“I know. It is all I can offer.”

He listened. The waves patted gently against his hull. Ropes creaked. Footsteps sounded as someone passed them on the dock. The evening sounds of Bingtown came to his ears. He wondered how much it had changed since he had last seen it. He stared ahead into a future of eternal darkness. “Amber,” he asked quietly. “Was it difficult to fix Ophelia's hands? Were they badly damaged?”

“The scorching did not go deep, except in a few places. The problem was more one of keeping the proportions of finger to hand. Rather than simply carve away what was damaged, I had to rework both her hands. A good portion of the wood that I removed was not burnt at all. I think the hardest part of the task was for her to keep still, and for me to concentrate on my skill when I worried about causing her pain.”

“Then it was painful?”

“Who knows? She said it was not. As you say, she also told me: liveships do not experience pain as humans do. Nevertheless, I think it was uncomfortable for her. She told me she felt a sense of loss at the wood I pared away; that was one reason I restored it to her as jewelry. She also told me that her hands felt 'wrong' when I was finished.” Amber paused. “That was devastating to me. I had done the best work I could. But when I last visited her, before she sailed, she told me she had become accustomed to her new hands and that now they felt fine. She greatly desired that I would re-carve her hair for her, but Captain Tenira refused. He said they could not stay in port that long. To tell you the truth, I was grateful. Wizardwood is ... uneasy wood. Even with my gloves on, I always felt it was trying to draw me into it.”

He scarcely heard her final words. “You could cut my beard off,” he suddenly exclaimed.

“What?” She came to her feet in alarm in a single fluid motion, like a bird lifting in flight. “Paragon, what are you saying?”

“You could cut my beard off, and shape it, and peg it back onto me as a new face. I'd be able to see again.”

“That's a crazy idea,” Amber said flatly.

“A crazy idea from a mad ship. It would work, Amber. Look how much wood is here.” He reached up to seize two great handfuls of his full beard. “There is plenty enough to make me new eyes. You could do it.”

“I would not dare,” she said flatly.

“Why not?”

“What would Althea and Brashen say? To repair Ophelia's hands was one thing. To completely refashion a new face for you would be something else entirely.”

He folded his arms on his chest. “Why should it matter what Althea or Brashen say? Do I belong to them? Am I a slave?”

“No, it's just that-”

He ignored her attempt to speak. “When you 'bought' me, did not you insist that it was but a formality for others? You said I belonged to myself. That I always had and always would. It would seem to me, then, that this should be my decision.”

“Perhaps it should. That does not mean that I have to agree to it.”

“Why would you refuse? Do you want me to be blind?” He felt anger shivering inside him, trying to find a way out. He swallowed it back like bile. Anger did not work on Amber. She would just walk away.

“Of course not. Nor do I want you to be disappointed. Paragon, I do not understand wizardwood. My hands tell me it is one thing, my heart tells me it is another. Working on Ophelia was . . . difficult for me. She said she had a sense of wrongness about her hands. What I sensed was something subtler. Something closer to sacrilege.” Her voice went soft on the last word. He could almost feel her confusion.

“You did it for Ophelia, but you would not do it for me?”

“Paragon, there is a very great difference there. On Ophelia, I removed damaged wood. You are talking about me pegging pieces on to create new eyes for you. As I said, I don't understand the nature of wizardwood. Would those pegged-on parts become alive as you are? Or would they remain scraps of pegged-on wood?”

“Then do for me as you did for her!” Paragon burst out after an exasperated silence. “Cut away my old ruined face. Make me a new one.”

Amber breathed out some words in a different language. Paragon had no idea whether she prayed or cursed. He only sensed her horror at his suggestion. “Do you know what you are advocating? I would have to rework your face entirely . . . perhaps your whole body, to make you proportional. I've never taken on a project of such magnitude. I'm a woodcarver, Paragon, not a sculptor.” She huffed out a sigh of disgust. “I might ruin you. Destroy your beauty forever. How would I live with that?”