Althea just shook her head. “No bags, driver. Take us up to the Vestrit House. It's on the Traders' Circle.”

The half-naked boy nodded and offered her his hand as she clambered up onto the seat. Once Kyle had joined her there, the boy leaped nimbly to the nag's back and clicked his tongue at her. Her shod hooves rang on the wooden planks of the dock.

Althea stared straight ahead as the shimshay left the docks for the cobbled streets of Bingtown, and offered no conversation. Bad enough that she had to sit next to Kyle. She would not annoy herself by conversing with him. The hustle and bustle of folk and cart traffic, the shouts of bargaining, the smells of the streetfront restaurants and tea shops seemed oddly distant to her. When she and her father had docked, it had been usual that her mother would be waiting to greet them. They would have left the docks on foot, her mother rattling off an account of all that had happened since they had left port. Like as not they would have stopped at one of the tea shops for fresh, warm sweet buns and cold tea before strolling the rest of the way home. Althea sighed.

“Althea? Are you all right?” Kyle intruded.

“As well as I could expect, thank you,” she replied stiffly.

He fidgeted, and then cleared his throat as if he were getting ready to say more. She was saved by the boy pulling in the horse right in front of home. He was by the side of the shimshay, offering his hand to her before Kyle could even stir. She smiled at him as she stepped down and he grinned back at her. A moment later the door of the house flew open and Keffria rushed out, crying, “Oh, Kyle, Kyle, I'm so glad you're home. Everything is just awful!” Seldon and Malta were at their mother's heels as she flew forwards to embrace her husband. Another boy followed them awkwardly. He looked oddly familiar: probably a visiting cousin or some such.

“Nice to see you, too, Keffria,” Althea muttered sarcastically, and headed for the door.

Inside the manor, it was cool and shady. Althea stood a moment, gratefully letting her eyes adjust. A woman she did not recognize appeared with a basin of scented water and a towel and began to offer her the welcome of the house. Althea waved her away. “No, thank you. I'm Althea, I live here. Where is my father? In his sitting room?”

She thought she saw a brief flash of sympathy in the woman's eyes. “It has been many days since he was well enough to enjoy that room, Mistress Althea. He is in his bedchamber and your mother is with him.”

Althea's shoes rang on the tiled floors as she raced down the hallway. Before she reached the door, her mother appeared in the entry, a worried frown creasing her forehead. “What is going on?” she demanded, and then, as she recognized Althea, she cried out in relief. “Oh, you are back! And Kyle?”

“He's outside. Is Father still ill? It has been months, I thought surely he would have ...”

“Your father is dying, Althea,” her mother said.

As Althea recoiled from her bluntness, she saw the dullness in her mother's eyes. There were lines in her face that had not been there, a heaviness to her mouth and a curl in her shoulders that Althea did not recall. Even as her own heart near stilled with the shock of it, she recognized that her mother's words were not cruel, but hopeless. She had given her the news quickly, as if by doing so she could save her the slow pain of realization.

“Oh, mother,” she said, and moved towards her, but her mother flapped her hands at her in refusal. Althea stopped instantly. Ronica Vestrit had never been one for tearful embraces and weeping on shoulders. She might be bowed by her sorrow, but she had not surrendered to it.

“Go and see your father,” she told Althea. “He's been asking for you, near hourly. I must speak to Kyle. There are arrangements to be made, and not much time, I fear. Go in to him, now. Go.” She gave Althea two quick pats on the arm and then hastened past her. Althea heard the pattering of her shoes and the rustling of her skirts as she hurried away down the hall. Althea glanced once after her and then pushed open the door of her father's bedchamber.

This was not a familiar room to her. As a small child, it had been forbidden to her. When her father had been home from voyages, he and her mother had spent time there together, and Althea had resented the mornings when she was not allowed to intrude on their rest. When she had grown old enough to understand why her parents might value their time alone together on his brief visits home, she had willingly avoided the room. Still, she recalled the room as a large, bright chamber with tall windows, furnished sumptuously with exotic furniture and fabrics from many voyages. The white walls had displayed feather fans and shell masks, beaded tapestries and hammered copper landscapes. The bed had a headboard of carved teak, and in winter the thick mattress was always mounded with feather comforters and fur throws. During the summers there had been vases of flowers by the bedside and cool cotton sheets scented with roses.