He opened the door of his cabin to a wash of golden lamplight and drifting incense. Not again. Did the woman's appetites know no bounds? He expected to find her artfully arranged upon his bed. Instead, she sat in one of two chairs she had drawn close together. A pool of lamplight illuminated her and the open book in her lap. She had on a nightdress, but it was demure rather than seductive. She almost looked like somebody's daughter.

With a glance of annoyance, he realized she had already moved his treasures. His initial response was one of swift outrage. How dared she touch his things! It was followed by a smaller wave of both resignation and relief. Well, at least they were all put away. Nothing stood between him and his bed. He limped over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. The leather cup around his stump was chafing abominably. It needed to be relined again.

“I want to show you something I can do,” she said quietly.

He gave a small sigh of exasperation. Did the woman think of nothing but her own pleasures? “Etta, I have had a very long day. Help me with my boot.”

Obediently she set her book aside and came to him. She tugged his boot off, then rubbed his foot gently. He closed his eyes. “Fetch me a nightshirt.”

She complied quickly. As swiftly as he removed his garments, she shook them out, folded them and returned them to his clothing chest. As he eased the cup and peg off the stump of his leg, he pointed out the abrasion to her. “Cannot you pad this thing so that it stays comfortable?”

She turned the cup, examining the lining. “Were you a less active man, it might be easier. I will try silk this time. Despite its softness, it is a sturdy material.”

“Good. I'll need it by morning.” He hopped onto his leg, pulled the bedding open and sat down on the linens. They were cool and clean as he lay back in them. The pillow smelled of lavender. He closed his eyes.

Her soft clear voice broke into his emptying mind:

"Our souls have loved a thousand times.

Down pathways we no longer recall, we have ventured in other lives. I know you too well, love you too deeply, for this to be the growth of mere years. As a river carves a course within a valley, so has your soul marked mine with its passage. In other bodies, we have known completeness, such as never-"

He interrupted her recitation wearily. “I have never cared for the Syrenian school of poetry. They speak too plainly. Poetry should not be doggerel. If you are going to memorize something, find something by Eupille or Vergihe.” He shouldered deeper into the blankets. He gave a low growl of content and surrendered himself to sleep.

“I didn't memorize it. I was reading it. I can read, Kennit. I can read.”

She expected him to be surprised. He was too tired. “That's good. I'm glad Wintrow was able to teach you. Now we'll see if he can teach you what is worth reading.”

She set the book aside, and blew out the lamp. It plunged the room into darkness. He heard the soft scuff of her feet as she came to the bed and crawled in beside him. He had to find somewhere else for her to sleep. Perhaps she could hang a hammock in the corner of the room.

“Wintrow says I no longer need his help. Now that I have my letters, he says I should simply explore every manuscript or scroll that comes my way. Only practice will make me read swifter, or write a better hand. That I can do on my own.”

Kennit dragged his eyes open. This would not do. Grudgingly he rolled over to face her. “But you would not want that. Surely you have enjoyed the hours you have spent in his company. I know he enjoys teaching you. He has been very honest with me about what a pleasure he takes in your company.” He managed a warm chuckle. “The lad is quite enamored of you, you know.”

She surprised him. She made no attempt to dissemble. “I know. He's a sweet boy, and gently mannered. I understand now why you are so fond of him. He has given me a gift that I shall keep the rest of my life.”

“Well. I hope you thanked him appropriately.” All he wanted to do was sleep. At the same time, he could not resist this conversation. It sounded as if perhaps his scheme might bear fruit. She had called him a sweet boy. He had seen how Wintrow's eyes followed her when she was on deck. Had they acted on the impulse yet? Did she, perhaps, already carry an heir for his liveship? He slid his hand down her arm as if he were caressing her, then set his hand flat on her belly. The tiny skull still jutted from her navel. Time, he cautioned his disappointment. These things took time. If he penned them together long enough, they would breed. So it had always worked with his family's pigeons, goats and pigs when he was a boy.

“In truth, I don't know how to thank him,” Etta demurred.