Authors note: Episode 5.14 aired just as these coming chapters were in the last process of beta, and I went "well, fuck". For reasons that will become obvious upon reading, I had to revise, or else the irony would be a little too thick.

Then episode 5.15 aired and I went "well, fuck" again, because the chapters after that are all about Killian's family, and that's not even revisable, I'll have to either go full-on AU or scrap them entirely. (Haven't decided yet.)

Anyway. I hope you will still enjoy the chapter!


They were a pirate ship, and mourning could only be permitted so long. Soon, they were back to business, plucking off any Cockaignese or Avalonian ship that ventured this far south, and a few more that Killian claimed belonged to allies.

At first, Milah had some fears that she'd be asked to take over the cooking, as the only woman left on ship who had managed a household, but no one made such a suggestion. Perhaps her ill fit in such a role was self-evident after her latest attempt; either way, Cookson took over his mother's duties, with nearly the same level of skill.

More accurately, Cookson took over some of his mother's duties. It didn't occur to Milah to wonder about the rest; she spent most of her nights with Killian and paid little mind to how others spent theirs.

They'd been nearly a month at sea when they next came ashore, this time to Nmkwami. In many ways, it gave the impression of being the rural cousin of Atlantis. The architecture was much the same, but the grand castles and temples were fewer and further between than in the city of Basileia, and you reached the countryside much quicker.

Attire, too, was similar to Atlantean, but the people were darker, with softer features. The similarity to Murphy and Bilal was evident – in fact, one man she saw in the marketplace looked so much like Bilal that she wondered if there was some sort of kinship. But she could hardly accost a stranger to ask, and anyway, she wouldn't know how. The Nmkwami language wasn't like any she'd ever heard before, and those she had met so far who could switch to a second language all spoke Cockaignese, not Avalonian. Following Starkey on his errands meant that she could rely on him to get by, but the constant need for translation left her in a bad mood.

"I thought you'd be better at Cockaignese by now," he scolded her softly after they had sent some crewmen back with the purchased rum barrels and were proceeding on to the ropery.

"I know maybe ten phrases," she said, "and none of them with this accent."

"People always have different accents. You'll need to be more diligent in your studies if you ever want to be independent as a pirate." When she groaned at that, he added, "You're clever, it shouldn't be so hard."

"I'm clever with numbers," she said. "Numbers are easy. There are only ten of them, their value is multiplied tenfold with each shift in positions. That goes for most countries, and even other systems are based on simple repetitive patterns of multiplication. Languages are thousands of words, and the meanings may not translate exactly, and a word in one language might mean something entirely different in another. That's a hell of a lot harder. And if nobody here speaks Avalonian, how come Murphy has an Avalonian name?"

"I didn't say nobody," Starkey pointed out. "It's not very common, up here, that's all. Further south, near the Wakandan border, you get a lot of Avalonian ships coming to trade – which is why we don't go ashore there: too easy to get caught. And he doesn't."

It took her a while to figure out the meaning of that last part. "He doesn't?"

"He took it when he joined the crew. His real name is..." Starkey hesitated. "You need to ask him to say it. It's six syllables long and apparently means 'hurry to the plunder'."

"It does not!"

"It does!" An unusually wide smile spread over Starkey's face. "We took it as a sign that fate had meant for him to be a pirate. Still, it was a bit of a mouthful, so he changed it to Murphy. It means 'sea-warrior'."

"Really?"

"Mm. Strictly speaking, it's not Avalonian either. It's based on a name from Tir na nÓg. "

She mulled that over as they entered the ropery and Starkey ordered the rope and tackle they needed in a mix of Nmkwami and Cockaignese. She caught a few words here and there, helped by the fact that she knew how much rope was needed, but it was still a far cry from full sentences.

Starkey noticed her expression, and his own softened. Having finished his order, he told her, "Thing is, languages may be complicated, but once you learn them, they can also be quite fascinating."

The obvious reverence in his voice made her long to learn more, to find that fascination he spoke about. She had a niggling suspicion, though, that she'd just be trading one kind of frustration for another.


