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‘I feel nothing,’ Althea replied, and wished it were so.

Heart in mouth, Malta stared up at the ship’s railing.

The snatching waves, the chilling spray, the wind that pushed at the tiny boat and most of all the recklessly surging serpents all threatened her.

The white-faced men pulling on the oars shared her fear of the serpents.

She saw it in their set stares and straining muscles.

As the creatures rose out of the water beside the boat, they stared at her with eyes of gold or silver or bronze.

One after another, they threw back their heads as they passed the boat, trumpeting deep cries from their toothy scarlet maws.

Not since she had dealt with Tintaglia had she felt such a pressure of sentience from another creature.

Their gazes, fixed unwaveringly upon her, were too knowing, as if they sought to reach into her soul and claim her as their own.

In terror, she fixed her gaze on the Vivacia to keep from looking at the scaled monsters.

She focused on presenting a composed face to the pirate king that awaited them.

Motley ’s entire company had poured their energy into preparing her.

In their eagerness that Kennit see the true sumptuousness of their gift, they had bathed and primped and dressed the Satrap more finely than when she had first seen him at the Bingtown ball.

The attention had bolstered his self-importance to a near-unbearable level.

Malta had not been neglected. A burly deckhand with a pale snake tattooed beside his nose had insisted on painting her face for her.

She had never seen such cosmetics and tools as he had brought to her room.

Another had fashioned her turban, while one of the others had selected her jewellery, scent and robes from the plums of their plunder.

Malta’s heart had sung at how they aided her in her role, all with the intent of making their gift seem more extravagant.

She would not let their efforts go to waste.

She fixed her eyes on Vivacia, and tried not to wonder if her father was alive, or what he would think of her transformation.

Then she saw Wintrow standing at the railing.

Unbelieving, she came halfway to her feet.

‘Wintrow!’ she called wildly to her brother.

He stared at her stupidly. A glimpse of gold hair on a tall figure made her heart leap with hope, but it was not her father who looked down on her, but a woman.

The Satrap scowled at her for her lack of decorum, but she ignored him.

Anxiously she scanned the waiting folk, hoping against hope that Kyle Haven would step forwards and call her name.

Instead, the hand that lifted suddenly and pointed at her belonged unmistakably to her Aunt Althea.

Althea leaned forwards precariously on the railing. She gripped Jek’s forearm and pointed emphatically at the girl in the boat. ‘Sa’s Breath! It’s Malta!’ she exclaimed.

‘It can’t be!’ Wintrow joined his aunt at the railing and peered down at the girl. ‘She does look very like Malta,’ he faltered.

‘Who is this Malta?’ Kennit asked despite himself.

‘My little sister,’ Wintrow observed faintly as every stroke of the oars brought her closer. ‘She looks very like her. But it cannot be.’

‘Well, it would be an extraordinary coincidence. But we shall soon see,’ Kennit replied blithely. The wind seemed to echo his words in a whisper. His stomach tightened and he lifted his hand, pretending to smooth his hair. The charm spoke close to his ear.

‘There is no such thing as extraordinary coincidence. There is only destiny. So say the followers of Sa.’ Soft as a breath, it added, ‘This is not good fortune for you, but the delivery of your death. Sa will punish you for abandoning Etta.’

Kennit snorted, and put his hands casually behind his back.

He had not abandoned the whore; he had simply put her aside for later.

Sa would not punish him for that. No one would.

Nor would Kennit tremble at the size of the opportunity presented to him.

The biggest prizes went to the men with the boldest hands.

He smiled to himself as his one hand gripped his other wrist, securely covering the charm’s eyes and mouth in a smothering of lace.

Then Wintrow spoke and a shivering of dread ran down Kennit’s back. He stared at the oncoming boat and the girl’s upturned face as he said almost dreamily, ‘In Sa, there are no extraordinary coincidences. Only destiny.’

Malta stared up at them, frozen in shock beyond response.

What could it mean? Had Althea joined Kennit’s pirate crew instead of rescuing the family liveship?

She could not be so false. Could she? What of Wintrow, then?

When they reached the side of the ship, the Satrap was hoisted aboard first. At the encouragement of the sailors, she herself seized the rope ladder that was dropped to them.

One of the Motley ’s crewmen accompanied her as she climbed the nastily swaying contraption of wet, rough rope.

She tried to make a show of climbing it easily.

The wet rungs bit right through the light gloves she wore to cover her roughed hands.

The arduous climb was forgotten the moment she seized the railing and was assisted on board.

A strange energy seemed to hum through her.

She forgot to look for King Kennit as her eyes sought only for her father.

Abruptly Wintrow was there, sweeping her into a more manly hug than she would have thought her spindly brother was capable of.

But he had grown and muscled, and when he cried out, ‘Malta! Sa himself has brought you safely to us!’ his voice was deep and sounded not unlike their father.

The tears that sprang to her eyes shocked her, as did the way she clung to him, unreasonably glad of his strength and welcome.

After a long moment of being held, she realized that Althea’s arms were also around her.

‘But how? How do you come to be here?’ her aunt asked her.

But she had no desire to answer questions until the most important one had been asked. She leaned away from Wintrow, and was astonished to find how her brother had grown. ‘And Papa?’ she asked him breathlessly.

The deep anguish in his eyes told her all. ‘He is not here,’ he told her gently, and she knew better than to ask where he was. He was gone, gone forever, and she had endured all, risked all for nothing. Her father was dead.

Then the ship spoke and in Vivacia’s voice was a timbre that she had heard before, when Tintaglia spoke to her through the dream-box. A terrible recognition of kinship swept through Malta as the ship hailed her. ‘Well met and welcome, Dragon-Friend.’