“I hope so,” she responded gravely. She gave a small sigh. “Althea, would you fetch me a cold, wet cloth?”

“The boy is fine,” Kyle proclaimed grumpily, but Althea ignored him. She stormed off down the hall to fetch her mother a wet rag, wondering all the time why she did so. She suspected her mother of having deceived her father, of getting him to sign something he never intended. So why did she so meekly obey her now? She didn't know, save that perhaps it was to give herself a moment away from Kyle before she killed him.

As she went down the hall to the pump room, she wondered what had become of her world. Never before had there been such doings in her home. People shouting at one another in her home was strange enough, but Kyle had knocked his own son cold on the floor. She still couldn't believe it had happened. These things were too foreign to her, so shocking she had no idea how to deal with them or even what to feel. She doused a towel under the cold stream of water she pumped up, and wrung the cloth out well. A very nervous serving woman was lurking there in the water room.

“Do you need my help?” the woman all but whispered.

“No. No, everything is under control. Captain Haven just had a bit of a temper tantrum,” Althea heard herself lie calmly. Under control, she thought to herself. It felt far from that to her. Instead she felt like she was a juggler's club, flying through the air, not knowing what hand would next seize her and fling her into a rhythm. No hand, perhaps. Perhaps she would just go flying off, out of control, never again to be a part of her family's pattern. She smiled bitterly at the ridiculous image, and put the wet cloth into an earthenware bowl before she bore it down the hall to the dining room. When she got there, Wintrow and her mother were seated at a corner of the low table. Wintrow looked pale and shaken, her mother very determined. She held both the boy's hands in her own as she spoke to him earnestly.

Kyle, arms crossed on his chest, stood by the window. His back was to the room, but Althea could sense his indignation. Keffria stood next to him, looking up at him imploringly, but he appeared unaware of her existence.

“. . . all in Sa's hands.” Her mother spoke earnestly to her nephew. “I believe that He has sent you back to us, and created this bond between you and the ship for a reason. It's meant to be, Wintrow. Can you accept it, as you once accepted the way we sent you off with the priest?”

A bond between Wintrow and her ship. It could not be. Her heart turned to ice in her chest, but strangely her body kept moving and her eyes kept seeing. Wintrow's whole attention was on his grandmother's face. He simply looked at her. His Haven blood showed plain in him, in the set of his chin and the anger in his eyes. Then, as Althea set the bowl and cloth down next to him, she saw the boy take control of himself. In half a dozen breaths, his features relaxed, and for a fleeting instant she glimpsed not only a strong resemblance to her father but to her own image in the looking-glass. It shocked her into silence.

When the lad spoke, his voice was mild and reasoned. “So I've heard people speak a thousand times. It's Sa's will, they say. Bad weather, late storms, stillborn children. Sa's will.” He reached for the damp cloth in the bowl, folded it carefully and pressed it against his jaw. The side of his face was already starting to purple, and the boy still looked shaky and unfocused. The edges of his words were soft; Althea guessed it was painful for him to speak. But he did not seem angry, or cowed, or frightened, only intent on reaching his grandmother with his words, as if by winning her to his side he could save his own life. Perhaps he could.

“Weather and storms I am willing to say are his will. Stillborn children, perhaps. Though not when the husband had beaten his wife but the day before . . .”his voice trailed off into some unpleasant memory. Then his eyes came back to his grandmother's face. “I think Sa gave us our lives, and his will is for us to live them well. He gives us obstacles, yes. ... I have heard folk rail against his cruelty and loudly ask 'why, why?' But the next day the same folk will take their saws and go out and cut limbs from their fruit trees, and dig up young trees and move them far from where they sprouted. 'They will grow better and yield more,' the orchard workers say. They do not stand by the trees and explain that it is for their own good.”

He lifted the cloth from his face and refolded it to find a cooler spot. “My mind wanders,” he said unhappily. “Just when I want to speak most clearly to you. Grandmother. I do not think it is Sa's will for me to leave his priesthood and live aboard a ship so that our family may prosper financially. I am not even sure it is your will. I think it is my father's will. To get his way, he proposes breaking a promise, and breaking my heart. Nor am I unaware that this unwelcome 'gift' he thrusts upon me was snatched but yesterday from my Aunt Althea's hands.”