When they returned, Milah spotted Ryan off on the side of the ship by the rail, talking to a young Nmkwami woman. She thought nothing of it, but when she came back up on deck, the girl was still there, now leaning against the gunwale with Teynte, chatting away in Cockaignese.

Though Milah had seen a number of Nmkwami women in brightly coloured dresses on her walks ashore, it was still an impressive sight, with the broad stripes of red, yellow and black, loose-fitting, yet not so shapeless as to hide the grace of the woman within. The view was heightened further by her mass of dark curls, set free to flow across her shoulders, rather than being tied back or wrapped up like that of most of her countrywomen.

Teynte's and the stranger's expressions and quickness of speech seemed to indicate that the conversation was casual, rather than business-oriented, but there was nothing to suggest anything more than that. Milah paused for a moment nevertheless, just to make sure, but then gave in to her curiosity and approached them.

"Who's your friend?" she asked.

The girl looked up and smiled. Seen from the front, she was older than Teynte, maybe twenty or so. Her face was long and thin, but the eyes and mouth were round, which gave an appearance of slight surprise.

"Oh, this is Malika," Teynte said. "She's the new ship's wench."

The greeting died away on Milah's lips. "She's what?"

"Ship's wench," Teynte repeated. "You know, to replace Cook."

"So she's going to cook?" Milah asked, clinging to that notion though she knew it to be untrue.

"I hope not," Malika said. "I am a terrible cook."

Milah stopped short at that, and blinked. "You speak Avalonian."

"Yes. Also Atlantean, Cockaignese, Wakandan, and of course Nmkwami." Malika raised her chin. "I could be an asset."

"Asset? As a... who hired you?"

Malika glanced over at Teynte. "The grey-haired man, what was his name?"

"Ryan."

"Ryan can do that?" Milah asked. "Just hire a... wench?"

"He's first mate," Teynte said with a shrug. The beginnings of a scowl showed on her face. "If he thinks the ship is understaffed, he's entrusted to do something about it. Is there a problem?"

Milah faltered, and Malika gave a scoff of laughter, following it up with some muttered Cockaignese that made Teynte's scowl deepen.

"Does Killian know about this?" Milah finally asked.

"Don't know. Depends if Ryan has told him."

"I'll go talk to him them," Milah said, storming off.

She tried Killian's cabin first, but it was empty. Instead, she found him a few cabins over, and in fact he was talking to Ryan, which meant it made far more sense to address the first mate directly.

"You hired a prostitute? For the ship?"

"I did," Ryan said, crossing his arms in response to whatever he saw in her face.

"Why?"

"It should be obvious. The men are used to getting it on board. If they have to wait for shore leave, they might get frustrated. Frustrated men are hard to keep the reins on." His gaze drifted over her. "Could put you in danger. You and the little one. Sure, she's a girl-rider and you're the captain's lady, but how long will that serve as protection?"

"It will serve long enough," Killian snapped. "Unless they care to be whipped bloody and tossed to the mermaids."

Milah didn't respond. She hadn't given Ryan much thought before; he was just sort of there, but his words and dark gaze now made her skin crawl. Did he count himself in among those men? Surely not, or he'd never dare suggest such a thing near Killian – but who, then? Was there anyone in particular she couldn't trust? Most of the men had gone to see Cook at one point or another, she'd never kept track...

Killian put an arm around her, which made her jump.

"I suppose there's no harm in keeping the men happy," he said. "I'll go talk to her."

Following Killian back onto deck, she felt even worse about the whole thing. Having a woman on board whose sole function was to sleep with the crew was bad enough. But to make it a sort of sacrifice to keep herself safe? How would she ever be able to look that poor girl in the eyes?

The poor girl in question seemed utterly unperturbed when the two of them came to see her; she merely finished her conversation with Teynte and straightened up into an almost regal bearing, giving Killian a gracious smile.

"Captain Jones?" she asked. "I am Malika."

"So I hear," he said. "Welcome on board. I understand you've been hired as a ship's wench."

"Yes."

"Did Ryan set any terms for that?"

Malika briskly counted them off on her fingers. "No more than three men a night. Moon days off. I get paid the same as everyone else. I have the right to turn men away if they are unclean or do not respect me."

