“Don’t think the worst, dear. Selden’s a young man now, well able to take care of himself. For all we know, he may be with Tintaglia right now. As to why she hasn’t returned, well, maybe Tintaglia thought the young dragons would not need her. Maybe she thought we’d do better at keeping our promise to care for them.” He’d meant the words to be comforting, but after he’d said them, he heard how sad they sounded. Why she was so fixated on the dragons, he was not sure. Tintaglia had saved both their lives and brought them together, that was true. But only after the dragon had repeatedly endangered and tormented them. Did they really owe the blue dragon anything? Sometimes, he would have been very content to simply settle with Malta, to leave behind the exultation and exaltation of being an “Elderling” and be just another Rain Wild couple expecting their first child.

Leftrin cleared his throat and Reyn started. He saw the weariness on the man’s face and felt churlish to be asking such a favor. But it was for Malta, and he had promised he would try. “Please,” he said, and for a moment the word hung alone in the silence.

Someone coughed deliberately. Reyn turned his head to find a young woman looking at the captain. By her rough clothes she was a deckhand, and by the tracing of her features, she was somehow related to Leftrin. And thus, in all likelihood, some sort of cousin to Reyn as well. She didn’t flinch before her captain’s stare. “I could go in your place, if you’re too tired,” she offered. “I don’t know everything you do, but I’ll wager I could answer enough of the Elderling lady’s questions to content her.”

“Oh, would you?” Reyn asked, relieved at such a solution. But before she could respond, Leftrin gave a weary groan.

“I’ll come. Let me find something dry to put on. Though doubtless I’ll be just as wet when I get there.”

“May I still come?” his deckhand asked hopefully.

Leftrin glanced at Reyn. “Would your lady welcome two visitors so late at night?”

“I’m sure she would,” Reyn replied gratefully. He smiled at the girl, who grinned back mischievously.

“I’ll get my oilskin,” she announced happily and darted from the room.

Malta had crossed the last quarter of the bridge on her hands and knees. The rising wind had set it to swaying dangerously and the guard ropes were slick. Once she reached the trunk platform that secured the end of the bridge, she crawled to the leeward side of the trunk and huddled there. She wanted to scream and she longed to collapse weeping and had neither the breath to do the one nor the luxury of time to do the other. “The baby is coming soon,” she told herself, as if speaking the words aloud would make her feel less alone. She drew her cloak tighter around herself and leaned against the tree as another pang moved through her. She was shaking with cold, not fear. There was nothing to fear. Women had babies all the time, and many of them delivered their own children alone. It was a perfectly normal and natural part of being a woman. She was fine. “I’m not scared. I’m just cold.” She clenched her teeth against the sob that tried to force its way out. “I can do this. I have to do this and so I can do this.”