"You look most delightful, my Lady Arrathee," said Undercaptain Peveret as he assisted me from the seachair. He was in a male, dress uniform, like
Dowd, while I had to wear the short, swishy, black dress, padded in all the right places to make me appear to be the girl everyone now said I was. "I do believe you've passed the test I set for you, in a most exemplary way. There's not a man on this ship who'll question your femaleness, not your right to be acclaimed as a witch!"
"But they all know," I began uncomfortably as he bowed to me as if I was indeed a lady, taking my hand, forcing me to curtsey to him, my black dress rustling so femininely about me.
"They all know what they were told about you," said Peveret, kissing my hand and making me quake in my padded, female, body-forming cress. "And they know what we officers are now saying about you. They know that officers lie, of course. What they believe, until they have personal experience, is what they see with their own eyes. So my Lady Arrathee, you're a witch, not a warlock, sure to go mad someday. I hope you enjoy your journey into femininity."