Kindan nodded vaguely, relieved that he hadn’t been required to ask the Weyrwoman to leave; particularly as it would have required him to ask her to leave her own quarters. Still, he felt awkward: She was so gracious in her behavior that he wanted to dash her off her feet and wrap her in his arms, yet at the same time he was pleased that she didn’t expect it.

“She offered,” Lorana said, looking up from the bed and gesturing for him to climb in. A smile played on her lips. “She is a remarkable person; you’re lucky she loves you.”

“I’m lucky you love me,” Kindan replied emphatically.

“I suppose,” Lorana said, her tone uncertain.

Fiona’s voice from the entrance startled them. “Hey! There are warming stones at the side of the bed, Kindan! You’re supposed to comfort her, not talk her ear off!”

She made a gesture of someone rubbing with their hands, then shook her head in exasperation and trotted off into the darkness of the Weyr.

“Oil, too,” Kindan observed as he turned in the bed and found the small basket of warming stones. He poured some oil over them, inhaled deeply of their soothing scent, carefully wrapped his hand around one, and turned back to Lorana. “Roll over, and we’ll ease those sore muscles.”

Kindan ignored her feeble protests and, as the warm stones and his oily fingers sought out the tense and tired muscles of her lower back, was rewarded with her soft contented sighs. When he was done he placed the used stones back in their basket with warm feelings for Fiona’s foresight: He would never have thought of such things!

The soft noise of a woman clearing her throat alerted T’mar to Fiona’s presence and he looked up from the slates he was poring over as he stretched out on the table in the back room of his quarters.

“You should be sleeping,” she said to him as she approached and peered down at his work. “Reorganizing?”

T’mar agreed with a frazzled nod, and bent back over the table.

“You’ve two sets of slates here, enough for two Flights but we’ve barely one,” Fiona remarked. Her eyes narrowed as she peered at the marks he’d chalked. “Timing?” When T’mar nodded, she cried, “You’re planning on timing it with the full Weyr?”

“I think it’s our best choice.”

“Are you hoping to imitate B’nik and die in a blaze of glory?”

“I’m hoping to save the Weyr and do our duty until we have enough weyrlings,” T’mar countered, running a weary hand through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck. Fiona batted his hand aside and replaced it with both her own.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, as she found a knotted muscle and started gently kneading it. “I know you’re under a lot of stress.”