They both turned to the tap at the door. Malta peeked around the corner. “May I come in?” she asked timorously.

“Your mother and I are having a conversation,” Kyle announced. He considered that an answer to the question. Without another glance at his daughter, he turned back to his wife. “I've had time to look over the accountings for the north properties. The tenants on the Ingleby farm have not paid a full rent for the last three years. They should be moved out. Or the whole farm should be sold. One of the two.”

Keffria took up her teacup and held it firmly in both hands. Sometimes when she had to correct her husband, it made her nervous and her hands trembled. Kyle disliked that. “The Ingleby farm is Mother's, Kyle. It was part of her bridal portion. And the tenants are her old nanny and her husband. They are getting up in years, and Mother had always promised Tetna that she would be provided for, so-”

Kyle set his own cup down so firmly the tea sloshed out onto the white cloth. He gave an exasperated sigh. “And that is just the type of reasoning that will bring us all down. I have nothing against charity, Keffria, or loyalty. But if she must take care of some doddering old couple, have her bring them here and put them up in the servant's wing and give them whatever tasks they can still manage. No doubt they'd be more useful here, as well as more comfortable. There is no reason to waste a whole farm on them.”

“Tetna grew up there-” Keffria began again, then jumped and gasped as Kyle's callused palm struck the table in front of him.

“And I grew up in Frommers, but no one will give me a house there when I am old and we are destitute because we managed our wealth poorly. Keffria. Be silent a moment and let me finish what I am trying to say to you. I know it is your mother's. I know you have no direct say in what she does with it. I merely desire that you pass on to her my advice. And with it, the warning that no more monies will be forthcoming to support it from your father's estate. If she cannot force it to yield enough money to keep up the repairs to it, then she will have to let it decay. But no more good money thrown after bad. That's all.” He turned suddenly in his chair and pointed an accusing finger at the door. “You. Malta. Are you eavesdropping on your elders? If you want to act like a spying serving girl, I can see that you have the chores of one as well.”

Malta peered around the corner of the door into the room. She looked appropriately daunted. “I beg your pardon, Papa. I wanted to wait until you and Mama had finished speaking, so that I could talk to you.”

Kyle gave a long-suffering sigh, and rolled his eyes at his wife.

“The children must be taught not to interrupt, Keffria. Come in, Malta, as you cannot seem to wait in a patient and seemly way. What do you want?”

Malta edged into the room, then, at a scowl from her father, hastened forward to stand before him. She bounced a curtsey at him and avoided her mother's eyes as she announced, “The Summer Ball is past, now. We had to miss it, I understand that. But Harvest Offering is seventy-two days from now.”

“And?”

“I wish to go.”

Her father shook his head in exasperation. “You will go. You've gone since you were six. Everyone goes who is of a Trader family. Save those like me, who must sail. I doubt I shall return in time to attend. But you know you'll go. Why do you bother me like this?”

Malta stole a glance at her mother's disapproving face and then looked up earnestly at her father. “Mother said we might not go this year. Because of mourning Grandfather, you know.” She took a deep breath. “And she said that even if we did go, I was still not old enough for a proper ball gown. Oh, Papa, I do not want to go to the Harvest Offering in a little girl's frock. Delo Trell, who is the same age as I, is wearing a ball gown this year.”

“Delo Trell is eleven months older than you.” Keffria cut in. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, that her daughter dared bring this to her father as if it were a grievance. “And if she attends the Harvest Offering in a gown, I shall be very surprised. I myself was not presented at the Offering as a woman until I was fifteen, nearly sixteen. And we are in mourning. Nothing is expected of us this year. It is not fitting. ...”

“It could be a dark gown. Carissa Krev was at the Ball only two months after her own mother died.”

Keffria spoke firmly. “We will go only if your grandmother sees fit to go. I doubt that she will. And if we go, you will dress as is appropriate for a girl of your age.”

“You dress me like a child!” Malta cried out. Her voice was tragic with pain. “I'm not a little girl anymore. Oh, Papa, she makes me wear my skirts half up my shin, with ruffles on the bottom, as if she fears I shall run and play through puddles. And she makes me plait my hair as if I were seven, and puts bows on my collars and lets me wear only flowers, no jewelry and-”