“Aye.” Ephron's voice was like a rusted hinge breaking free. “We can learn to like slavery so well that we do not care when our grandchildren may become slaves because of a year's debts mounting too high. And as for the sea serpents that the slaveships lure into our waters, chumming them along with the bodies they throw overboard, well, we can welcome them right into Trader Bay and never need the boneyard again.”

It was a long speech for a sick man. He stopped to breathe. At the first sign of his wakening, Ronica had arisen to fetch the poppy milk. She drew the stopper from the heavy brown bottle, but Ephron slowly shook his head. “Not yet,” he told her. He breathed for a moment before he repeated, “Not just yet.” He turned his weary gaze to Davad, whose tactless dismay at Ephron's weakness was writ large on his face. Ephron gave a feeble cough.

Davad bent his face into an attempt at a smile. “It's good to see you awake, Ephron. I hope our conversation didn't disturb you.”

For a moment or two Ephron just stared at the man. Then, with the casual rudeness of the truly ill, he ignored him. His dull eyes focused on his wife. “Any word of the Vivacia?” he asked. He asked the question as a starving man might ask for food.

Ronica shook her head reluctantly as she set the poppy milk down. “But she should not be much longer. We have had word from the monastery that Wintrow is on his way home to us.” She offered these last words brightly, but Ephron only turned his head slowly against the pillow.

“What will he do? Look solemn and beg an offering for his monastery before he leaves? I gave up on that boy when his mother sacrificed him to Sa.” Ephron closed his eyes and breathed for a time. He did not open his eyes before he spoke again. “Damn that Kyle. He should have been back weeks ago . . . unless he's taken her to the bottom, and Althea, too. I knew I should have put the ship in Brashen's hands. Kyle's a good enough captain, but it takes Trader blood to truly feel the ways of a liveship.”

Ronica felt the blush rise in her cheeks. It shamed her to have her husband speak so of their son-in-law in Davad's presence. “Are you hungry, Ephron? Or thirsty?” she asked to change the subject.

“Neither.” He coughed. “I'm dying. And I'd like my damn ship here so I can die on her decks and quicken her, so my whole damn life won't have been for nothing. That's not much to ask for, is it? That the dream that I was born to fulfill should be played out as I've always planned it?” He took a ragged breath. “The poppy, Ronica. The poppy now.”

She measured the syrupy medicine into a spoon. She held it to Ephron's mouth and he swallowed it with no complaint. Afterwards he took a breath and motioned at his water jug. He drank from the cup in small sips, then lay back against his pillows with a wheezing sigh. Already the lines on his forehead were loosening, his mouth getting slacker. His eyes wandered to Davad, but it was not to him he spoke.

“Don't sell anything, my love. Bide your time as best you can. Let me but die on the decks of my ship, and I'll see the Vivacia serves you well. She and I will cut the waves as no ship ever has before, swift and true. You'll lack for nothing, Ronica. I promise you. Just stay your course, and all will go well.”

His voice was winding down, going deeper and slower on each word. She held her own breath as he took another gulp of air. “Hold your course,” he repeated, but she did not think he spoke to her. Perhaps the poppy had already carried his dreaming mind back to the deck of his beloved ship.

She felt the hated tears rising and fought them back. They struggled against her determination, choking her until the pain in her throat almost stopped her breath. She gave a sideways glance at Davad. He hadn't the courtesy to turn his stare away, but at least he had the grace to be uncomfortable. “His ship,” she found herself saying bitterly. “Always his damn ship; that was all he ever cared about.” She wondered why she would rather that Davad believed she cried over that instead of Ephron's death. She sniffed, horribly loud, then gave in and found her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

“I should be going,” Davad realized belatedly.

“Must you?” Ronica heard herself replying reflexively. She found the discipline appropriate to her position. “Thank you so much for dropping in. Let me at least walk you to the door,” she added, before Davad could change his mind about leaving.

She rose and tugged a light cover up over Ephron. He muttered something about the topsail. Davad took her arm as they left the sickroom, and she forced herself to tolerate that courtesy. She blinked as she left the dimness of the sickroom behind her. She had always been proud of her bright and airy home; now the clear sunlight that flooded in the generous windows seemed harsh and glaring. She averted her eyes from the atrium as they passed it. Once it had been her pride and joy; now, bereft of her attentions, it was a desolate wasteland of browning vines and sprawling, straggling plant life. She tried to promise herself that after Ephron was finished dying, she'd have time to attend to it once again, but suddenly that thought seemed vile and traitorous, as if she were hoping her husband would soon die so she could take care of her garden.