Fog.
“Sir,” I said.
Fog. I knew I shouldn’t be in his cabin.
“She was asking about your books,” said the steward.
“Mr. Worley said—” I bit my tongue. It sounded pathetic and small, like I was making excuses. “I was fetching supplies for the doctor.”
“Medical supplies.” He threw his waistcoat over the chair and grabbed the bottle instead. His gold-shot eyes darted to the book in my hands. “In my cabin.”
“No, sir, he…”
Worley blinked at me.
“I…”
I marshalled my bones.
“I shouldn’t be in your cabin uninvited,” I said. “That’s bad form. I’ll go.”
“Stay.”
“It’s fine, sir. I’ll—”
“Stay.”
Suns, my poor, confounded heart.
“A second glass, Mr. Worley.”
“Sir, it’s too early.”
Thanavar said nothing.
“Yes, sir,” said the steward. “Right away, sir.”
It was on his desk before I knew it.
“And prepare one of your birds.” He poured two glasses, full. “We’re heading to Port Corvallan. We should be there in three days’ time.”
“Port Corvallan. Three days, sir. Aye, sir.”
The steward scurried to the doors but turned back.
“Will you be seeking an audience with the Court of Sand, sir?”
“I will, Mr. Worley.”
“Aye, sir. I’ll fetch a bird, sir.”
And with that, he was gone.
Thanavar slid me a glass across the desk.
“Sit, Aro’el.”
I did, laying the genealogy book across my knees.
