It didn’t work. She could feel Brashen’s hurt radiating from him like warmth. With a sigh, she turned slightly away from him. Tomorrow, she would repair things between them. She could get past this, she knew she could.

THE WOMAN WAS PECULIAR. SHE WAS NOT EVEN PRETTY, THOUGH ETTA WOULD admit she was fascinating in a mysterious way. Serpent scald had marred her face and left her hair hanging in uneven hanks. A faint sheen of fuzz on her skull foretold that eventually it would grow back, but for now, she was certainly no beauty. Yet Wintrow had given her sidelong looks all evening. In the midst of the most important decision of his life, she had still had the power to distract him. No one had said who she was, or why she was included in the talks.

Etta had lain down on Kennit’s bed, pillowed her head on cushions that smelled of his lavender, burrowed into his blankets. She could not sleep. The more she immersed herself in his things, the more isolated she felt. It was almost a relief to ponder Amber. Not that it mattered to her, but yes, it did. How could Wintrow be giving his attention to a woman at a time like this? Did not he realize the gravity of the tasks Kennit had left him?

Even more unsettling than the way Wintrow looked at Amber had been her wholehearted fascination with him. The woman had studied him with her peculiar eyes. It was not honest lust, such as the blond barbarian displayed all evening. Amber had observed Wintrow as a cat watches a bird. Or as a mother watches her child.

She had not asked if she might go back to Vivacia with them. She had merely been waiting in the boat. “I must speak to Wintrow Vestrit. Privately.” No apology, no explanation. And Wintrow, for all his obvious exhaustion, had curtly nodded to her request.

So why did it bother her? With one man dead, did she so swiftly seek another? She had no claim upon Wintrow. She had no claim upon anyone. But, she uneasily realized, she had been counting on him. In her half-spun dreams for Kennit’s child, it had always been Wintrow who taught him to read and to write, Wintrow at his side to temper Kennit’s aloofness and her own uncertainties. Wintrow had named her Queen tonight, and none had dared challenge him. But that did not mean he would remain at her side. Tonight, a woman had looked at him, and Etta knew that he might simply step aside from her to claim a life of his own.

Etta drew a comb through her dark hair. She caught sight of herself in Kennit’s mirror, and suddenly wondered, Why? Why bother combing her hair, why bother sleeping, or breathing? Her head pounded with the pain of her thoughts. Why bother thinking? She bowed her head into her hands again. She had no tears left. Her eyes were full of sand, her throat rasped rough with her grieving, but it gave her no relief. Not tears nor screaming could ease this pain. Kennit was dead. The agony knifed through her again.

But his child is not.

As clearly as if Kennit himself had whispered the words, the thought reached her. She straightened herself and took a breath. She would walk a turn around the deck to calm herself. Then she would lie down and rest at least. She would need her wits about her tomorrow, to look out for the interests of the Pirate Isles. Kennit would have expected that of her.

“I’M SORRY. YOU’LL HAVE TO SPEAK TO ME HERE. CURRENTLY, I DON’T HAVE A room to call my own.”

“It doesn’t matter where we speak, only that we do.” Amber studied him as if he were a rare book. “And sometimes public is far more private than private can be.”

“I’m sorry?” The woman had an intricate and tricky way of speaking. Wintrow had the feeling he should be careful what he said to her, and even more careful of what she said to him. “I’m very tired,” he excused himself.

“We all are. Far too much has happened in one day. Who would have believed so many threads could converge in one location? But so it happens, sometimes. And the end of the thread must pass through the tangle many times before all is unknotted.” She smiled at him. They stood on the after-deck in the darkness. The only light came from the distant bonfires on the beach. He could not really see her features, only the shifting planes of her face. But he knew she smiled as she toyed with her gloves.

“I’m sorry. You wanted to speak to me?” He hoped she would get to the point.

“I did. To say to you what you’ve said three times to me. I’m sorry. I apologize to you, Wintrow Vestrit. I don’t know how I missed you. For over two and a half years I searched for you. We must have walked the same streets in Bingtown. I could feel you, so close for a time, and then you were gone. I found your aunt instead. Later, I found your sister. But somehow, I missed you. And you were the one I was meant to find. As I stand near you now, I know that without any doubt.” She suddenly sighed and all puzzles and levity were gone from her words as she shook her head and admitted, “I don’t know if I’ve done what I was meant to do. I don’t know if you have fulfilled your role, or only begun it. I’m so tired of not knowing, Wintrow Vestrit. So tired of guessing and hoping and doing my best. Just once, I’d like to know I did it right.”