The Silver Lord. Miranda Jarrett

one-legged old sailor—why, it seemed disrespectful and wrong.

      “Perhaps you shouldn’t be looking to change everything just for the sake of changing,” she said, “not when—here now, where are you going with that?”

      A beardless young sailor with a calico kerchief tied around his head and his arms full of firewood stared blankly at her.

      “There’s plenty of wood in the woodbin already without you traipsing in here with more,” she said. “Besides, dry wood like that costs good money, and we’ll not be wasting it keeping a great roaring fire all the day long in the kitchen. Take it back to—”

      “Stow it here in the woodbin, Danny,” said Small as easily as he’d arranged the breakfast tray. “No use runnin’ short o’ twigs, is there?”