"If they don't respect you, make sure you come to me," Killian said. "I'll deal with that. What if you have to cancel for some other reason? Say, if you get ill or something?"

Her mouth thinned as she thought. "Then I shall take that man again as soon as I can."

"As an extra, or pushing everyone else back?"

"Pushing."

"And if one of them cancels on you?"

"Then he must wait."

Their tone was cordial but businesslike, and neither one of them paid Milah any mind, though Teynte still glowered at her.

"Well, that seems all right, then," Killian said and shook Malika's hand. "Teynte, you'll show our new crewmember around, won't you?"

The deal settled, he nudged Milah along, and she took his cue, following him back down.

"That's it?" she asked once they were out of earshot. "You're going to allow it?"

"She's old enough and clever enough to know her own mind," he said. "That's all I can ask for."

"But aren't you ultimately responsible for new crewmembers? You could say no."

"Yes, and I'm not going to." There was a slight note of warning in his voice now, though his face was still relaxed. "You know what the crew gets up to on shore leave. You knew what Cook did in her back room. Why is it any different with Malika?"

"Cook had another duty on ship," Milah protested. "She didn't have to take any men on unless she wanted to. I don't think a woman should be hired to be some convenient hole for them to stick their pricks into because they can't be bothered to wait until shore leave."

"They'll still be seeing prostitutes either way," he said. "And Malika will still be taking customers, whether here or at home."

"That doesn't mean we have to condone it!"

"Well, I'm not going out there and telling the crew they can't have the wench who has already been hired. Especially not since I've got my own bed kept warm at night."

"And what makes you think your bed will kept warm tonight?"

His jaw tightened. "Milah, the arrangement has been made. It seems a fair one."

"What's fair about her having to take on two dozen men a month?"

"Bloody hell, no one's dragged her on board!"

"You're not listening to me!"

"I am," he said, his voice lower again. "I'm saying no. As the captain of this ship, that's still my right."

"Are you pulling rank on me?" she asked, itching to give his face a slap.

"Aye, if that's what I have to do. Don't worry." His mouth twitched slightly. "If you decide not to warm my bed, I'll still remain in it."

There was a finality to his words that she didn't know how to counter, and so she bit down on all the insults that tried to rise in her throat. None of them were a proper argument, anyway. Still troubled by the issue, she retreated to her cabin.

When she reached it, she found Teynte, rummaging through the possessions in one of the boxes. It took a moment for Milah to see that it was Soeng's box, and at first she attributed Teynte's twitchy movements with this seemingly illicit activity. When the girl fished out a pair of beginner's bracelets, however, her actions became clear, and the expression she made seeing Milah in the doorway showed that her twitchiness was down to anger, rather than guilt. If she had been a cat, she would have been flicking her tail.

Milah stopped at the doorway, watching in silence for a while, before asking, "Will you be angry all day?"

"You didn't even say hello!" Teynte burst out, straightening up with the bracelets in her hand. "Or welcome on board, or anything. You just started interrogating her, and then you called in the captain, asking him to throw her off the ship."

"I didn't ask..." Milah started, and then admitted, "I'm not comfortable having her on board."

"You're comfortable enough having the crew on board, and they're the ones she'll be taking to bed. She's not hurting anyone! And she never promised anyone fidelity, either."

That barb hit home, and Milah shot back: "What do you know of fidelity? You with a lover in every port – a little girl playing a grownup game."

"I'm sixteen!" Teynte looked about ready to throw a punch, bracelets and all. "If I'd stayed in the brothel I'd be old news by now – and I guess then you wouldn't be comfortable having me on board, either!"

Milah had been having about four different angry diatribes ready, but they all died as Teynte spoke.

"Gods, I'm sor –" she said.

"Don't you dare," Teynte interrupted. "Don't you bloody dare apologise to me before you apologise to her."

There wasn't much to say to that. Milah turned to leave, but halted and asked, "I could give her the bracelets, if you want."

Teynte's hands clenched upon the bracelets, but then she hurled them Milah's way, none too gently.

