She raised her eyes to the palisades of the coast: to the white-sanded harbor between the two arms of Half-Circle Hold. The sky had wept itself out in the past three days: a fitting tribute. And the air was cold. She shivered in her thick wherhide jacket. She would have some protection from the wind if she stepped down into the cockpit with the oarsmen. But she couldn’t move. Honor was always accompanied by responsibility, and it was fitting for her to remain where she was until the burial barge touched the stones of Dock Cavern.

Half-Circle Hold would be lonelier than ever for her now. Petiron had tried so hard to live long enough for his replacement to arrive. He’d told Menolly he wouldn’t last the winter. He’d dispatched a message to Masterharper Robinton to send a new Harper as soon as possible. He’d also told Menolly that he’d sent two of her songs to the Masterharper.

“Women can’t be harpers,” she’d said to Petiron, astonished and awed.

“One in ten hundred have perfect pitch,” Petiron had said in one of his evasive replies. “One in ten thousand can build an acceptable melody with meaningful words. Were you only a lad, there’d be no problem at all.”

“Well, we’re stuck with me being a girl.”

“You’d make a fine big strong lad, you would,” Petiron had replied exasperatingly.

“And what’s wrong with being a fine big strong girl?” Menolly had been half-teasing, half-annoyed.

“Nothing, surely. Nothing.” And Petiron had patted her hands, smiling up at her.

She’d been helping him eat his dinner, his hands so crippled even the lightest wooden spoon left terrible ridges in the swollen fingers.

“And Masterharper Robinton’s a fair man. No one on Pern can say he isn’t And hell listen to me. He knows his duty, and I am, after all, a senior member of the Crafthall, being taught up in the Craft before him himself. And I’ll require him to listen to you.”

“Have you really sent him those songs you made me wax down on slates?”

“I have. Sure I have done that much for you, dear child.”

He’d been so emphatic that Menolly had to believe that he’d done what he’d said. Poor old Petiron. In the last months, he’d not remembered the time of Turn much less what he’d done the day before.

He was timeless now, Menolly told herself, her wet cheeks stinging with cold, and she’d never forget him.