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Chest heaving, he panted in the winter night.

He listened, but heard nothing from Amber.

There was only the snapping of the driftwood fire, the querulous notes of the cliff birds as they re-settled awkwardly in the dark, and the endless lapping of the waves.

No sound at all from her. Maybe she had run off while he was shouting.

Maybe she had crept off into the night, ashamed and cowardly.

He swallowed and rubbed at his brow. It didn’t matter.

She didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing.

He rubbed at his neck where the necklace cord had snapped.

He listened to the waves creep closer as the tide rose.

He heard the driftwood collapse into the fire, smelled the gust of smoke as it did so. He startled when she spoke.

‘Mingsley didn’t send me.’ He heard her stand abruptly.

She walked to the fire and he heard the shifting of wood in it.

Her voice was quiet and controlled when she spoke.

‘You are right, the first time I came here, he brought me. He proposed to cut you into bits, purely for the sake of your wizardwood. But from the first time I saw you, my heart cried out against that. Paragon, I do wish I could win you over. You are a wonder and a mystery to me. My curiosity has always been greater than my wisdom. But largest of all is my own loneliness. Because I am a long way from home and family, not just in distance but in years.’

Her words were quick and hard as falling stones. She was moving about as she spoke. He heard the brush of her skirts. His quick ears caught the small sound of two pieces of wood clicking together. His beads, he suddenly thought in desolation. She was gathering them up. She would take her gift away.

‘Amber?’ he said pleadingly. His voice went high on her name and broke, as it sometimes did when he was afraid. ‘Are you taking my beads away?’

A long silence. Then, in a voice almost gruff, she said, ‘I didn’t think you wanted them.’

‘I do. Very much.’ When she didn’t say anything, he gathered his courage. ‘You hate me now, don’t you?’ he asked her. His voice was very calm, save that it was too high.

‘Paragon, I…’ her voice dwindled away. ‘I don’t hate you,’ she said suddenly, and her voice was gentle. ‘But I don’t understand you either,’ she said sadly. ‘Sometimes you speak and I hear the wisdom of generations in your words. Other times, without warning, you are a spoiled ten year old.’

Twelve years old. Nearly a man, damn you, and if you don’t leatn to act like a man on this voyage, you’ll never be a man, you worthless, whining, titty-pup.

He put his hands to his face, covered the place where his eyes had been, the place the betraying tears would have come from.

He moved one hand, to put it firmly over his mouth so the sob would not escape.

Don’t let her look at me just now. Don’t let her see me.

She was still talking to herself. ‘I don’t know how to treat you, sometimes. Ah. There’s the crab. I have them all now. Shame on you, throwing these like a baby throws toys. Now be patient while I mend the string.’

He took his hand away from his mouth and took a steadying breath. He voiced his worst fear. ‘Did I break… are they broken?’

‘No, I’m a better workman than that.’ She had moved back to her blanket by the fire.

He could hear the small sounds of her working, the tiny taps of the beads against each other.

‘When I made these, I kept in mind that they’d be exposed to wind and rain.

I put a lot of oil and wax on them. And they landed on sand.

But they won’t withstand being thrown against rocks, so I wouldn’t do that again, if I were you. ’

‘I won’t,’ he promised. Cautiously, he asked, ‘Are you angry at me?’

‘I was,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not any more.’

‘You didn’t shout at me. You were so quiet I thought you had left.’

‘I almost did. I detest shouting. I hate being shouted at, and I never shout at anyone. That doesn’t mean I never get angry though.

’ After a moment’s pause, she added, ‘Or that I never get hurt. “Only my pain is more silent than my anger.” That’s a quote from the poet Tinni.

Or a paraphrase, actually, a translation. ’

‘Tell me the whole poem,’ Paragon begged, leaping swiftly to this safe topic. He wanted to get away from speaking of anger and hatred and spoiled children. Perhaps if she told him the poem, she would forget that he had not apologized. He did not want her to know that he could not apologize.

‘Nana has said that she would rather stay on at half-pay, if we can still afford that.’ Ronica spoke the words into the quiet room.

Keffria sat in the chair on the opposite side of the hearth, where her father had sat in the times when he was home.

She held a small embroidery frame, and skeins of coloured thread were arranged on the arm of the chair, but she no longer pretended to work. Ronica’s hands were likewise idle.

