It is interesting. Crozier was never going to be the one crewing the expedition — not any part of it, having no right to the privilege despite his rank, thanks to his blood. The parts he had unofficial input on, a grace given to him by Ross, did not include stewards. What do I need one for, he'd protested, putting it immediately out of his head; but of course James found him one, and of course he's done some uncanny witchcraft in fishing Jopson out of the net.

This doesn't mar the magic. No one's perfect. Francis has been at this since he was a boy, he's gotten into more trouble than all the men aboard combined, and this has already been a rowdy voyage. It isn't personal, this interrogation. This... whatever-it-is. A brand new scenario, out here among all these brand new shapes in the ice.

Something strikes him, listening.

"You're the oldest," he says, pointing at the young man. "Aren't you."

On land, it goes without saying. He's far from the oldest on the ship, and even in the bracket of men in their twenties, the reedy botanist over on Erebus still has spots on his face. At first, Jopson had struck him with willfully invisible middle child airs. But that's not it, is it. Some old stale thing turns over in his head, his eldest brother, sorting them for bruises gotten in the garden scrapping with each other, determining if anyone had done enough damage worth reporting.