“Don't call him a derelict!” Amber snapped.

“And stop whining,” Althea added nastily.

Brashen stared at her, outraged. Then he raised his voice in a shout. “Derelict! Piece of beach junk! You hear me, Paragon? I'm talking about you.”

His words echoed from the sea cliffs behind them. Paragon made no reply. Amber glared at him, breathing out sharply through her nose. “That isn't going to help anything,” she scolded.

“Instead of starting quarrels with everyone, why don't you go panhandle some cindin?” Althea asked him sarcastically. “We all know that is your real problem.”

“Yeah?” Brashen set his cup down. “And I know what your real problem is.”

Althea's voice went soft and deadly. “You do, do you? Well, why don't you tell us all plainly?”

He leaned close to her. “Your real problem is that last winter you finally figured out who you are, and you've spent every day since then trying to deny it. It scared you so you ran home to try and forget it.”

His words were so different from what she had expected that Althea was struck dumb. He almost grinned at her astonishment. She gawked up at him where he stood over her on the slanting deck. “And to make it perfectly clear,” he added in a softer voice, “I'm not talking about anything that happened between you and me. I'm talking about what happened between you and yourself.”

“Brashen Trell, I have no idea what you're talking about!” Althea declared quickly.

“You don't?” He did grin then. "Well, Amber does, sure as Sa has balls and tits. I've known that she's known all about that since I got back to Bingtown. It was on her face the first time she looked at me. Funny that you'll talk to her about it, but not me. But I told you. That isn't the issue. You went out and you found out that you weren't a Trader's daughter. Oh, you're Ephron Vestrit's daughter, all right, and no mistake about that. But you aren't bound to this damn town and its traditions any more than he was. He didn't like the cost of trading up the Rain Wild River, so, by Sa, the man stopped trading there. He went out and found his own contacts and his own trade goods. You're like him, right down to the bone. If they wanted to weed that out of you, they're too late. You can't change that about yourself. You should stop pretending.

“You can't really settle down and be Grag Tenira's female half. It'll break both your hearts if you try. You're never going to stay home and make babies for him while he goes out to sea. You talk big about family and duty and tradition, but the reason you're going after the Vivacia is that you want your own damn ship. And you intend to get out there and take it. If you can just find the guts to leave Bingtown again, that is.”

The words had spilled out of him. He found himself out of breath, and almost panting. Althea stared up at him. He wanted so badly to reach down and pull her up into his arms. He'd kiss her. She'd probably break his jaw.

She finally found her tongue. “You could not be more wrong,” she declared, but there was no strength in her words. Beside her, Amber hid her smile in her teacup. When Althea glared at her accusingly, she shrugged. Sudden embarrassment claimed Brashen. Disdaining the rope ladder, he clambered over the railing and dropped lightly to the sand. Without another word or look back, he stalked off to the bow of the ship.

Clef had a small cook-fire going. Cooking the evening meal was his task. The work on the ship kept him busy in many ways. He had gone to fetch more drinking water for the men after Brashen had flung their ration at Paragon. He sharpened tools, he ran errands, and when evening came, he fetched supplies from the Vestrit home and fixed food for them. Ronica Vestrit had told them they were welcome to eat at her table, but Amber had courteously refused, saying she did not feel comfortable leaving Paragon alone. It had been a handy excuse for Brashen. There was no way to conceal his anxiety; sitting at a polite table would have strained him past the breaking point.

Sa, he wished he had just one tiny nubbin of a cindin stick left. Just enough to make his skin stop tingling with longing. “So. What's for supper?” he asked the boy.

Clef gave him a fish-eyed stare but didn't reply.

“Don't you start with me, boy!” Brashen warned him, his temper flaring again.

“Fesh soup, sir.” Clef scowled as he clacked the wooden spoon about in the pot. He looked at the soup as he defiantly muttered, “He'n't junk.”

So that was what had tweaked the boy. Brashen softened his voice. “No. Paragon isn't junk. So he shouldn't behave like beach junk.” He turned to look up through the gathering darkness at the figurehead that loomed silently above them. He addressed Paragon more than the boy. “He's a damn fine sailing ship. Before this is all over, he'll recall that. So will everyone else in Bingtown.”