Milah caught them and left the cabin, her feet dragging only slightly. When she reached the cargo area, she paused, eyes sweeping the empty spots as she contemplated what else they could buy here, and what could perhaps be stolen at the next raid. There had been a dearth in work opportunity lately; the ships down here were mostly local and off-limits; they'd need to find a suitable vessel soon. Too bad Nmkwami wasn't an official ally to the Cockaignese, or they'd be fair game – but then, the Jolly Roger might not have had such a pleasant welcome.

She should be moving on towards the galley, that was the spot most likely to find Malika, but still she didn't stir. Her thoughts drifted towards Teynte, what she would have looked like at Jukes' age when she first joined the crew. Not so different perhaps, smaller and softer in the way of children, a little girl who'd rather throw herself into the unknown than take a man to bed.

And what of the girls who had chosen differently? Not much of a choice at all, really. Just a victim of circumstance... and that thought made it easier for Milah to take those final steps into the galley and the cabin behind it.

Inside the cabin, Malika was sorting clothes. She had pulled out all of Cook's things and laid them on the bed. A large piece of blue woven cloth was spread out across the floor, and her own possessions lay in a bundle there, piece by piece folded and put inside the box by the foot of the bed.

Milah sternly reminded herself of the little girl, and cleared her throat. "I've come to... um... Teynte wanted you to have these."

She handed over the bracelets, and Malika accepted them with a gracious nod.

"Thank you."

"I wanted to apologise," Milah said. "About before. I should have welcomed you better."

Malika watched her, silently.

"I was rude," Milah continued, "and you didn't deserve that. After all, none of this is your fault."

"My fault?" Malika asked.

"I mean, I'm aware that you didn't ask to be put into this position."

"I did ask," Malika said, fastening the bracelets around her wrists. "Pirates make for good customers. Pay well, and most of them are grateful, too. I could make myself a pretty penny here."

"What I meant was..."

"I know what you meant. I don't need your pity."

"Damn it, woman," Milah snapped, her temper lost. "I'm trying to apologise!"

"Don't need that either. It's not the first time I've had to deal with jealous women."

"I'm not jealous!"

Milah tried to ignore the sarcastic way Malika's gaze drifted over her body. That gaze seemed to take in every flaw: the odd grey hair, the laugh lines, the slight sag to the chest area. But she was not jealous, and she wasn't past her prime either!

"What, then?" Malika asked. "Shocked, at how immoral this is? Can't have a whore with the thieves?"

"I just want to apologise," Milah said between her teeth. "Will you please let me?"

"Why? Because Edwige wants it?"

Less than an hour on board and it was 'Edwige' already, Milah noted, anger flaring up again – but the mention of Teynte also served as a reminder to keep herself in control.

"Partly," she admitted. "But listen, we have to live with each other here, whether we want to or not, and it's going to be a hell of a lot easier if we're not enemies."

Malika watched her dispassionately. "So what do you suggest?"

"If you need something," Milah said, forcing herself to stay calm and civil, "I could help. I suppose."

"Oh, I don't know..." Malika's eyes roamed the small cabin. Then her eyes fell on the pile of Cook's clothes on the bed, and her pensive gaze was replaced with a slight smile. "Will you toss these out for me? I can't wear them and I doubt anyone would buy them."

"Those are Cook's clothes!"

"And now they're mine," Malika said slowly, "and I don't want them. Whatever would I do with them? Although..."

She paused, artificially, and Milah permitted herself to play along.

"Yes?"

"They say it is cold on the sea. Perhaps one of those patch blankets they make up north."

"A quilt?"

"Yes, that's the word. I wouldn't know how to make one. Would you?"

Milah's immediate impulse was to ask Malika to shove the clothes down her throat, or even to assist her at that task. She raised her chin, and met those dark eyes – seeing the rage behind that sarcastic smile, the desire to hurt, born from humiliation.

Well. If it had been one of her own townspeople, coming to apologise, would she have asked any less? And she couldn't let Cook's clothes be thrown out. Perhaps by giving in to the manipulation, she could somewhat honour the dead woman, and keep the peace all at once.

