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some scrap oak and tell him you need it for detailing practice.”
    Arthal nodded.
    “Before you go, your mother wants a word with you.”
    The youth frowned.
    “She told me she wanted to talk to you. Now, go, and don’t dawdle, but your mother first.”
    “Yes, ser.”
    After Arthal went upstairs, then came down and left, Kharl finished sealing the first barrel, then the second. As he wiped the brush as clean as he could, then dipped it into the small container of solvent, he became conscious that the blackstaffer had awakened and was looking at him.
    He left the brush in the open solvent jar and turned.
    “What are you doing?” The words were fluent, but strangely accented.
    Kharl glanced over to the pallet where the young woman lay, her head propped up slightly on an old blanket that Charee must have provided. “I’m finishing a fancy fifth-barrel.” He paused. “How are you feeling?”
    “My head is splitting. It looks like there are two of you sometimes. Most of my body hurts. They weren’t gentle.”
    Kharl looked around the shop, but, for the moment, no one else was there. “Do you know who they were?”
    “I don’t know anyone here. I just arrived two days ago. I’d left the tavern, and there were two men. I’d never seen them. They wore… their clothes were fancier…”
    “Dark velvet… mayhap?”
    “Their tunics were well cut, and they both had blades. But… I was ready for them. I didn’t see the third one, and he hit me in the head with something… from behind…” She swallowed. “Thirsty…” She reached for the old chipped mug Charee had left. Her hands trembled as she lifted it and drank.
    Kharl could see thin lines of wetness along her cheeks, but he said nothing.
    After several small swallows, she set down the mug, using both hands, and lay back. Her eyes closed.
    Kharl watched for a moment, then finished cleaning the brush. He moved to the workbench where he checked the settings on the planer. He watched the blackstaffer as he began to pump the foot pedal, but she did not stir, despite the whirring of the planer when he guided the first red oak shook into position to rough-shape it into a stave. He was halfway through the staves for the third flour barrel when he could see the young woman began to wake again, but she said nothing, and he continued to work.
    He had almost finished another set of staves when Charee came down the steps with a chamber pot, looking long at Kharl. The cooper finished shaping the stave he was working on and stopped pumping the foot pedal. He stepped back and walked to the front of the shop, then outside.
    Standing before the window, taking in the breeze from the harbor, he still couldn’t understand why the young swells had beaten the young woman so badly. Was it just because she had resisted their advances, or because she was a blackstaffer? He wondered if it had been the same pair that had tried to force themselves on young Sanyle. If it had been, they were truly a bad lot, and if it hadn’t been, there were all too many rotten young swells around. Kharl didn’t like either possibility, not that there was much he could do.
     
     
    VI
     
    When Kharl came down to the shop early the next morning, he found that Charee had been there earlier, and that the blackstaffer was propped into a sitting position, sipping hot cider, the coverlet across her legs and midsection. The bruise on her cheek, one he hadn’t noticed before, had begun to show a yellowish shade along with the purple.
    “How are you doing, young woman?”
    “My name is Jenevra. You are… Kharl?”
    “That’s right. Kharl.”
    “I am better, but I am still seeing two of you at times. My head still aches.”
    “You’ll need to rest for a time, I think.”
    “I did not need this,” Jenevra said. “I should have been more careful.”
    With that, Kharl silently agreed, as he readjusted the blade on the planer. Then he tested the foot pedal, and moved the carry-cart with the red oak