“Etta. Go back to Vivacia, to my stateroom. Bring the plans from my desk; they are labeled clearly. Do you know the ones I mean?”

“I can find them. I can read,” she pointed out gently. She touched his arm briefly, her smile warm, then turned to commandeer two men to row for her.

He called after her, “Tell the crew to make all secure. We will be here for a time, helping Divvytown rebuild. The Marietta has sacks of wheat aboard. Have them start ferrying the wheat ashore. These people are hungry.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. A young woman stepped forward. “Sir. You do not need to stand out here. My house is still standing, and I have a table. I can draw water for washing as well.” She made a self-effacing gesture. “It is poor lodging, but I would be honored.”

He smiled at her, and then looked around at all his loyal subjects. “That would be most welcome.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - The Calm

“MALTA, YOU HAVE USED TOO MUCH POWDER. YOU LOOK PALE AS A GHOST,” Keffria rebuked her.

“I haven't used any,” the girl replied listlessly. She sat in her shift before the mirror, staring into the glass. Her shoulders were slumped, her hair but half brushed. She looked more like a weary serving girl at the end of her day's work than a Trader's daughter just an evening away from her presentation at the Summer Ball.

Keffria's heart went out to her. She had come into her room, expecting to find her daughter primping and sparkling with excitement. Instead, the girl looked dazed. The summer had been too hard on her. She wished that somehow she could have spared Malta the drudgery and scrimping. Above all else, Keffria wished that this ball could have been as they had both imagined it. Malta was not the only one who had looked forward to this for years. Keffria, too, had dreamed of the proud moment when her only daughter would walk into the Traders' Concourse on her father's arm, to pause in the entry and be announced to the gathered Old Traders. She had dreamed of an extravagant gown for her daughter, a presentation of fine jewelry to commemorate the occasion. Instead, she would soon lace Malta into a dress concocted from older gowns. Her only jewelry would be gifts from Reyn, rather than a woman's wealth bestowed by her father. It was neither fitting nor proper, but what else were they to do? It rankled.

She saw her own frown in the mirror over Malta's shoulder. Selfconsciously, she smoothed it from her face. “I know you didn't sleep well last night, but I thought you were going to rest this afternoon. Didn't you lie down?”

“I did. I couldn't sleep.” Malta leaned closer to the mirror, pinching at her cheeks to try to bring up some color in them. After an instant, she seemed caught in her own reflection. “Mother?” she asked quietly. “Do you ever look at yourself and wonder if there is someone else inside?”

“What?” Keffria took up the hairbrush. Under the guise of smoothing Malta's hair, she felt her skin. She was not feverish. If anything, her skin seemed too cool. She lifted the heavy flow of Malta's hair. As she began pinning it up, she reminded her, “You need to wash the back of your neck. Or is that a bruise?” She bent closer to look at the pale blue spot. She brushed at it, and Malta flinched away. “Does that hurt?”

“Not exactly. It buzzes, when you touch it. What is it?” Malta twisted her head to try to see it in the mirror, but could not.

“It's just a grayish-blue spot, about the size of a fingertip. It looks like a bruise. Did you bump yourself, when you fainted on the ship?”

Malta frowned distractedly. “Perhaps. Does it show much? Should I powder it?”

Keffria had already dipped her fingers in the talc. With a quick dab, the smudge disappeared. “There. No one else will even notice it,” she said comfortingly. But Malta had already gone back to staring at her face in the mirror.

“Sometimes I don't know who I am anymore.” Malta spoke quietly, but her voice was apprehensive rather than dreamy. “I'm not the silly little girl I was last summer, all in a hurry to grow up.” Malta bit her lower lip and shook her head at herself. “I've tried to be responsible and learn all the things you've tried to teach me. A part of me knows that they are important. But, in all honesty, I hate the fussing with numbers and the constant juggling of this debt against that one. That isn't who I am, either. Sometimes I think of Reyn or another young man, and my heart flutters and I think I could be so happy if I could just have him. But a few minutes later, that all seems like pretend, like a little girl being mother to her dolls. Or worse, it seems that I just want the man because he is who I wish I were ... if that makes sense. When I try to think who I really am, all I feel is tired and somewhat sad in a way that doesn't have tears. And when I try to sleep and I dream, the dreams seem foreign and distorted. Then when I wake up, the dreams seem to follow me, and I find myself thinking someone else's thoughts. Almost. Does anything like that happen to you?”