“I have never heard of such a ship!” Tirad says. Dalia sighs relieved that Tirad doesn’t have any objections about going there; he just doesn’t know where it is.

“Parsana is three large ships that are anchored next to one another. I haven’t been there before and you probably haven’t heard of them since they are not Saviour followers. The people of the sea believe they have the best healers. Anytime they need proper medical treatment, they go there or send a boat to bring a healer from Parsana,” she explains. Tirad is brooding. He doesn’t know whether this nominal similarity between the Ship’s name and the name of Saviour’s mother is a mere coincidence or has a history that he is not aware of. But if this ship is by any chance related to the Lady Parsana, how come they are not Saviour followers? He wants to go there, both for treating Narivan and to find out more about this ship. Perhaps he can get some answers about the dead pregnant women. If they have professional healers on this ship, they must have heard about such mysterious deaths and have looked for its reasons and even a cure. They have to turn on the engine now and change course. But they are both too tired. It is best if they rest and set off again tomorrow morning.

Tirad unwraps his arm. The tattoo is gone and his arm has grown a thin, wrinkled skin in its place. It is still sore and swollen around the burn mark, but Dalia has taken a great care of his arm, otherwise he would have been lying next to Narivan, twisting in pain and fever. Dalia comes close and takes a careful look at his burnt arm. She says it has healed well and they don’t need to worry about it anymore. She sits in front of Tirad on her knees and moves her nail-less fingertips over the new skin of the burn mark. Tirad doesn’t feel any pain. Dalia slowly continues the motion of her fingers, touching Tirad gently, moving her hand up his arm and to the back of his ears that no hair hangs any more. She slides gently forward, putting her bare thighs between Tirad’s legs. Tirad wants to move back but Dalia takes his hand and pushes him to herself, softly pressing her lips on his. Tirad doesn’t know what to do. He had thought about this moment for the last six days or from the second he had laid eyes on her. He had tried to distract himself from the thought and the deed, not because he doesn’t want her, only to prove himself as an obedient virtuous disciple of the Saviour. But now, she is sliding against his body, with fine, soft movements that cannot be overthrown for any justifiable belief. He kisses her back passionately even though he should stop himself from falling into the deepest fault of all, and never finding his back to the Saviour again. Yet he yearns for it.