gilded plates, crystal goblets, and spotlessly shined silver—souvenirs of his time in Marathia. A third man, a nervous foremast jack named Jamis, was just drawing the cork from a bottle of wine as they entered. The cork left the bottle with a pop, and the man grinned in triumph.
“Wine, sir?” the fellow said, then nodded to Cynthia. “My lady?”
“Bloody fine idea!” Feldrin said. “Pour ‘em full, if you please, Jamis.” He released Cynthia long enough to draw two chairs over to the open transom windows, then led her to one and bade her sit. Jamis approached, balancing two goblets of blood-red wine on a silver salver.
“Here ye are, sir. If ye be wantin’ anytin’ else afore Cook has yer dinners ready, just give a holler.”
Very good! Thank you, Jamis. That’ll be all fer now.” Feldrin took the goblets and handed one to his wife. As the door closed, he took his seat and lifted his glass. “Here’s to bein’ one step closer to findin’ our son.”
“Oh yes, Feldrin, to that more than anything else,” she agreed, lifting her glass to his and smiling through the tears that brimmed in her eyes.
The wine went down smoothly—one of the few vintages that would keep well in the sweltering temperatures of the tropics—and washed away the tightness in his throat.
“Did you…want to decide on a name, Cyn?” he asked timidly. “I mean, we discussed it before, but now that we know it’s a boy, you mentioned naming him after your father.”
“I don’t…” She looked into her wine glass, as if she could see some dark future in the crimson depths. “I don’t think so. Not yet. I feel like it would be hoping for too much, tempting fate.” She looked at him then, and there were tears brimming in her eyes. “When I hold him in my arms, I’ll let myself believe he’s safe, and we can name him after father, or maybe after you.”
“Oh, not after me, lass, please. But I understand.” He did understand, and his thoughts mirrored hers; neither of them wanted to hope too much.
The ship lurched suddenly, and Cynthia coughed out a weary laugh. Feldrin lunged up to snatch the wine bottle before it could tumble off the chart table. “Edan?”
“Yes. He’s still got a bit to learn about fine control, but he’s coming along.” Cynthia sipped her wine again, then followed the sip with a gulp. “Damn, but that’s good.”
“Aye, it is.” He took a mouthful and let it sit on his tongue, savoring the heady flavors before swallowing. “And don’t be bashful; the bilge is full of the stuff.” He drained his glass and refilled both. “Ill-gotten booty, don’t ya know.”
“You got this in Marathia?”
“Off one of the war galleys we took back for the sultan. They’d been pirating for almost a year, and had some good stuff tucked away.”
“My husband, the pirate,” she said with a wry smile, raising her glass.
“Privateer, if you please.” He sipped and grinned.
“What was Marathia like?” she asked. “You never told me much about it.”
“Dangerous,” he said in a deep, cautionary tone as he propped his elbows on his knees and leaned close to her. “Beautiful, though, with all manner of fantastic people and beasts.” He returned her smile, grateful that she was willing to talk about something other than their current problems and relieved to see her relax into her seat.
They whiled away an hour in benign conversation, finishing the first bottle and opening a second, before Jamis knocked to announce dinner. Feldrin was pleased to see that Cook had truly outdone himself: curried lamb and potatoes, mango salad, and fresh-baked bread, then a round of sharp cheese, and finally a flaky pastry filled with red berry preserves.
Food, wine and conversation softened the lines around Cynthia’s eyes, and as the afternoon wore on to evening, she surprised him with an urgent plea. Their lovemaking was more than passion, more than love, and more than the simple comfort that two
“Wine, sir?” the fellow said, then nodded to Cynthia. “My lady?”
“Bloody fine idea!” Feldrin said. “Pour ‘em full, if you please, Jamis.” He released Cynthia long enough to draw two chairs over to the open transom windows, then led her to one and bade her sit. Jamis approached, balancing two goblets of blood-red wine on a silver salver.
“Here ye are, sir. If ye be wantin’ anytin’ else afore Cook has yer dinners ready, just give a holler.”
Very good! Thank you, Jamis. That’ll be all fer now.” Feldrin took the goblets and handed one to his wife. As the door closed, he took his seat and lifted his glass. “Here’s to bein’ one step closer to findin’ our son.”
“Oh yes, Feldrin, to that more than anything else,” she agreed, lifting her glass to his and smiling through the tears that brimmed in her eyes.
The wine went down smoothly—one of the few vintages that would keep well in the sweltering temperatures of the tropics—and washed away the tightness in his throat.
“Did you…want to decide on a name, Cyn?” he asked timidly. “I mean, we discussed it before, but now that we know it’s a boy, you mentioned naming him after your father.”
“I don’t…” She looked into her wine glass, as if she could see some dark future in the crimson depths. “I don’t think so. Not yet. I feel like it would be hoping for too much, tempting fate.” She looked at him then, and there were tears brimming in her eyes. “When I hold him in my arms, I’ll let myself believe he’s safe, and we can name him after father, or maybe after you.”
“Oh, not after me, lass, please. But I understand.” He did understand, and his thoughts mirrored hers; neither of them wanted to hope too much.
The ship lurched suddenly, and Cynthia coughed out a weary laugh. Feldrin lunged up to snatch the wine bottle before it could tumble off the chart table. “Edan?”
“Yes. He’s still got a bit to learn about fine control, but he’s coming along.” Cynthia sipped her wine again, then followed the sip with a gulp. “Damn, but that’s good.”
“Aye, it is.” He took a mouthful and let it sit on his tongue, savoring the heady flavors before swallowing. “And don’t be bashful; the bilge is full of the stuff.” He drained his glass and refilled both. “Ill-gotten booty, don’t ya know.”
“You got this in Marathia?”
“Off one of the war galleys we took back for the sultan. They’d been pirating for almost a year, and had some good stuff tucked away.”
“My husband, the pirate,” she said with a wry smile, raising her glass.
“Privateer, if you please.” He sipped and grinned.
“What was Marathia like?” she asked. “You never told me much about it.”
“Dangerous,” he said in a deep, cautionary tone as he propped his elbows on his knees and leaned close to her. “Beautiful, though, with all manner of fantastic people and beasts.” He returned her smile, grateful that she was willing to talk about something other than their current problems and relieved to see her relax into her seat.
They whiled away an hour in benign conversation, finishing the first bottle and opening a second, before Jamis knocked to announce dinner. Feldrin was pleased to see that Cook had truly outdone himself: curried lamb and potatoes, mango salad, and fresh-baked bread, then a round of sharp cheese, and finally a flaky pastry filled with red berry preserves.
Food, wine and conversation softened the lines around Cynthia’s eyes, and as the afternoon wore on to evening, she surprised him with an urgent plea. Their lovemaking was more than passion, more than love, and more than the simple comfort that two
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