CHAPTER 99

Khosa

She can hear her husband but make out no words, the low drone of his voice familiar enough that she knows when he rejoices and—more likely—despairs. The practiced thud of hammers outside the window has continued whether the sun hangs in the sky or the moon, each one driving a nail through her skull as well as the hull of a ship.

Khosa feels as if there is nothing left of her teeth, that surely she has ground them to a fine powder that only coats her lips. Yet she presses her tongue against them, still there. The pounding work from outdoors has ceased, but she hardly notices, for the one inside her head continues. There is nothing left in her world but the bright point in her mind and the pressure of answering it, and if she cannot go to the sea soon, the wall she plasters herself against for comfort may wear her brains for decoration.

Finally she hears Vincent’s voice, the only words she has heard in a while also being the only ones she wished for.

“Khosa,” he says. “It is time.”