She found herself on the foredeck, leaning far out on the bowsprit to look at the figurehead. The carved eyes were still closed, but it did not matter. Althea had shared her dreams.

“Don't slip.”

“Small fear of that,” Althea replied to Brashen without turning.

“Not usually. But as pale as you looked, I feared you'd get giddy and just go over the side.”

“No.” She hadn't even glanced at him. She wished he would go away. When next he spoke, his voice had become more formal.

“Mistress Althea. Have you baggage you wish taken ashore?”

“Just the small chest inside the door of my stateroom.” It held the silk and small gifts for her family. She'd seen to its packing days ago.

Brashen cleared his throat awkwardly. He did not walk away. She turned to him in some irritation. “What?”

“The captain has ordered me to assist you in any way necessary to remove your possessions from the, uh, officer's stateroom.” Brashen stood very straight and his eyes looked past her shoulder. For the first time in months, she truly saw him. What had it cost him to step down from first mate to sailor, simply to remain aboard this ship? She'd taken the brunt of Kyle's tongue only once; she'd lost count of the times that either he or his first mate had taken Brashen to task. Yet here he was still, given a distasteful order whose wisdom he doubted, and doing his best to carry it out as a proper ship's officer.

She spoke more to herself than to Brashen when she said, “No doubt he gets a great deal of pleasure from assigning this duty to you.”

He didn't reply. The muscles in his jaws bunched a notch tighter, but he held his tongue. Even now, he would not speak out against his captain's orders. He was hopeless.

“Just the small chest, Brashen.”

He drew up a breath as if it had the weight of an anchor. “Mistress Althea. I am ordered to see your possessions removed from that cabin.”

She looked away from him. She was suddenly horribly weary of Kyle's posturing. Let him think he had his way for now; her father would soon put it all right.

“Then follow your order, Brashen. I shan't hold it against you.”

He stood as if stricken. “You don't want to do the packing up yourself?” He was too shocked even to add “Mistress Althea.”

She gave him the ghost of a smile. “I've seen you stow cargo. I'll warrant you'll do a tidy job of it.”

For a moment longer he stood at her elbow, as if hoping for reprieve. She ignored him. After a time she heard him turn and pad lightly away across the deck. She went back to her consideration of the Vivacia's visage. She gripped the railing tightly and vowed fiercely to the ship never to give her up.

“Gig's waiting on you, Mistress Althea.”

The note in the man's voice implied that he had spoken to her before, possibly more than once. She straightened herself and reluctantly put her dreams aside. “I'm coming,” she told him spiritlessly, and followed him.

She rode into town in the gig, facing Kyle but seated as far from him as possible. No one spoke to her. Other than necessary commands, no one spoke at all. Several times she caught uneasy glances from the sailors at the oars. Grig, ever a bold sort, ventured a wink and a grin. She tried to smile at him in return, but it was as if she could not quite recall how. A great stillness seemed to have found her as soon as she left the ship; a sort of waiting of the soul, to see what would befall her next.

The few times her eyes did meet Kyle's, the look on his face puzzled her. At their first encounter, he looked almost horror-struck. A second glance showed his face deeply thoughtful, but the last time she caught him looking at her was the most chilling. For he nodded at her and smiled fondly and encouragingly. It was the same look he would have bestowed on his daughter Malta if she had learned her lessons particularly well. She turned expressionlessly away from it and gazed out over the placid waters of Trader Bay.

The small rowing vessel nosed into a dock. Althea submitted to being assisted up to the dock as if she were an invalid; such was the nuisance of full skirts and shawls and hats that obscured one's vision. She gained the dock, and for an instant Grig annoyed her by holding on to her for longer than was strictly necessary. She drew herself free of his arm and glanced at him, expecting to find mischief in his eyes. Instead she saw concern, and it deepened a moment later when a wave of giddiness made her catch at his arm. “I just need to get my land-legs again,” she excused herself, and once more stepped clear of him.

Kyle had sent word ahead of them and an open two-wheeled shimshay waited for them. The skinny boy who drove it abandoned the shady seat to them. “No bags?” he cawed.