Leftrin looked around the galley. Abruptly, he was exhausted. “I’m going to bed,” he announced. “I need my sleep. And I suggest that you all get some rest while you can. If you can’t sleep”—and here he glanced at Reyn and Tillamon—“then I suggest you get done what paperwork we might need to buy our supplies or send messages to family. Hennesey, give some thought to what you’ll need to rig a better shelter on the foredeck. Skelly, show Reyn and Tillamon to the little deck cabins we made for Alise and Sedric. They’re mostly empty now. They can use them for our trip upriver.” He yawned suddenly, surprising himself. His last order was for Swarge.

“Set a watch on our deck and on the dock. I don’t want any visitors taking us by surprise.”

As Leftrin walked toward his cabin, he wondered what he had got himself into. And if there was even a chance of his own involvement with Arich remaining unknown.

Cold woke Alise before dawn. She got up and built up the fire and then sat close to it rather than go back to her empty bed. Empty bed. Now there was an idea. In all her years of marriage to Hest, she’d never missed him in her bed, save for that one fateful wedding night that he had largely failed to attend. But Leftrin, whom she had loved for less than a year, him she missed. His absence made her bed empty even when she was in it. She missed the warmth of his bulky body, she missed his gentle breathing. If ever she woke in the night and touched him, he always responded by awakening enough to gather her into his arms and hold her close.

And sometimes closer. She recalled that part with lust, and her body responded with a pang more poignant than any hunger pain she had ever felt. She wanted that back, as soon as possible. Sex with Hest had never been good; with Leftrin, it had never been bad.