THE BREEZE AGAINST HIS FACE AND CHEST WAS BRISK AND CHILL, YET SOMEthing in it hinted of spring soon to come. The air tasted of iodine; the tide must be out, exposing the kelp beds just off shore. Under his hull, the coarse sand was damp from the last heavy rain. The smoke of Amber's small fire tickled his nose. The figurehead turned his blind visage away from it then reached up to scratch his nose.

"It's a fine evening, don't you think?" she asked him conversationally. "The skies have cleared. There are still some clouds, but I can see the moon and some stars. I've gathered mussels and wrapped them in seaweed. When the fire is stronger, I'll rake away some of the wood and cook them on the coals." Her voice paused hopefully.

Paragon did not reply.

"Would you like to taste some, when they're cooked? I know you have no need to eat, but you might find it an interesting experience."

He yawned, stretched, and crossed his arms on his chest. He was much better at this than she was. Thirty years hauled out on a beach had taught him true patience. He would outlast her. He wondered if she would get angry or sad tonight.

"What good does it do either of us for you to refuse to speak to me?" she asked reasonably. He could hear her patience starting to unravel. He did not bother to shrug.

"Paragon, you are a hopeless twit. Why won't you speak to me? Can't you see I'm the only one who can save you?"