Paragon heard her striding away, heard Mingsley call after her, “You're stupid. You're walking away from more money than you can even imagine.”

Her footsteps halted. Paragon strained his ears. Would she come back? Her voice alone came, pitched in a normal tone but carrying clearly. “Somehow,” she said coldly, “you have confused profitable and not profitable with right and wrong. I, however, have not.”

Then he could hear her walking away again. She strode like an angry man. The rain began to pelt even harder; the drops would have stung human flesh. He heard Mingsley grunt with distaste at the new downpour.

“Artistic temperament,” he scoffed to himself. “She'll be back.” A pause. Then, “Ship. You, ship. Are you truly alive?”

Paragon chose not to reply.

“It's not smart to ignore me. It's only a matter of time before I own you. It's in your own best interests to tell me what I need to know. Are you separate from the ship, or truly a part of it?”

Paragon faced the pounding rain and did not reply.

“Would it kill you if I cut you free of your ship?” Mingsley asked in a low voice. “For that is what I intend to do.”

Paragon did not know the answer to that. Instead, he invited Mingsley, “Why don't you come close enough to try?”

After a short time, he heard the man leave.

He waited there, in the stinging rain. When he heard her speak again, he did not start. He did turn his head slowly, to hear her better.

“Ship? Ship, may I come closer?”

“My name is Paragon.”

“Paragon, may I come closer?”

He considered it. “Aren't you going to tell me your name?” he finally countered.

A short hesitation. “I am called Amber.”

“But that is not your name.”

“I've had a number of names,” she said after a time. “This is the one that suits me best, here and now.”

She could, he reflected, simply have lied to him and said it was her name. But she had not. He extended an open hand toward the sound of her voice. “Amber,” he accepted her. It was a challenge, too. He knew how huge his hand was in comparison to a human's. Once his fingers closed around her hand, he'd be able to jerk her arm out of its socket. If he chose to.

He listened to her breath, to the sound of the rain pocking the packed sand of the beach. Abruptly she took two quick steps towards him and set her gloved left hand in his. He closed his immense fingers over her small ones. “Paragon,” she said breathlessly.

“Why did you come back?”

She laughed nervously. “As Mingsley put it, I am intrigued by you.” When he made no reply to that, she went on, “I have always been more curious than wise. Yet any wisdom I have ever gained has come to me from my curiosity. So I have never learned to turn away from it.”

“I see. Will you tell me about yourself? As you see, I am blind.”

“I see that only too well.” There was pity and regret in her voice. “Mingsley called you ugly. But whoever shaped your brow and jaw, your lips and nose, was a master carver. I wish I could have seen your eyes. What kind of a person could destroy such art?”

Her words moved him, but they also nudged him toward a thing he could not, would not recall. Gruffly he replied, “Such compliments! Are they meant to distract my mind from the fact that you have not answered my request?” He released her hand.

“No. Not at all. I am ... Amber. I carve wood. I make jewelry from it, beads and ornaments, combs and rings. Sometimes larger pieces, such as bowls and goblets . . . even chairs and cradles. But not many of those. My talent seems strongest on smaller work. May I touch your face?”

The question came so swiftly that he found himself nodding before he had considered. “Why?” he asked belatedly.

He felt her come closer to him. The scant warmth of her body interceded with the chill of the rain. He felt her fingers brush the edge of his beard. It was a very slight touch and yet he shivered to it. The reaction was too human. Had he been able to draw back, he would have.

“I cannot reach you. Could you . . . would you lift me up?”

The vast trust she offered made him forget she had not answered his first question. “I could crush you in my hands,” he reminded her.

“But you will not,” she told him confidently. “Please.”

The urgency in her plea frightened him. “Why do you think I would not? I've killed before, you know! Whole crews of men! All of Bingtown knows that. Who are you not to fear me?”