He'd been to the Vestrits' home before, but always it had been by daylight, with some bit of ship's business to take to the Captain. The walk to Althea's home seemed much longer in the night. They left even the distant sounds of the night market behind them. They passed hedges with night-blooming flowers perfuming the air. An almost eerie peace descended over Brashen. Today had seen an end to so many things.' Once more he was cut loose and drifting, with only himself to rely on. No obligations tomorrow, no schedules. No crews to supervise, no cargo to unload. Only himself to feed. Was that bad, really?

The Vestrit mansion was set well back from the public road. The gardens and grounds hosted insects and frogs, all trilling in the summer night. They provided the only sound other than the crunching of his boots as they walked up the stone drive. It was when he stood before the white stone of the entryway, before the familiar door where he had sometimes awaited admittance on ship's business, that he suddenly felt grief once more clutch at his throat. Never again, he supposed. This would be the last time he'd stand before this door. After a moment, he noticed that Althea had not let go of his arm. Here, clear of the narrow streets and shops, the moonlight could find her. Her bare feet were dirty, her gown draggled. Her hair had come loose of the lace thing she'd bound it in; at least, half of it had. She suddenly released his arm, stood up straight, and heaved a great sigh.

“Thank you for seeing me home,” she said, her voice as level and formal as if he had escorted her home in a carriage after a Trader festival.

“You're welcome,” he said quietly. As if the words had awakened in the rough sailor the genteel boy his mother had once schooled, he bowed deeply to her. He very nearly lifted her hand to his lips, but the sight of his own battered shoes and the tattering edges of his rough cotton trousers recalled to him who he was now. “You'll be all right?” he half asked, and half told, her.

“I suppose,” she said vaguely. She turned away from him and set her hand on the latch, only to have the door violently jerked open before her.

Kyle filled the door. He was in his night robe and barefoot and his pale hair stood up in tousled tufts on his head, but his fury was such that there was nothing ridiculous about him. “What goes on here?” he demanded. He had pitched his voice low, as if for secrecy, but the force of his emotions gave them the same strength as a bellow. Instinctively, Brashen straightened up before the man he had served as captain. Althea initially recoiled in shock from him, but recovered quickly.

“None of your damn business,” she declared and tried to walk past him into the house. He caught her by the upper arm and spun her about. “Damn you,” she cried out, and made no effort to keep her voice low. “Get your hands off me!”

Kyle ignored that, instead giving her a shake that snapped her smaller body about like the weight on the end of a lash. “This family is my business!” he growled. “This family's reputation and good name is my business, just as it should be yours. Look at yourself. Barefoot, looking and smelling like a drunken slut, and here's a rogue sniffing after you like he'd go after some cheap whore. ... Is that why you brought him here, to your own family home? How could you? On the night of your father's death, how could you shame us all like this?”

Althea had bared her teeth like a vixen at his wild accusations. She clawed at the hand that gripped her so firmly. “I've done nothing!” she cried wildly, the drink all too plain in her voice. “I've done nothing to be ashamed of. You're the one who should be ashamed. You thief! You've stolen my ship from me! You've stolen my ship!”

Brashen stood transfixed by horror. This was the last thing he wanted to get mixed up in. No matter what he did, it was going to be wrong in someone's eyes. But worst was to stand still and do nothing at all. So. Be damned for a ram as deeply as a lamb. “Cap'n. Kyle. Let her go, she did nothing except to get a bit drunk. Given what she's been through today, I think that's to be expected. Let her go, man, you're hurting her!”

He hadn't lifted a hand, had given no sign that he intended to attack Kyle at all, but Kyle abruptly threw Althea aside and advanced on the sailor. “That might be what you expect, but it's not what we expect.” Behind Kyle, down the darkened hallway, Brashen caught a glimpse of a light being kindled, and heard a woman's voice raised questioningly. Kyle made a grab for Brashen's shirt front, but Brashen stepped backwards. Behind him, Althea had staggered to her feet. She was crying, hopeless as a lost child. She clung to the door frame, the sweep of her hair hiding her bowed face, and wept. Kyle ranted on. “Yes, you'd expect her to get drunk, wouldn't you, you scurvy dog? And followed her hoping for more than that. I've seen you watching her on the ship, and I know what you had in mind. Couldn't wait for her father's body to settle to come sniffing after her, could you?”