Althea gave a sudden deep sigh and her shoulders drooped. “I'm hungry. Isn't that stupid? Brashen brings me the worst possible news that I can imagine, and somehow I still get hungry at dinner time.”

“No matter what befalls you, your body tries to go on living.” Ronica spoke the heavy words with the experience of a survivor. She moved stiffly as she crossed the room to her granddaughter. She held out her hand to her. “Malta. Althea is right. We must stand as a family now, putting aside all quarrels with each other.” She lifted her eyes and smiled grimly around at them all. “Sa's breath. Look what it takes to make us remember we are family. I feel ashamed.” She returned her gaze to her granddaughter. Her empty hand waited, hovering. Slowly Malta extended her own. Ronica took it. She looked deep into the girl's angry gaze. Suddenly she gave her a brittle hug. Malta cautiously returned it.

“Malta and Papa aren't bad anymore?” a young voice wondered aloud. All heads turned to the boy in the doorway.

“Oh, Selden!” Keffria cried in weary dismay. She pulled herself up from her chair and went to her young son. She tried to hug him but he pulled stiffly free. “Mama, I'm not a baby!” he cried in annoyance. His eyes went past his mother to Brashen. He considered him gravely. He cocked his head. “You look like a pirate,” he decided.

“I do, don't I?” Brashen said. He squatted down to be on a level with the small boy. He smiled and held out a hand. “But I'm not. I'm just an honest Bingtown sailor, a bit down on my luck.” For a moment, he believed it was true. He could almost forget the stub end of a cindin stick his wayward fingers had found in the corner of his jacket pocket.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Taking Charge

ALTHEA WATCHED HIM LEAVE. SHE HAD NOT JOINED HER MOTHER TO WALK him to the door. Instead, she had fled to a maid's chamber in the upper story of the house. She had left the dusty room dark, and did not even lean too close to the window lest Brashen look back and chance to see her. The moonlight washed the gaudy color from his clothes. He walked slowly, not looking back, his gait as rolling as if he strode a deck instead of a carriage drive.

Althea had been lucky she had been struggling with Malta when she first entered the study that evening. No one had remarked on her red cheeks or lost breath. She did not think that even Brashen had realized her moment of panic at seeing him. The stricken expressions that Keffria and Mother had worn had near stilled her heart. For one ghastly instant, she had imagined that he had come to her mother to confess all and offer to redeem Althea's shame by marrying her. Even while she reeled from the severity of Brashen's real tidings, she had felt a secret relief that she did not have to admit publicly what she had done.

What she had done. She accepted that now. Amber's words had made her confront herself on that issue weeks ago. She was almost ashamed now that she had tried to hide behind excuses. What they had done, they had done together. If she wanted to respect herself as a woman and an adult, she could not claim otherwise. She had only spoken otherwise, she decided truthfully, because she had not wanted to be blamed for such an irresponsible act. If he had really tricked or coerced her into bed with him, then she could justify the pain she had felt since then. She could have been the wronged woman, the seduced innocent, abandoned by a heartless sailor. But such roles insulted both of them.

She had not been able to meet his eyes tonight, nor yet look away from him. She had missed him. The years of shipboard camaraderie, she told herself, outweighed the harsh way they had parted. Time and again, she had stolen glances at him, storing his image in her mind as if she were satisfying some sort of hunger. The devastating news he had brought still tore at her heart, but her traitor eyes had studied only the bright darkness of his eyes, and how his muscled shoulders moved under his silk shirt. She had noticed a cindin sore at the edge of his mouth; he was still using the drug. His freebooter's garb had appalled her. It hurt and disappointed her that he had turned pirate. Yet, such clothes suited him far better than the sober dress of a Bingtown Trader's son ever had. She disapproved of everything about him, yet the sight of him had set her heart racing.

“Brashen,” she said hopelessly to the darkness. She shook her head after his departing form. She had regrets, she told herself. That was all. She regretted that bedding with him had destroyed their easy companionship. She regretted that she had let herself do such an inappropriate thing with such an inappropriate person. She regretted that he had given up and not become the man her father had believed he would. She regretted his poor judgment and weak character. That was all she felt. Regrets.