"It wasn't a dream." Althea turned her accusing gaze on Wintrow. "You don't believe me, do you? You've become his meek little follower, haven't you? You gave our family ship over to him without a fight."

Before Wintrow could defend himself, Jek spoke. "Put yourself in my place, Althea. What if I'd told you that Brashen had attacked me? Think how difficult that would be for you to accept. Althea. You've been through a horrible experience. Near drowned, and recovered only to find your ship and all hands and Brashen drowned. You're grieving. It is natural for you to hate Kennit and believe him capable of any evil. It could turn anyone's mind."

"It didn't turn your mind."

Jek was silent for a moment. In a quieter voice, she went on, "I'm grieving in my own way. Amber wasn't some chance-met acquaintance. I've cut a lock of hair to mourn her, not that I expect you to understand that. But I lost a friend, not my lover. You lost Brashen. It's bound to affect you more strongly."

The sense of Jek's words settled onto Wintrow and stunned him. He stared at his aunt, unable to imagine such a thing. She glared at his scandalized expression. "Yes, I was sleeping with Trell. I suppose that you share your mother's opinion of that. Can't rape a whore, right, Wintrow?"

The injustice of her words stirred his own anger. He stood his ground. Enduring Etta's temper had taught him some courage at least. "I didn't condemn you," he defended himself. "I was just surprised. I've a right to be shocked. It's not what one expects of a Trader's daughter. But that doesn't mean I…"

"Fuck you, Wintrow," she retaliated savagely. "Because you're exactly what I'd expect of Kyle Haven's son."

Those words stung him more than they had a right to. He struggled to keep his voice level. "That wasn't fair. You want to be angry with everyone, so you're putting meanings to my words that I don't intend. You haven't given me a chance to speak at all. I haven't said I don't believe you."

"You don't have to say it. Your standing with Kennit proves what you believe. Get out. And take that with you." She extended a leg to kick the chest disdainfully to the floor.

He walked to the door. "Maybe I'm not standing with Kennit. Maybe I'm standing with my ship."

"Shut up!" she roared. "I don't want to hear your excuses. I've heard enough."

"If you carry on like a madwoman, people will treat you like one," he warned her harshly. He shut the door firmly behind himself. He heard the crash and tinkle of a bottle of scent shattering against it. In the dim companionway, he shut his eyes for a moment. Some of her accusations had been fair, he forced himself to admit. He wouldn't have believed her. Her story was illogical and implausible. He doubted that anyone on board believed what she said about Kennit. Except for him. And it wasn't her word that had forced him to believe her. It was Etta's.

CHAPTER THIRTY — Convergence

"IT'S FINISHED. I'LL HAVE TO BORE A HOLE THROUGH YOUR EAR. WILL YOU mind?"

"After everything else you've done, I shan't even notice. May I touch it first?"

Amber put the large earring into Paragon's open hand. "Here. You know, you could just open your eyes and look. You needn't do everything by touch anymore."

"Not yet," Paragon told her. He wished she would not speak of that. He could not explain to her just why he could not open his eyes yet. He would know when the time was right. He weighed the earring in his hand and smiled, savoring the newness of the facial sensation. "It's like a net carved of wood links. With a lump trapped in the middle."

"Your description is so flattering," Amber observed wryly. "It's to be a silver net with a blue gemstone caught in it. It matches an earring I wear. I'm on the railing. Hold me so I can reach your earlobe."

When he offered her his palm as a platform, she climbed on without hesitation. He held her to his ear, and did not wince as she set a drill to his ear-lobe. The reconstruction of his face had not been painful as humans understood pain. Amber leaned against his cheek as she worked, bracing herself against the impacts as he breasted each wave. The bit passing through his earlobe tingled strangely. Wizardwood chips fell in a fine shower that she caught in a canvas apron. He ingested them at the end of each day. None of his memories had been lost.

He no longer hid from his memories. Mother spent part of each day on the foredeck with his logbooks. On wet days, she sheltered herself and her books under a flap of canvas. He could not understand the gabbling of her truncated tongue, but that did not matter. She sat on his deck and leaned against his railing as she read. Through her, the ancient memories came trickling back to him. Recorded in those books were the sparse observations of his captains through the years. It did not matter. The notations were touchstones for memories of his own.

The tool passed completely through his lobe. Amber drew it back, and after a moment of fumbling, hung the earring from his ear. She fastened a catch at the back of his earlobe. Then she stood clear as he accepted the wood back to himself. He gave an experimental tug on the earring, then shook his head to accustom himself to the dangling weight. "I like it. Did I get it right?"

"Oh, so do I." Amber sighed with satisfaction. "And you got it exactly right. It went from gray to rosy, and now it shines so brilliantly silver that I can barely look at it. The gemstone winks out from among the links and flashes blue and silver, just like the sea on a sunny day. I wish you would look at it."

"In time."

"Well, you're complete, save for final touch-ups. I'll take my time on the finish work."

She ran her bared hands over his face again. It was an odd gesture partly affectionate and partly a search for small flaws in her carving. Immediately after they left Key Island, Amber had come to the foredeck. She clattered down her carrier of tools. Then, without more ado, she had roped herself to the railing and climbed over the side. She had measured his face, marking it with charcoal and humming as she did so. Mother had come to the railing, gabbling questioningly.

"I'm repairing his eyes. And changing his face, at his own request. There's a sketch there, under the mallet. Take a look, if you like." Amber had spidered across his chest as she spoke. She favored the scalded side of her body. He spread his hands protectively beneath her.

When Mother returned to the railing, she made approving sounds. Since then, she had watched most of the work. It took dedication, for Amber had worked nearly day and night on him. She had begun with saw and chisel, removing great slabs of his face, not just his beard, but from his brow and even his nose. Then she attacked his chest and upper arms, "To keep you proportional," she had explained. His groping hands had found only the rough suggestion of features. That swiftly changed, for she worked on him with a fervor such as Paragon had never known. Neither rain nor wind deterred her. When daylight failed her, she hung lanterns and worked on, more by touch than sight, he thought. Once, when Brashen cautioned her against keeping such hours, she had replied that this work was better than sleep for restoring her soul. Her healing injuries did not slow her.

Not only her tools flew over his countenance, but she had a trick of using her fingers as well. He had never felt a touch like hers. A press of her fingertips could smooth a line while a brushing touch erased a jagged spot. Even now, as she encountered a rough bit, she dabbed at the grain of his face and it aligned under her tingling touch.

"You loved him, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. Now stop asking about it."

Sometimes, when she worked on his face, he could feel her affection for the countenance she carved. His face was beardless now, and youthful. It was more in keeping with his voice and with whom he felt himself to be, and yet it made him squirmingly curious to know he wore the face of someone Amber loved. She would not speak of him, but sometimes in the brushing touch of her fingers, he glimpsed the man she saw in her mind.