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and her ship is, of course, very personal.”
    Theo considered the last ship she’d served on. Rig Tranza had loved Primadonna better than air itself. She had respected the ship; she supposed their relationship had been . . . cordial. And trusting, yes. She had trusted Primadonna , because she’d trusted Rig Tranza.
    Arin’s Toss , though . . .
    “Too soon to know,” she decided at last, looking into Father’s face. “Though I don’t distrust her.”
    “Fairly said. I wonder, do you trust your employer?”
    Did she trust Uncle? Theo bit her lip, her fingers itching for needle and thread, as they seldom did of late. Lace-making helped her think, and to sort her feelings out. Recently, though, she’d been too busy to relax into the old habit.
    “Too soon to tell about him, too,” she said, slowly. “We have . . . aligned purposes, so I trust him . . . to a point.” She paused. “Val Con said he doesn’t. Trust Uncle.”
    “You must hold him excused,” Father murmured. “There is a long history between Korval and the Uncle—and it is Val Con’s duty to be suspicious on behalf of kin and clan.”
    Theo sipped her tea, then set the mug into the chair-arm cup holder, and looked up decisively.
    As if he had not only seen her decisiveness, but divined her purpose, Father sighed, and slotted his mug as well.
    “I haven’t long before I must find my ship and lift,” he said quietly. “You had best ask it, Theo.”
    Like there was only one question to ask, when she had a dozen—Why did you leave? Why didn’t you tell Kamele? Why didn’t you tell me ? What happened? When—
    “When are you going home?” As soon as she said the words, she knew it was the wrong question.
    Father, however, tipped his head, as if considering it seriously, despite its obvious flaws, then raised his eyes to hers: “Jen Sar Kiladi,” he said gently, “will not be returning to Delgado. The house on Leafydale Place, and all the rest of his possessions, have passed into your mother’s keeping.”
    “She wrote to let me know that—and that you’d gone, without a word to her—without even a letter, after you—after you’d come to safe port.” Theo swallowed. “Father—no matter what . . . obligations you have to Delm Korval, you’ve got to at least write to her.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s wise, Theo.”
    “Not wise ?” She stared at him. “Do you know how angry Kamele is?”
    “I can make an estimation; certainly she has cause to be very angry, indeed.”
    “But you think it’s not wise to write to her—or visit—and tell her why you—what was so important that you left your classes, your research; committed—Father, you’ll never find another post! And your work . . .”
    “Kiladi’s work is solid,” he interrupted. “If duty called him suddenly away, it will not be the first time in the history of scholarship that such a thing has happened. More, his students continue what he has begun, as they in their turn teach those who come after, while those who become scholars build upon and solidify his research. Balance is achieved.”
    Theo sat back, suddenly cold, and studied his face. He looked calm—sad, maybe—and entirely sane. But—
    “You’re talking about Kiladi like he’s not you,” she said carefully.
    “Ah.” He leaned forward slightly, one hand out, the silver puzzle ring he always wore gleaming on his smallest finger.
    Theo slipped her hand into his, felt the warmth of his fingers, and for a moment, she was a littlie again, and Housefather Kiladi was promising that he wouldn’t let her fall. And she hadn’t, she realized; she hadn’t ever once fallen while she was holding Father’s hand.
    “Theo, please look at me,” he said now. She raised her eyes to his.
    “Good. My birth name is Daav yos’Phelium Clan Korval. Jen Sar Kiladi is . . . something more than a fabrication, but very much less than an actuality.”
    She blinked, her stomach fluttering like she’d