“Perhaps. From the way she looked at me, I suspected she thought you could do better, also.”

“She looks at everyone that way.” Malta dismissed her aunt’s reservations.

“More interesting to me were the changes in Ophelia. Or the lack of them, rather. She is the same ship she has always been. Grag claims she has no memories of being a dragon. That for her, life began as Ophelia. The same is true for Goldendown.”

“Do you suppose they will recall it later?”

“I do not know.” Reluctantly, he added, “My suspicion is that some of the dragons in the wizardwood logs had perished before we used them. Ophelia and Goldendown, perhaps, have no dragon memories because the creatures inside had died and taken their memories with them. They may remain as they always have been.” He paused. “Grag, at least, is grateful. He says that Kendry has become well nigh unmanageable. He is a bitter creature and sails only at Tintaglia’s behest.”

A silence fell between them. Malta made a valiant effort at distracting him. “I had a note from Selden as well. His handwriting is awful. He loves the Rain Wilds. Cassarick is a torment to him, however. He wants to dig immediately, and your brother will not let him.”

Reyn smiled wryly. “I remember being like that.”

His face was still too pensive to suit her.

“He spends much time with Tintaglia, ‘guarding’ the cocoons.” She shook her head. “Tintaglia says that only fifty-three appear to be developing. He does not say how she knows. Poor creature. She struggled so hard to lead them home, and so many perished along the way. She worries that not all fifty-three will hatch. They should have spent the whole winter cocooned, and hatched in high summer.”

“Perhaps they will hatch in late summer to make up for their late start.”

“Perhaps. Oh.” She tugged at his hand. “The Companions are finished. Now the real dancing will begin.”

“Do not you wish for the music to begin?” he teased her, feigning reluctance to rise.

She widened her eyes at him warningly. He came to his feet.

“You only want to show off your dress,” he accused her gravely.

“Worse. I wish to flaunt my elegant partner before all of these grand ladies, before I snatch him away to immure him as mine in the distant Rain Wilds.”

As always, her extravagant compliments brought a blush to his cheeks.

Wordlessly, he led her to the floor. The musicians struck up, Jamaillian stone-drums setting the time until the other instruments swept in. Reyn took her hand and set his other hand to the small of her back, Jamaillian style. She had explained to Wintrow that it was the only proper way to tread this step, but she knew he would be frowning at Reyn’s boldness. They stepped sedately to the sound of the drums until the wind instruments skirled in to bid them spin together. The dizziness was lovely, for Reyn caught her at the end, and again they stepped to the drum, the tempo building.

He spun her the second time, faster and closer to his body. “Do you not regret waiting?” she asked him daringly in the privacy of the dance.

“I would regret more risking the legitimacy of my heir,” he chided her seriously.

She rolled her eyes at him, and he pretended a scowl at her prurience.

“Does a hungry man resent the preparation of the feast?” he asked her the next time they closed in a spin. They whirled so close she felt his breath on her crest. It brought the now familiar flush of warmth through her. She became aware that it had happened again. The floor was cleared in a great circle around them as other couples paused to watch the Elderlings dance. He spun her again, faster, so close that her breasts nearly brushed his chest. “They say that hunger is what makes the meal so savory,” he added by her ear. “I warn you. By the time we reach Bingtown, I shall be as a starving man.”

The murmur of the crowd told her that they were spinning so fast on these steps that her gown was now flashing its scarlet insets. She closed her eyes, trusting him to hold her in his orbit, and wondered what could ever surpass this glorious moment. Then she smiled, knowing the answer.

Telling Delo about it.

“THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL TOGETHER,” ETTA MURMURED.

Wintrow risked a sidelong glance at her. She watched the dancers with a strange hunger in her eyes. He supposed she was imagining herself in Kennit’s arms, skimming the floor as gracefully as Reyn and Malta. But not as abandonedly, he decided. Even pirates had more decorum than his wayward sister did. “It is good they’re getting married soon,” he observed stiffly.

“Oh. Do you think that will put a stop to their dancing?” Etta asked him sarcastically.