Her mother folded her lips but said no more. Malta let Althea get almost to the door before she asked curiously, “Are you going to go see that bead-maker again?” She made a pretense of rubbing her eyes as she set aside her own pen.

“I might,” Althea said evenly. Malta heard the restrained annoyance in her voice.

Ronica made a small sound as if deciding whether to speak. Aunt Althea turned back to her wearily. “What?”

Ronica gave a small shrug, her hands still busy with the flowers. “Nothing. I just wish you would not spend so much time with her, so openly. She is not Bingtown, you know. And some say she is no better than the New Traders.”

“She is my friend,” Althea said flatly.

“The talk about town is that she has been squatting in the Ludlucks' liveship. That poor ship has never been right, and she has so unhinged him by living there that when the Ludlucks sent men to move her out of their rightful property, the ship had a fit. He said he'd rip their arms off if they tried to come aboard. You can imagine how distressing that was to Trader Ludluck. Amis has tried for years to keep her family name clean of scandal. Now it has been stirred again, and with it all the old tales of how Paragon went mad and killed everyone aboard him. It is entirely that woman's fault. She should not be meddling in Trader business.”

“Mother.” Althea's patience sounded strained. “There is a great deal more to that story than you have heard. If you wish, I'll tell you all I know. But later. When only adults are around.”

Malta knew that little sling was intended for her. She rose to it like a shark to chum. “The bead-maker has an odd reputation about town. Oh, everyone says she is a wonderful artist. However, as we all know, artists can be strange. She lives with a woman who dresses and acts like a man. Did you know that?”

“Jek is from the Six Duchies or one of those barbarian lands. That is just how women behave up there. Grow up, Malta, and stop listening to dirty little whispers,” Althea suggested brusquely.

Malta drew herself up to her full height. “Usually, I ignore such gossip. Until I hear our own family name dragged into it. I know it is scarcely ladylike to discuss such things, but I feel you should know that some people say that you visit the bead-maker for the same reason. To sleep with her.”

During the ensuing shocked silence, Malta added a spoonful of honey to her tea. As she stirred it, the sound of the spoon against the cup seemed almost merry.

“If you mean fuck, say fuck,” Althea suggested. She enunciated the crudity deliberately. Her voice was cold with fury. “If you are going to be coarse, why be circumspect with the language?”

“Althea!” Ronica finally emerged from her scandalized silence. “You will not say such things in our home!”

“It was already said. I but clarified the topic.” Althea bit off each word as she glowered at Malta.

“You can scarcely blame people for talking,” Malta went on after she had sipped her tea. She made her voice casually conversational. “After all, you were gone almost a year, and then came home dressed like a boy. You are well past marrying age, but show no interest in men. Instead, you swagger about town acting as if you were a man yourself. People are bound to speculate that you are ... strange.”

“Malta, that is both unkind and untrue,” Ronica said firmly. There were high spots of color on the tops of her cheeks. “Althea is not too old to be considered marriageable. You well know that Grag Tenira has expressed more than a passing interest in Althea of late.”

“Oh, him. We all well know that the Teniras have expressed an even greater interest in the ability of the Vestrits to sway the Bingtown Council. Ever since they began that futile show of defiance down at the Satrap's tariff dock, they have been trying to recruit others to their cause-”

“It is scarcely futile. The principle of Bingtown's authority is at stake, not that I expect you to understand that. The Teniras defy the Satrap's tariffs because the tariffs are both unlawful and unjust. However, I doubt you have the wits to grasp that, and I have no desire to spend the afternoon listening to children prattle of matters they do not understand. Mother. Good afternoon.”

Her head up, her face tight with anger, Althea swept out the door.

Malta listened to her footsteps fade down the hall. She pushed disconsolately at the paper in front of her. As it moved across the desk, it broke the silence in the room.

“Why did you do that?” her grandmother asked her quietly. There was no real anger in her voice. Rather it was a flat curiosity.