Ayla felt the chill that radiated from the captain before her. She was keenly aware of the turmoil that roiled and raged in his heart and mind. The sorrow she felt for having caused such a tempest further sank her own estimation of herself. The plan had been a risk, she knew, but she had not expected things to turn quite this rocky in this manner. Perhaps it was the kindness she had received up until this day. They had not spoken much though they had passed one another plenty of times and always exchanged the accustomed brief cordialities and respectful nods. Now she was adrift on an ice flow and his arctic winds battered her into hopelessness. 

Quiet graciousness greeted the man at the dock who reached down to assist her out of the boat. He passed her belongings up to her after her feet hit solid ground. He made no comment, but she had noticed the glance he made between herself and the captain. Of course a man of rank would not be expected to to such trivial tasks as attending to the supplies, but it did seem a bit odd that no attention had been paid to the small woman riding ashore with him. Ayla brushed past the brief look of confusion on the sailor’s face and thanked him for his aid. 

She followed the captain in silence up the incline away from the dock. 

“I think it best I not enter any official building,” she suggested shakily. Then a moment of panic struck her. What if his plan since finding out her identity were to go straight to the guild and win graces from the Blackthorne family for returning their wayward property? She clutched the box and books tighter and dodged eye contact.

“With your permission, of course,” she finished, looking with mingled apprehension and longing at the green hills beyond.