I was easing Phaenarete into dock, so I didn’t see who had come to interrupt Marsilia this time until we were ready to tie up. I got ready to toss the line, and saw to my astonishment Crocus standing ready to catch it. And behind him, wrapped in a silvery-grey cloak that rippled in the wind, stood Thetis. My breath caught, as always. I wished somebody would paint her like that, in that cloak, on a cloudy day, standing on the little grey triangular cobblestones of the quay, with the black stone warehouses with their slit windows all along behind her. If they did, I’d want them to put the painting in Samos, my eating hall, where I could stare at it whenever I ate. Thetis had a grace and poise like the nymphs in Botticelli’s Summer, but a far lovelier face.

Crocus caught the rope with the attachments at the end of one of his great arms. I saw the golden bee painted on it flash as it caught the light. I said Marsilia was an aristocrat, and she is, but compared to Crocus she was little better than me. Crocus was a Worker, a machine, huge and metallic, one of our two original Workers. He had huge arms, no head, and great treads instead of legs. He and Sixty-One were the only people who had been here for the entire history of the City. He had been a friend of Sokrates. He was a Gold, one of our philosopher kings. He was probably the most famous person on the planet who wasn’t a god. I had friends among the younger Workers, but I had never even spoken to Crocus.

He tied the line rapidly and deftly around the bollard. “I can’t imagine what use he could ever have had for that skill,” Marsilia said in my ear.

I was staring past him at Thetis, who was crying. It made her look lovelier than ever, beautiful and vulnerable and sad, in need of protection. “Do you know what’s wrong with her?” I asked.

“Thee? It could be anything. She cries really easily.” She sounded much more irritated than sympathetic.

“Why are you so unkind to her?” I asked.

“Is that unkind?” Marsilia asked. “I try not to be. I love her. She’s my sister. But she’s all emotion and no thought, and I’m the opposite. It’s hard to be sisters. Everything seems to come so easily to her. Do you think if I looked like that, people would look at me the way you’re looking at her? Do you think I’d want them to?”

“It’s hard to imagine you wanting them to,” I said.

Marsilia snorted. The quay was near enough for her to spring ashore, and she did.

“We can manage if you have a family emergency,” Hilfa said. I don’t know where he got expressions like that from.