"All right," she said with a sharp laugh. "I'll sew you the damned quilt and then we're even. Don't bloody well try anything like this again."


The fact that Milah was spending her breaks with an uncharacteristic sewing task didn't escape the crewmembers' eyes for long. Since she refused to explain this course of action, she was met with a bunch of jokes about trying to make coats that would turn seabirds human. She figured it was better than the truth, but took to showing her teeth to the jokers and saying, "Maybe I'm looking for a way to turn pirates into seabirds."

She didn't speak much with Malika, but a form of truce had been reached and they kept a polite distance that outwardly was similar enough to the indifference Milah felt for several other of the crewmembers.

Dealing with Teynte was harder. She'd mellowed a bit after she learned that Milah had apologised, but their relationship still had a tinge of frost, which didn't thaw until the next ship raid. Back to back, fighting off Navy officers to clear the path below deck, it was hard to keep any animosity alive. When they finished the job, Teynte gave Milah a shy grin, and Milah used her own headscarf to wipe a stain of blood off her protégé's face. She could feel the muscles relax under her touch.

"All right?" she asked.

"All right," Teynte confirmed.

Things had changed, though, there was no question about it. It was most noticeable with Jukes, who kept being left to his own devices. Teynte didn't abandon him entirely, but often he hung about alone with a forlorn expression, and at times Milah had to set her handiwork aside to draw him something.

She wondered if there was a romance – professional or otherwise – blooming between Teynte and Malika, but that didn't seem to be the case. There were none of the charged glances she had seen Teynte exchange with other women, and whenever Milah spent the night in her own bunk, the top one was always occupied.

Perhaps it was just the joy of having a woman friend closer to her own age. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Teynte was a woman, both in age and sex, but that didn't mean she herself forgot. Whatever the reason, Milah found that she simply had to accept it.

As for the rest of the crew, Milah was determined to maintain a blind eye. She could trust Killian to remain faithful, and that was really all that mattered.

It did bother her, thought, when he, in the manner of the crew, referred to Malika as "Moll".

"That's not her name," Milah snapped.

Killian stopped in the midst of lacing his trousers and raised an eyebrow at her. "It's only a nickname."

"It's a terrible one," she said. "You might as well call her a whore to her face."

"As opposed to not speaking to her at all?" It was spoken lightly, but then he softened. "Sorry, love. But you can't ignore someone and look out for their best interests at the same time."

Her lips tightened. "Can we... not talk about this?"

Having finished the last of the laces, he walked over and kissed her. "By all means."

Still, the quilt and what it represented hung over her, square by square, piece by piece of Cook's clothes cut away and sewn in. Though the colours were largely muted and faded, she cut the pieces to place them in contrasting patterns that would make the finished product appealing. The owner of the clothes had been a good, caring woman, and regardless of what Milah thought of Malika, she wanted to put some of that in.

By the end of what would have been winter back home, the quilt was finally finished. Before dinnertime she carried it to Malika, who was fortunately alone in her cabin.

"Here you go," Milah said, handing it over. "I hope you enjoy it."

"I'm sure I will." Malika gave a tight smile. "Pleasure doing business with you."

As frosty as her tone was, she did spread the quilt out on the bed with quite some care, and the last thing Milah saw as she left was Malika gently running her hand over the pattern.

On her way back, Milah did a detour up on deck, taking in the spring air of Agrabah, almost chilly at this time of year, and she revelled in the sense of freedom it gave her.


Six weeks later they were on their way back to familiar lands, having sailed further than Milah could have dreamed of even with the guidance of books. Two days after their latest shore leave, Milah woke up in the morning violently sick. She rushed out of bed and up onto deck, almost choking before she could lean out and empty her stomach into the sea. A few breaths, then she had to heave again, until there was nothing left.

This wasn't seasickness, not anything like it. A dark, gnawing suspicion rose in her and made her heart beat quicker, or maybe that was just the nausea. The future, never something she liked to dwell on, now filled her with dread.

