Etta finished the last looping stitches of the hem. She bit off the thread, stood up and unfastened her skirt. It fell to the floor around her feet in a scarlet puddle. She stepped into her new creation, drew it up and fastened it at her waist. She did not know the proper name for this fabric. It had a crisp texture, crinkling deliciously under her hands as she smoothed it. It was a cedar green, but when she moved, it caught the lamplight in watermarks on the fabric, making the color ripple gently. The feel of the cloth pleased her the most. She ran her hands over it again, sleeking it against her hips. It made a slight crackling sound. Ken-nit would like it. He could appreciate sensation, at those times when he let himself focus on it.

Not that those times had been as frequent lately as she could hope for. She looked into the glass in his cabin and shook her head at herself. Ungrateful woman. It had not been that long since he was flat on his back, burning with fever. She should be grateful that he had recovered his manly appetites at all. She had heard that some never did after they had been maimed. She picked up a brush and drew it through her thick hair, sleeking it down. She was letting it grow longer. Soon it would be to her shoulders. She thought of his hands in her hair and his weight upon her, and felt her blood stir. When she had been a whore, she had never imagined she would come to this. Longing for a man's touch, rather than wishing they would just get on with it and finish. Then again, she had never imagined that she would feel jealous of a ship.

Now that was foolishness. She lifted her chin to put scent on her throat. She sniffed it critically. This was a new fragrance, also taken from the Crosspatch just today. Spicy and sweet. She decided it would do. She resolved to have more faith in Kennit. Didn't he have enough on his mind, without her giving in to feelings of jealousy? Foolish jealousy at that. It was a ship, not a woman.

She drifted about the cabin, tidying after Kennit. He was always drawing or writing something. Sometimes she watched him, when he allowed it. The skill fascinated her. His pen moved so swiftly, scratching down the precise marks. She paused to look at some of the scrolls before she rolled them and moved them to his chart table. How did he remember what all the little marks meant? It was a man's skill, she supposed. From the deck outside, she heard Brig's voice raised in command. Shortly thereafter, she heard the anchor going down. So they would stop for the night. Good.

She left the cabin and went looking for Kennit. She made her way to the foredeck. Wintrow sat cross-legged on the deck by Opal, keeping vigil with him. She looked down on the injured ship's boy. The stitches had drawn the edges of the cut together. That was all that could be said for their work. She crouched down to touch his brow. As she did so, her skirts crinkled pleasantly around her. “He feels chilled to me,” she observed.

Wintrow glanced up at her. He was paler than Opal. “I know.” He snugged a blanket more closely about his patient. More to himself than to her, he added, “He seems so weak. I am sure the surgeon did what was best. I wish the night was warmer.”

“Why not take him below, away from the night chill?”

“I think he takes more good from being here than he would from being below.”

She cocked her head at him. “You believe your ship has healing powers?”

“Not on the body. But she lends strength to his spirit, and helps it heal the body.”

She straightened up slowly, but remained looking down on him. “I thought that was what your Sa did,” she observed.

“It is,” he agreed.

She could have mocked him then, asking him if he still needed a god if he had this ship. Instead, she suggested, “Go get some sleep. You look exhausted.”

“I am. But I'm going to sit with him tonight. It doesn't seem right to leave him alone.”

“Where did the surgeon go?”

“Over to the Marietta. There are other injured men there. He's done what he could do here. Now it is up to Opal.”

“And your ship,” she could not resist adding. She glanced about the foredeck. “Have you seen Kennit?”

Wintrow glanced toward the figurehead. It took her a moment to pick out his silhouette, for he shared a shadow with Vivacia. “Oh,” she said quietly. She did not usually seek him out when he was talking to the ship. But having asked after him aloud, she could not very well just walk away. Trying to appear casual, she joined him at the bow rail. For a time, she did not speak. He had selected a small cove in one of the lesser islands for their anchorage. The Crosspatch rocked nearby, and the Marietta just beyond her. They showed few lights, but those few zigzagged away in reflections on the water. The wind had died off to an insistent breeze that made a faint music in the rigging. So close to land, the smell of the trees and I plants was as strong as the salt water. After a moment, she observed, “The attack went well today.”