And there was her other painful subject. She didn’t want to think about Rapskal’s death, and she didn’t want to waste time thinking about Greft’s stupid plan for their lives.

“You won’t finish it that way.”

Tats’s voice called her back from her pondering. She considered her clumsy attempt to shape a piece of wood into an oar. She knew next to nothing about woodworking, but even she could see that she was making a bad job of it.

“It’s just busywork, anyway,” she complained. “Even if I get this to where someone can use it, the river will eat it in a matter of days. Even our old oars were beginning to soften and fuzz at the edges, and they’d been treated against the acid water.”

“Even so,” Tats said. “When the ones we’re using give out, the oars we’re carving now will be our only spares. So we’d best have some.” His effort did not look much better than hers, except that he was further along with it. “Any oar or paddle is better than none,” he comforted himself as he looked at his handiwork. “Would you brace this for me while I try to use the drawknife on it?”

“Of course.” She was happy to set her own tools down. Her hands were tired and sore. She braced the half-finished oar as Tats went to work with the drawknife. He handled the tool awkwardly, but still managed to shave a short curl of wood from the oar’s handle before the tool bounced over a knot.

“I’m sorry about the other day,” he said quietly.

They hadn’t spoken about it since the incident. He hadn’t tried to put his arms around her or kiss her since then; he probably knew the reception he’d get. His face wasn’t as battered as Nortel’s had been, but a black eye was still fading. “I know,” she said shortly.

“I told Nortel he had to apologize to you.”

“I know that as well. I suppose that means you won.”

“Of course!” He seemed insulted that she had to ask.

He’d stepped right into her trap. “What you won, Tats, was a fight with Nortel. You didn’t win me.”

“I know that, too.” From being apologetic, he was moving toward angry.

“Good,” she said, biting the word off short. She picked up her chisel again, trying to decide where to set the blade to take another chunk out of the wood when Tats cleared his throat.

“Um. I know you’re angry at me. Would you still hold the oar while I try to shape it?”

That wasn’t really the question he was asking. She picked up the end of the oar and braced it again. “We’re still friends,” she said. “Even when I’m angry with you. But I don’t belong to you.”