He turned back and bowed low as the Rain Wild representatives exited their carriage. Malta peeped past him. There were three of them this year. Two tall and one short was all she could tell of them, hooded and cloaked as they were. The dark fabric of their cloaks was something she had never seen before. It was black when they were still, but any motion set it to dancing in scintillant colors. Green, blue and red shone briefly in the darkness at the tiniest movement.

“Trader Restart,” one greeted him. A woman's reedy voice.

“Trader Vintagli,” he replied, bowing even deeper. “I welcome you to Bingtown and the Harvest Ball.”

“Why, thank you, Davad. Shall I see you within, then?”

“Most certainly,” he replied. “As soon as I find my gloves. I seemed to have dropped them on the floor of my carriage.”

“How careless of you!” she rebuked him. Her voice caressed the words oddly. She then moved on after her companions.

The still autumn air reeked of Restart's sudden sweat. The moment the doors of the hall closed behind the Rain Wild family, he spun about to confront Malta. He seized her by one arm and shook her.

“Where is your grandmother?” he demanded. Then before she could reply, he asked as urgently, “Where is your mother?”

She should have lied. She could have said they had already gone in, or that she had just now stepped out for a breath of cooler air. Instead, she said simply, “I've come alone.” She glanced aside from him, and spoke more softly, adult to adult. “Since Grandfather died, I'm afraid they've become more house-bound than ever. It's so sad. But I knew that if I did not get out and about, I should simply go mad. You can't imagine how gloomy it has been for me-”

She gasped as he clutched her arm more tightly and urged her towards the coach. “Quickly! Before anyone else sees you . . . you haven't spoken to anyone else, have you?”

“I ... no. Well, only Delo and her brother. I just arrived you see, and ... let go of me! You're mussing my dress.”

It both frightened and shocked her, the way he shoved her into his carriage and climbed determinedly in after her. What did he have in mind? She had heard tales of men driven by passion and lust to do impulsive things, but Davad Restart? He was old! The idea was too disgusting! He slammed the door, but this time it refused to catch. He held it shut as he called up, “Driver! To the Vestrit town house. Quickly.” To Malta he said, “Sit down. I'm taking you home.”

“No! Let me out, I want to go to the Harvest Ball. You can't do this to me. You're not my father!”

Trader Restart was panting as he clutched the door handle and held it shut. The carriage started forward with a lurch and Malta sat down hard.

“No, I'm not your father,” Restart agreed harshly. “And tonight I thank Sa I am not, for I am sure I'd have no idea what to do with you. Poor Ronica! After everything else she's been through this year. Wasn't it bad enough that your aunt vanished completely without you presenting yourself at the Harvest Ball dressed like a Jamaillian strumpet? What will your father say about this?” He pulled a large kerchief from his sleeve and mopped his sweating face with it. He was wearing, she noted, the same blue trousers and jacket that he'd worn the two previous years. They strained at his girth; from the smell of cedar in the carriage, she doubted he'd taken them out of his clothing chest before tonight. And he dared to speak to her of clothing and fashion!

“I had this dress specially made for me, and for this night. With money my Papa gave me, I might add. So I scarcely think he would be angry that I had used it as he suggested. What he might want to know, however, is what you mean by snatching his young daughter off the street and dragging her off against her will. I do not think he will be pleased.”

She had known Davad Restart for years, and knew how easily cowed he was when her grandmother snapped at him. She had expected at least a bit of that same deference for herself. Instead he surprised her by snorting. “Let him come to me and ask me, when he gets back to port, and I will tell him that I was trying to save your reputation. Malta Vestrit, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. A little girl like you, dressed up like a common . . . and then daring to show yourself so at the Harvest Ball. I pray to Sa that no one else recognized you. And nothing you can say will convince me that your mother or grandmother knew anything of that dress or your coming to the Ball when any proper girl would still be mourning her grandfather.”

She could have said a dozen things in reply to that. A week later, she had thought of them all, and knew exactly how she should have said them. But at the time no words would come to her and she sat silent and helplessly furious as the swaying carriage bore her resolutely homeward.