come with the title,â Mal said. âAnd now there are seven.â
His mother shrugged and lifted her pointed chin, a gesture he recognized as his own. Sheâd shed her seamanâs garbed and donned instead the black robes of mourning. Her feet were bare, her hair brushed out over her shoulders, curls shining in the light off her bedroom hearth.
She took the circlet in two hands, studied the twist of wire and sculpted silver flowers with indifference. It reminded him, absurdly, of Liamâs flower crown. He wondered if the boy had snatched another kiss for the keeping of that treasure.
âThe lasses weave crowns every season after bloom,â his mother said. Mal wondered, not for the first time, whether heâd inherited some of his magics from his mamâs line. She had an uncanny talent for reading mind and heart.
But sheâd always matched the Selkirk handily on the water, so perhaps not.
âItâs a difficult thing to do,â she continued. âWith all the thorns.â
Mal took the circlet from her hands. It was heavier than he thought, the silver tarnished around the rose petals, worn smooth in places. There were indeed thorns, tiny nubs etched into the vines.
She didnât move when he set it on her head. Then she sighed, a long gust of resignation and sorrow.
âI know.â Mal also wore the black of mourning; the vocentâs color, if not the vocentâs uniform, and he felt more himself. âIt was supposed to be Fatherâs forever. And if not forever, then Rowan. You know better than I; nothing ever goes as planned.
Lady Selkirk glanced at the ring on his finger, but said nothing.
âIt looks well on you,â Mal said. âIf you canât wear it with joy, wear it with pride.â
She took his hand, then, surprising Mal when she pressed his palm to her dry lips. Then she sighed again.
âThe sails are up. Joseph will be waiting, and the rest,â she said. âShall we go?â
He nodded, and set his hand on her forearm, and she let him lead her into the dusk.
A BONFIRE BURNED at the center of the bailey, sweet grass gathered and bolstered with dried driftwood, then lit by flame carried across the courtyard from the temple brazier. The wind had died to a soft breeze; for once the howl of spring against Selkirkâs walls was silenced.
Smoke rose from the bonfire in lazy flags, breaking apart just above the battlements, joining purple clouds overhead. Biaz and Brother Josef stood together against the fire, somber in their own mourning kit, a shawl emblazoned with the rose across the priestâs stooped shoulders.
Seamen and merchants alike were come up from the pier to join the keepâs inhabitants. They stood in a loose crowd, waiting, ragged and uneasy, most displaying sincere expressions of grief. Cook and her pantry maids hovered in a knot. The older woman wept openly while her lasses eyed up the youngest sailors.
Selkirkâs guard stood on the battlements, ringing the courtyard, faces turned to the fire, backs set to the sea.
âIs he here?â Lady Selkirk asked, low.
Mal glanced around the bailey and along the battlements, sorting the faces of the still living from the faces of the dead.
âHeâs not.â
âI didnât think so. He was a coward at the end, whittled to nothing by pain and fear.â
Mal, who couldnât imagine his father less than imposing, found he had no reassurances to give.
âRed sky,â his mother said, the fishwivesâ prediction, then she shrugged off Malâs hand and strode forward to meet the priest. Past the battlements the setting sun had indeed turned the clouds from purple to scarlet and orange.
âWhatâs it mean?â Liam detached himself from the shadow of the stables, Jacob crouched on his shoulder like a bony growth.
âRed sky in morning, sailors take warning,â Mal quoted. âRed sky at night, sailors delight.