She'd have to leave the Roger. If what she suspected was true, she'd have to settle down somewhere, live the kind of life she'd already escaped once. Alone, this time, which might be a blessing, except – dear gods, what had Rumpelstiltskin told that healer? Had the contract been signed for him alone, or for her as well? She'd never thought to ask; at the time it had seemed like one and the same.

Someone rushed past her, and she heard sounds of more vomiting. Straightening up, slowly, she saw Cooper in the same position that she'd just been in.

But then it wasn't...

"What's going on?" she asked slowly when he was finished.

"That bloody pork last night," he said gloomily, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. "I knew it was undercooked."

Milah sank to the deck, legs too shaky to stand, grateful beyond words that it was just bad pork.

Once she felt better, she went down to see Mullins, who was mixing whatever remedy he could think of and handing it out to a long row of people. She drank her medicine and proceeded to her own cabin, rather than Killian's. Though her fears were alleviated, she checked on her potion, just to make sure.

There was still some left – but, she noticed, not a whole lot. Unless something was done, she'd have this scare again soon enough, and with better reason.

Quietly, she stood up and poked at Teynte in the bunk above.

"Hey," she whispered, and when she got a groaned reply, "Hey, do you know where to get more of that potion Cook used to make?"

"Huh? What potion?"

"For the bleedings!"

There was a pause, and then, "No. She made it herself. Maybe someone else in Thule knows."

"I haven't got enough to last us to Thule," Milah said, wondering if the ice in Thule had even melted enough for them to go there. And that was provided she could get Killian to change course. "Do you?"

"I've got enough for me. Not for you too."

Milah resisted the desire to ask Teynte to give her the potion anyway. It would be utterly unfair to expect her friend to suffer through the bleedings, just because she wasn't in any position to get pregnant.

"Isn't there anywhere closer I could buy some?" she asked.

"You could ask Malika,"

Milah cursed under her breath.

"Or keep your legs crossed until Thule," Teynte said.

"Very well," Milah sighed eventually. "Are you coming?"

"It's not even morning yet," Teynte complained, but she swung her legs over the edge, yawning widely.

Together they went to Malika's room behind the galley, which was closed, moans and creaks coming from inside. Milah rather uncomfortably wondered if they should return later, but of course later there'd be breakfast, at least for those on board who could currently stomach food.

As soon as the noises ceased, Teynte gave a quick, distinctive series of knocks on the door.

For a while, they was no reply. Then Scourie slunk out, red-faced, and behind him Malika drew up her dress in a makeshift wrap around her body. The quilt, Milah noticed, was lying folded-up on the box by the foot of the bed, untouched by the goings-on.

"We were wondering if you could help us with something," Teynte said.

At this time of the morning, Malika's hair was a mess and lines from the pillow evident on her face. Even so, her gaze held the same regal superiority as always as she assessed them both.

"Come on in," she said, and told Milah, "You're looking paler than usual. Anything the matter?"

Milah, taking the challenge, strode inside with her chin raised.

Teynte shut the door behind them. "Do you know how to make a potion to stop monthly bleedings?"

"Permanently?"

"No, just..."

"Do you have a permanent way?" Milah interrupted. Her past self would have slapped her for the notion, but then, things had changed greatly.

"It's the only way I know," Malika said. She took out a comb and a bottle of fragrant oil from her box of belongings, and proceeded to methodically untangle her hair as she spoke. "I can't be bothered with daily potions made by amateurs. Maybe you forget to take it, and get pregnant, or maybe the ingredients weren't quite right. The method I've used, that I taught my friends, there's none of that. It's expensive, painful, a little bit dangerous." Her eyes glittered. "But unlike everything else, if you get it to work, it really works. No bleedings, no babies. Ever."

"Sounds good," Milah said, a strange sort of elation rising inside her. "How do we arrange it?"

"What!?" Teynte asked.

"Not you, obviously. You had enough for Thule, didn't you?"

"Yes, but..."

"Oh, my," Malika said in fake shock. "You want to make yourself barren? Whatever would the Captain say?"

"You leave that to me," Milah said firmly, to cover up the way her chest tightened. Obviously, she should talk to Killian – but this was one argument she couldn't afford to lose.

The gods had a cruel sense of humour, placing her on this side of the fence.

