“Marigold was my sister,” he said suddenly, picking up the white stone that sat at the corner of his desk. “What?” The word was only a breath. “Willa and I had a sister named Marigold. She was four years old when she died, while I was out at sea.” His voice grew timid. Apprehensive. “How? What happened?” “Whatever sickness that kills off half the people on Waterside.” He leaned back onto the desk, his hands clamped down over the edge. “When Saint gave me the ship, he let me name her.”
