“I got plenty of virtue, Lane,” I said, suddenly feeling unvirtuous and more than a little wicked. I shoveled a huge spoonful into my mouth, letting the smash dribble out. “Tabuh murmurs, too,” I said through my chewing.

He laughed. It was a different sound from his speaking voice. Husky and loose. “Skip those, then. The real work would be improving your conversation. Reading will strengthen your expression. Words have power. Learn them and that power becomes yours. You’ll also need to consider the quality of what you say, which ought to convey modesty, amiability, and elegance.”

“Saints…” I sat back in my chair, daunted at last. “I’m none of those.”

“With respect, Miss Coates, I disagree. I’ve just discovered you are amiable.”

I fussed with the edge of my napkin. Never had I been complimented by anyone but Mama or Mercy. But he hadn’t really complimented me. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not Miss Coates. My name’s Frannie. Francisca Tasker. Frannie’s fine.”

“I’m not disappointed. Not at all. Glad to meet you, Frannie.” We fell quiet and sat smiling at each other as the fiddle finished its tune and began a new one. Nothing changed, but suddenly everything felt different. The darkness outside seemed darker. The creaks of the ship, softer. Even the air inside my lungs felt lighter.

“Frannie, if you can pretend that cut doesn’t hurt,” he said after a while, “then I think you can pretend anything.” I touched the spot above my eye, where his gaze had moved. It felt wet and crusted. Hot and sore. “You really ought to close it with a few stitches. And soon, or it’ll scar badly.”

“A few stitches? It’s skin.”

“Skin can be sewn.”

I cringed. “A horrid thought! I could never do such a thing.”

“I could, for a trade.”

“A trade? Saints, Asa Lane. You talk like causing pain’s a favor.”

“I’m good with needle and thread. I was a sailmaker’s mate for a time.”

“Now I know you’re lying. No gentleman would ever do that.”

“As it happens, I’m no gentleman.”

I frowned. “Then why are you so…so…” He was educated and mannered, that much was plain, but then again, I’d seen him brawl with Hackett and speak boldly toward the captain. He had tears in his sleeve. Scratches on his neck. And that lean sort of stare. Truth was, I didn’t see where Asa Lane fit.

“My father is the gentleman. I’m only his misbegotten son.”

“Misbegotten? So you’re…”

“His bastard. Aye. That’s what I am. His ‘great mistake,’ as he likes to say. The consequence of an affair he had in Paris one year with a young mademoiselle. My mother was only fifteen when she had me. She died soon after I was born, so I was sent to my father’s home in Rhode Island. There, he raised me with just enough polish not to shame him any more than I do by existing. I left his home at thirteen and took to the sea, where amongst other things, I’ve learned to suture gashes.” He paused. “I’m no gentleman, Frannie. Nor am I a surgeon. But I do have sure hands.”