He went into the cottage and glanced around. The priest stood in a corner, his arms folded on his chest. He did not look as if he were praying. His mother crouched over the open chest, aahing and clucking over the contents. She had already donned the turquoise earrings. As he entered the room, Ankle gimped the short distance from the hearth to the table with a platter of fresh flat bread. There was a bowl of berry preserves on the table, and a slab of yellow spring butter. Beside the butter, herb tea was steaming from the cracked lid of a pot. The table was set with odds and ends of crockery. Not a cup matched its fellow. Kennit knew a moment's annoyance. Although those gathered here would never leave this island, he did not like anyone to see his mother living in such circumstances. When he was king, it would not do for such tales to be noised about. “Next time I come to visit, I shall bring you a proper tea set, Mother,” he announced. “I know you are fond of these old pieces, but really . . .”

He let the words trail off as he helped himself to a piece of warm bread. His mother gabbled away at him as she poured him a cup of tea and offered him the only chair at the table. He seated himself gratefully. The crutch head was beginning to chafe him severely. He slathered his bread with butter and heaped it with preserves. His first bite nearly swept him away on a wave of sensory memories. These humble foods, still so delicious to his palate, were like ghosts. They belonged to the world of a very small boy, coddled and indulged and safe beyond all imagining. All that had been betrayed nearly thirty-five years ago. Odd, that such a sweet taste could summon up such bitterness. He ate the rest of his bread and three more pieces, caught between enjoyment and painful memory.

The others joined him in the meal, obeying his mother's gestures to stand about the table. Only the priest demurred. His supercilious stare included Kennit. It did not bother the pirate. Hunger would cure him of his snobbery soon enough. For now, it was an oddly pleasant gathering. His mother gabbled on in her singsong way. The map-faces responded to her gestures and mouthing with nods and smiles, but few words. Her dumbness seemed contagious. Ankle appeared almost competent in this humble setting. She took up the brush and swept the ashes back into the hearth without being told. Her eyes had already lost some of their bruised look. Kennit knew a moment's reconsideration of her. He had wanted a docile servant for his mother; he hoped this girl did not recover too much of her spirits.

He finished his tea and rose. “Well. I must be going. Now, Mother, don't start to carry on. You know I can't stay.”

Despite his words, she caught at his sleeve. The pleading look in her eyes spoke eloquently but he chose to misunderstand. “I won't forget the tea cups, I promise you. I'll bring them the next time I come. Yes, all done with pretty little designs, I'll remember. I know what you like.” As he set her hands firmly away from his sleeve, he spoke over her shoulder to the others. “See that you mind well, Ankle. I shall expect to see a fine, fat baby when next I call, Dedge. No doubt there will be another on the way by then, eh?” He felt quite patriarchal as he said this. It occurred to him that eventually he could select others to come and live here. It could become his secret kingdom within a kingdom.

As he stepped away from his mother, she surrendered, as she always did. She sank down onto the chair, bowed her head into her hands and wept. She always wept. It made no sense to him. How many times had she found that tears solved nothing? Yet still, she wept. He patted her gingerly on the shoulder and headed for the door.

“I am not staying here,” the priest declared.

Kennit paused to stare at him. “Oh?” he queried pleasantly.

“No. I'm going back to the ship with you.”

Kennit considered this. “A pity. I am so sure my mother would have enjoyed having you here. You're certain you won't reconsider?”

The pirate's smooth courtesy seemed to rattle Sa'Adar. He looked all around himself. Kennit's mother still wept. Ankle had approached her and was cautiously patting the old woman's shoulder. Dedge and Saylah looked only at Kennit. Their alert and expectant waiting reminded Kennit of well-trained hunting dogs. He made a small hand motion; the two map-faces relaxed slightly but remained attentive. The priest looked back at Kennit.

“No. I will not stay. There is nothing here for me.”

Kennit gave a small sigh. “I was so sure you'd stay. Certain of it. Well. If you will not stay, at least do something for my mother before you depart. Bless the house or cow.”

Sa'Adar gave him a disdainful look. It was as if the pirate had given him a command more suited to a horse or dog. He looked over his shoulder at the weeping woman. “I suppose I could do that.”