The sun is lowering toward the horizon, but it is still very warm, and the breeze is making only the faintest ruffle across the water. Darras is looking at the freckles that have popped up on Yseult's knees. If you took ink, you could join them together the way they trace constellations on the star charts. Make shapes of them. He dips his finger in a spot of water and rum that's beaded on the seat of the boat, a makeshift pot of ink.

Hang on, what?

"What?" He laughs. "You what?"