“I felt responsible,” Bosco told young Andrew, who lay in the upper bunk, propped on his elbow. Other sailors in the fo’c’sle were all ears, of course. The four-masted hermaphrodite schooner rolled gently as it sailed through a luminous night that was so easy on the men of the watch up on deck. The Conga’s creaks and groans were as familiar and friendly as the chirping of crickets in a clove field back home.
An incredulous voice said, “That’s why you paid for her ticket? Her, with all that nest egg she bin earning!”
“Ah. I forgot to mention. What she didn’t need for immediate use she bin sendin’ to her home town as charity for the mana-priest to dole out. Sort of in recompense for herself and her dad shuttin’ themselves up in their keep while Tycho Cammon made free.”
“An’ you seriously don’t plan on sneakin’ into that little cubby-cabin of hers?”
“She don’t need that now. She wouldn’t want it. After we dock, I’m goin’ to fix her a job in a puzzle workshop. She’ll learn how to make really neat puzzles to take northerners’ minds off more dangerous manias. An’ I hope she might find herself a girlfriend among all them nimble-fingered puzzle-makers.”
“What a soft touch you are, Bosco! Sounds as though you’ve been bespoken, yourself.”
“Mebbe I have been,” admitted Bosco. “Just a bit, on the shortest night.”