Yet she could not deny how she anticipated the quickening of the Vivacia. How many hours had she spent, stretched out on the bowsprit as close to the figurehead as she could get as they plowed through the seas, and stared at the carved wooden lids that covered the Vivacia's eyes? She was not wood and paint like the figurehead of any ordinary ship. She was wizardwood. She was painted for now, yes, but at the moment of Ephron Vestrit's death aboard her decks, the painted locks of her tumbling hair would be not gilt but curling gold, and her high-boned cheeks would lose their rouge of paint and glow pink with her own life. She'd have green eyes. Althea knew it. Of course, everyone said that no one could truly know what color a liveship's eyes would be until those eyes were opened by the deaths of three generations. But Althea knew. The Vivacia would have eyes as green as sea lettuce. Even now, thinking of how it would be when those great emerald eyes opened, Althea had to smile.

The smile faded as she recalled Kyle's words. It was plain what he hoped to do. Put her off the ship and bring one of his sons aboard. And when her father did die, Kyle would try to keep command of the Vivacia, would keep his boy aboard as his token Vestrit to keep the ship happy. It had to be an empty threat. Neither boy was suited: the one too young, the other given to the priests. Althea had nothing against her nephews, but even if Selden were not too young to live aboard ship, he had the soul of a farmer. As for Wintrow, Keffria had given him over to the priests years ago. Wintrow cared nothing for the Vivacia, knew nothing of ships; her sister Keffria had seen to that. And he was destined to be a priest. Kyle had never been much enthused about that, but last time Althea had seen the boy, it was plain that he'd make a good priest. Small and spindly, always staring off into the distance, smiling vaguely, thoughts full of Sa: that was Wintrow.

Not that Kyle would care where the boy's heart was, or even about backing out on dedicating his eldest son to Sa. His children by Keffria were no more than tools to him, the blood he'd claim in order to gain control of the liveship. Well, he'd shown his hand a bit too plainly this time. When they got back to port, she'd see to it that her father knew exactly what Kyle had planned, and how badly he'd treated her. Perhaps then her father would reconsider his decision that Althea was too young to captain the ship. Let Kyle go and find some dead chunk of wood to push about the seas, and give the Vivacia back into Althea's care where she would be safe and respected. Through the palms of her hands, she was sure she felt a response from the ship. The Vivacia was hers, no matter what plots Kyle might make. He'd never have her.

She shifted again in her bunk. She'd outgrown it. She should have the ship's carpenter come in and redo the room. If she put her bunk on the bulkhead, below the porthole, she could have an extra hand of length to it. Not much, but even a bit would help. Her desk could come over against this wall. . . . Then she frowned to herself, recalling how the carpenter had betrayed her. Well, she'd never liked the man, and he'd never cared for her. She should have guessed he'd be the one to make mischief between her and Kyle with his tale telling.

And she should have known also that it wasn't Brashen. He wasn't a man to go about behind another's back, no matter what Kyle might think of him. No, Brashen had told her, to her face and quite rudely, that she was a childish little troublemaker and he'd thank her to stay away from his watch. As she mulled on it, that night in the tavern came clearer in her head. He'd chewed her out as if she were a green hand, telling her she ought not criticize the captain's decisions to the crew, nor talk out her family business in public. She'd known what to say to that. “Not everyone feels ashamed to speak of their family, Brashen Trell.” That was all she'd had to say. Then she'd risen from the table and stalked away.

Let him sit there and choke on that, she'd told herself. She knew Brashen's history, and she'd wager half the crew did, even if they daren't talk about it to his face. Her father had rescued him when he was on the very threshold of the debtor's gaol. The only route out of there for him would have been an indentureship, for all knew his own family had had their fill of his wastrel ways. And all knew what lay down the road from an enforced indentureship. He'd probably have ended up in Chalced, a face full of slave tattoos, were it not for Ephron Vestrit. And yet he had dared to speak to her like that. He thought entirely too much of himself, did Brashen Trell. Most Trells did. At the Trader's Harvest Ball last year, his younger brother had presumed to ask her to dance twice with him. Even if Cerwin was the Trell heir now, he should not be so bold. She half smiled as she thought of his face when she'd coolly declined. His polite acceptance of her refusal had been correct, but all his training had not been enough to keep the flush from his face. Cerwin had prettier manners than Brashen, but he was slender as a boy, with none of Brashen's muscle. On the other hand, the younger Trell had been smart enough not to throw away both family name and fortune. Brashen hadn't.