to trust you with anything but a habit for hesitation.

[ A moment, and then she lowers the blade. And she replies, firmly: ]

I don't, actually, as this has got nothing to do with what you do or don't trust me with. If a great hulking man like you lunges at me, and I pull a knife on him, that means I've got good instincts, which I have got, because if you let great hulking men lunge at you without pulling a knife you won't live to see twenty. If you choose not to trust me over it, that just means you were looking for an excuse not to trust me.

[ And then, to the ferryman, pushing the dagger back into the hilt: ]

Please stop swearing. It's not fit for my ears, thank you.

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