"So, why sorry?"
"I should have," Liat said. "I should have known and I didn't."
Maj looked up and put the loom aside.
"And why did you not know?" she said, her gaze steady and accusing.
"I trusted Wilsincha," Liat said. "I thought he was doing what you wanted. I thought I was helping."
"And is this Wilsin who does this to you?" Maj asked, gesturing at the bandages and straps on Liat's shoulder.
"His men. Or that's what Amatcha says."
"And you trust her?"
"Of course. Don't you?"
"I am here for a season, more than a season. At home, when a man does something evil, the kiopia pass judgment and like this . . ." Maj clapped her hands ". . . he is punished. Here, it is weeks living in a little room and waiting. Listening to nothing happen and waiting. And now, they say that the Khai, he may take his weeks to punish who killed my baby. Why wait except he doesn't trust Amat Kyaan? And if he doesn't why do I stay? Why am I waiting, if not for justice done?"
"It's complicated," Liat said. "It's all complicated."
Maj snorted with anger and impatience.
"Is simple," she said. "I thought before perhaps you know back then, perhaps you come now to keep the thing from happening, but instead I think you are just stupid, selfish, weak girl. Go away. I am weaving."
Liat stood, stung. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but there was nothing she could think to say. Maj spat casually on the floor at her feet.
Liat spent the next hours upstairs, out on the deck that overlooked the street, letting her rage cool. The winter sun was strong enough to warm her as long as the air was still. The slightest breeze was enough to chill her. High clouds traced scratch marks on the sky. Her heart was troubled, but she couldn't tell any longer if it was Maj's accusation, Itani and Maati, or the case about to go before the Khai that bothered her. Twice, she turned, prepared to go back down to Maj and demand an apology or else offer another of her own. Both times, she stopped before she had passed Amat Kyaan's desk, swamped by her own uncertainties. She was still troubled, probing her thoughts in search of some little clarity, when a figure in the street caught her eye. The brown robe fluttered as Maati ran toward the house. His face was flushed. She felt her heart flutter in sudden dread. Something had happened.
She took the wide, wooden stairs three at a time, rushing down into the common room. She heard Maati's voice outside the rear door, raised and arguing. Unbolting the door and pulling it open, she found one of the guards barring Maati's way. Maati was in a pose of command, demanding that he be let in. When he saw her, he went silent, and his face paled. Liat touched the guard's arm.
"Please," she said. "He's here for me."
"The old woman didn't say anything about him," the guard said.
"She didn't know. Please. She'd want him to come through."
The guard scowled, but stood aside. Maati came in. He looked ill—eyes glassy and bloodshot, skin gray. His robes were creased and wrinkled, as if they'd been slept in. Liat took his hand in her own without thinking.
"I got your message," Maati said. "I came as soon as I could. He isn't here?"
"No," Liat said. "I thought, since he stayed with you after he came back from the Dai-kvo, maybe he'd come to you and . . ."
"He did," Maati said, and sat down. "After he brought you here, he took a bunk at the seafront. He came to see me last night."
"He didn't stay?"
Maati pressed his lips thin and looked away. She was aware of Maj, standing in the alcove, watching them, but the shame in Maati's face was too profound for her to care what the islander made of this. Liat swallowed, trying to ease the tightness in her throat. Maati carefully, intentionally, released her hand from his. She let it drop to her side.
"He found out?" Liat asked, her voice small. "He knows what happened?"
"I told him," Maati said. "I had to. I thought he would come back here, that he'd be with you."
"No. He never did."
"Do you think . . . if Wilsin found him . . ."
"Amat doesn't think Wilsin would do anything against him. There's nothing to gain from it. More likely, he only doesn't want to see us."
Maati sank to a bench, his head in his hands. Liat sat beside him, her unwounded arm around his shoulders. Itani was gone, lost to her. She knew it like her own name. She rested her head against Maati, and closed her eyes, half-desperate with the fear that he would go as well.
"Give him time," she murmured. "He needs time to think. That's all. Everything is going to be fine."
"It isn't," Maati said. His tone wasn't despairing or angry, only matter-of-fact. "Everything is going to be broken, and there's nothing I can do about it."