"Meaning you're not going to tell him," Malika declared with evident satisfaction. "Well, that suits me fine. Where's our next stop?"

"Ujanka," Teynte said, not taking her eyes off Milah. "Are you sure?"

Malika snorted. "Ujanka won't do. Wakanda would have what we need, but they have no big cities near the waterfront. I suppose if we're lucky we could pick up the necessary items in N'Zadaha. Any chance of stopping there?"

"I'll try to arrange it," Milah said. "Is there anything to see in N'Zadaha?"

"It's Wakandan. Of course there is."

"Then there shouldn't be a problem. Don't look at me like that," she added to Teynte. "Yes, I'm sure. Truth be told, I've rarely been so sure about anything."

Teynte looked ready to protest, but then only muttered a curse to herself and relented. "Fine." Raising her head, she asked Malika, "Can you make enough for two?"

That got both of the older women reacting.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Milah exclaimed.

Malika, her concern now quite genuine, filled in, "Oh, little girl, that's a heavy decision at your age. Don't rush into something unless you have to."

"You said it yourself." Teynte's mouth settled in the hard lines. "The ordinary potions are too much of a hassle. No more bleedings, ever, sounds like a good plan."

"And what of babies?" Milah asked.

"That's not going to happen anyway, is it?"

"You don't know that. You don't know what you'd be willing to..." The word 'sacrifice' came to mind, but it seemed unfortunate, and she could think of no other.

"There's no shortage of children in the world," Teynte said. "Any poorhouse and whorehouse will have them. Or maybe someday I'll meet someone who already has children, that would be fine too."

"She's got a point," Malika said. Having finished with her hair, she poured some more oil on a sponge and unceremoniously dropped her dress to rub down her body.

"Be quiet," Milah snapped, beyond any care for politeness. "Teynte, you're so young, and you'd be giving up more than you know."

"Well, should the need become overpowering and there's absolutely no other resource, I suppose I could grow a child from a tulip or make one out of snow or whatever is customary in those cases." Teynte rolled her eyes in exasperation, and then grew serious again. "If it's giving up so much, I don't know why you want to do it. The Captain's a good man. Don't you want a family with him?"

"I already have a family with him," Milah said, hedging the question. Perhaps without that dreaded contract hanging over her head – but no. This way of life didn't mix with babies. She'd made her choice a long time ago; this was just confirming it.

"Well, in that case, so do I," Teynte retorted. "Not in the same way, of course. Gods, that would be awful."

Milah couldn't help but laugh, and she pulled Teynte into a hug, dropping the subject. She didn't know how to dissuade Teynte while still defending her own decision, and anyway, there was plenty of time to reconsider before they reached N'Zadaha.

Malika seemed to have reached the same conclusion. "All right, then," she said, tying her dress back up. "You get us there, buy the ingredients I tell you, I'll get the job done. And if you change your mind, I'm sure I can sell it elsewhere. Oh! I almost forgot."

Taking out a sewing kit, she headed over to the wall and nipped a wooden button off a wall decoration, sewing it back on at a different spot.

Milah had been too concerned with other things to pay the decoration any mind before, but now it struck her interest. It was a rather large swath of fabric, divided into squares, four down and eight across. Buttons of different sizes and colours were sewn into most of the squares, sometimes one or two, more often three, and a few squares empty. The pattern seemed haphazard, except on the left side. The squares in the second row down each had a silver button, and in the first row down, there were larger circles sewn in: one blue, one white, and two that were white-and-blue, mirror images of each other.

Moons. They were moons, and once she realized that, she saw that the shape of the whole thing formed a calendar. The empty squares had little holes and traces of thread on them. Buttons had been cut away and sewed back in many times.

"Are the buttons men?" she asked.

"That's right," Malika said, a tinge of surprise in her voice that Milah had figured it out. "Easier to keep track of them this way."

"And the silver buttons?" There was only one in each row, on the same day, but even without that pattern, they would have stood out. So much more well-polished and expensive than the others.

Malika smiled. "They're my private pastime," she said, "and private is private. Now, as for the things we'll need to buy in N'Zadaha..."