‘Can we afford that?’ Keffria asked.

‘Only just. If we are willing to eat simply and live simply. I’m almost embarrassed to say how grateful and relieved I am that she offered. I felt so guilty letting her go. Most families want a young woman to watch over their children. It would have been hard for her to find another place.’

‘I know. And Selden would have been devastated.’ She cleared her throat. ‘So. What about Rache?’

‘The same,’ her mother said shortly.

Keffria began carefully, ‘If our finances are so strained, then perhaps paying Rache a wage is not as essential—’

‘I don’t see it that way,’ Ronicà stated abruptly.

Keffria was silent, simply looking at her.

After a short time, Ronica was the one to glance aside.

‘Beg pardon. I know I’ve been too sharp with everyone lately.

’ She forced her voice to be conversational.

‘I feel it is important that Rache be paid something. Important for all of us. Not so important that I would put Malta at risk for it, but far more important than new frocks and hair ribbons.’

‘Actually, I agree,’ Keffria said quietly. ‘I but wanted to discuss it with you. So. With those expenses agreed on… will we still have enough to pay the Festrews?’

Her mother nodded. ‘We have the gold, Keffria. I’ve set it aside, the full amount we owe, and the penalty. We can pay the Festrews. What we can’t pay is anyone else. And there are a few who will come between now and then, demanding payment.’

‘What will you do?’ Keffria asked. Then, remembering, she changed it to, ‘What do you think we should do?’

Ronica took a breath. ‘I suggest we wait and see who comes, and how insistent they are. The Vivacia is due before long. Some may be willing to be put off until she arrives, others may demand extra interest. If we are unlucky, there will be some that demand immediate payment. Then we will have to sell something from the holdings.’

‘But you believe that should be a final resort?’

‘I do.’ Her mother spoke firmly. ‘Carriages, horses, even jewellery are all things that come and go. I don’t think we’ve truly missed what we’ve sold.

Oh, I know it has grated on Malta not to have new clothes this winter, but I don’t think her suffering has been as acute as her temper.

It is good for her to learn a little thrift; she has not had to practise it much at any other time in her life. ’

Keffria bit her tongue. Her daughter had become a painful topic, one she wished to discuss as little as possible. ‘But land?’ she prompted her mother. It was a discussion they had had before. She didn’t really know why she brought it up again.

‘The holdings are another matter. As more and more folk come to Bingtown, the best land becomes ever more precious. If we sold what we have now, our best offers would come from new folk. That goes without saying. If we sell to them, we lose much goodwill from our Old Trader kin. We deliver more power into the hands of the new folk. And, to me the most telling point, we are selling something that can never be replaced. One can always buy a new carriage or some earrings. But there is no more bottom land near Bingtown to be had. Once ours is gone, we’ve given it up for ever. ’

‘I think you are right. And you believe we can hold out until the Vivacia returns?’

‘I do. We had word that she hailed the Vestroy as they passed one another in Markham’s Straits.

That means she is right on schedule getting into Jamaillia.

The southbound trip is always the trickiest this time of year.

’ Her mother was only speaking what they both already knew.

What was so reassuring about again sharing these thoughts?

A belief that perhaps if one spoke them often enough, fate would listen and heed their plans?

‘If Kyle does as well with selling slaves as he believed he would, then when he returns, we should have enough to put ourselves current with our creditors.’ Ronica’s voice was carefully neutral when she mentioned the slaves.

She still did not approve. Well, neither did Keffria. But what else could they do?

‘If he does well with the slaves, then we will have enough,’ she echoed her mother. ‘But only just enough. Mother, how long can we go on just keeping abreast of our debts? If prices for grain fall any lower, we shall be falling behind. Then what?’

‘Then we shall not be alone,’ her mother said in a dire voice.

Keffria took a breath. The things they had hoped would come to pass, they spoke of often.

Now she dared to voice their unuttered fear.

‘Do you truly believe there will be an uprising against the Satrap? A war?’ Even to speak of war against Jamaillia was difficult.

Despite being born in Bingtown, Jamaillia was still home.

It was the motherland, the source, the pride of the folk of Bingtown, the seat of all civilization and learning.

Jamaillia, gleaming white city to the south.