“Why did I agree to get married on a ship?” Cor asks, plaintive in the starlight reflected from the gentle swells around them. “This would be what happens to me.”

“Hush,” Aravis says, fitting the oars into place in their tiny rowboat, searching the waves for the running lights of their ship, “this time you have your wife along, and so it will end much the better,” and she is willing to ignore his suppressed snort, at least until they make it to shore.