"When I get to my new place, will you still come to see me?"

"Paragon. You can't pretend this away. If they take you away from here, they'll chop you up for wizardwood."

The figurehead tried a different tack. "I don't care. It would be nice to be dead."

Amber's voice was low, defeated. "I'm not sure you'd be dead. I'm afraid they'll separate you from the ship. If that doesn't kill you, they'll probably transport you to Jamaillia, and sell you off as an oddity. Or give you as a gift to the Satrap in exchange for grants and favors. I don't know how you'd be treated there."

"Will it hurt?" Paragon asked.

"I don't know. I don't know enough about what you are. Did it… When they chopped your face, did that hurt?"

He turned his shattered visage away from her. He lifted his hands and walked his fingers over the splintered wood where his eyes had once been. "Yes." His brow furrowed. Then in the next breath he added, "I don't remember. There is a lot I can't remember, you know. My logbooks are gone."

"Sometimes not remembering is the easiest thing to do."

"You think I'm lying, don't you? You think I can remember, but I just won't admit it." He picked at it, hoping for a quarrel.

"Paragon. Yesterday we cannot change. We are talking about tomorrow."

"They're coming tomorrow?"

"I don't know! I was speaking figuratively." She came closer suddenly and reached up to put her hands flat against him. She wore gloves against the night's chill, but it was still a touch. He could feel the shapes of her hands as two patches of warmth against his planking. "I can't stand the thought of them taking you to cut you up. Even if it doesn't hurt, even if it doesn't kill you. I can't stand the thought of it."