It recalled him to his own manners. “Thank you. That would be most welcome.”

She gestured to the hallway, and surprised him by taking his arm. She scarcely came to the top of his shoulder. He noticed her scent now, some floral oil, violets perhaps. It wafted up from her hair. She glanced up at him once through her eyelashes as he accompanied her down the hall. The look made him reevaluate his first impression of her. Sa's breath, how fast children grew up. Hadn't she been a playmate of little Delo? The last time he had seen his little sister, she had been in disgrace for muddying her pinafore. He hadn't even set eyes on her in years. A peculiar sense of loss assailed him. He had lost more than just home and fortune when his father had disowned him.

She led him into the morning room. Coffee service and a plate of morning bread had already been set out on a small table flanked by two comfortable chairs. The opened window presented a garden vista. “I hope you'll be comfortable waiting here. I made the coffee myself. I hope it isn't too strong.”

“I'm sure it will be fine,” he said lamely. He felt doubly shamed. That had been what had delayed her, and yes, the Vestrit family had fallen on hard times when a daughter of the house made coffee and sliced bread for visitors. “You know my sister, don't you?” he burst out suddenly. “Delo?”

“Of course I do. Dear, sweet Delo. She is my closest friend.” Again, she gave him that smile. She gestured him to a seat, and took the opposite one at the small table she had arranged. She poured the coffee, and served him the sweet seed-studded bread.

“I haven't seen Delo in years,” he found himself admitting.

“You haven't? What a shame. She has quite grown up, you know.” Her smile was slightly different as she added, “I know your brother also.”

Brashen knit his brows at her knowing tone. “Cerwin. He is well, I trust.”

“I suppose. He was the last time I saw him.” She gave a small sigh and looked away from him. “I do not see him often.”

Was she infatuated with young Cerwin? Brashen quickly reckoned his siblings' ages from his own. Well. He supposed Cerwin was of an age to be courting young ladies. Yet, if Delo and Malta were the same age, Malta seemed rather young to be courted. He began to feel a bit uncomfortable. Was this pretty little charmer girl or woman? She stirred her coffee, and somehow contrived to make him notice the elegance of her hands as she did so. Then she leaned across the little table and offered to spice his coffee for him. Surely, she had not intended to display quite that much bosom as she did so. He looked away but her scent still reached him.

She sat back in her chair. She lifted her coffee, sipped it, and then pushed a stray strand of hair back from her unlined brow. “You know my Aunt Althea, I believe?”

“Of course. We served together ... on the Vivacia, for many years.”

“Of course.”

“She returned safely to Bingtown?”

“Oh, yes. Weeks and weeks ago. She came back aboard the Ophelia. That's the Tenira family liveship, you know.” Her eyes met his squarely as she added, “Grag Tenira is very enamored of her. It has made Bingtown buzz with gossip. Not a few are startled at the idea of my headstrong aunt suddenly losing her heart to such a steady young man. My grandmother, of course, is quite thrilled. We all are. We had almost given up hope of her ever making a good match and settling down. I am sure you know what I mean.” She gave a small confidential laugh, as if these were words she would not share with just anyone. She watched him so closely, as if she could see how the barbs of her words set in his heart and clawed there.

“A good match,” he repeated numbly. He found himself nodding like a bob-head toy. “Tenira. Grag Tenira. Oh, he would. Be a good match, I mean. He's a good sailor, too.” This last he added more to himself. It was the only thing he could think of that might have attracted Althea to Grag Tenira. Well, he was handsome, too. Brashen had heard him called handsome. He also wasn't disinherited and didn't have a fondness for cindin. The thought of the drug made him abruptly long for some, to distract him from this nasty new sensation. There might be part of a stick in his jacket pocket, but he could scarcely indulge in a waterfront vice here in front of this gently reared child.

“. . . more bread, Brashen?”

He caught only her last few words. He glanced down at his untouched plate. “No. No, thank you very much. It's very good, though.” He hastily took a bite of the bread. In his dry mouth, the seedy texture was like sawdust. He washed it down with a gulp of the coffee, and then realized he was eating like a deckhand at a galley table.