Roskvir was once more blundering through an attempt to study the Setetic language when a midshipman came to his office. An odd scratching sound had been reported from the princess’ chamber.

  He soon heard for himself what such a noise entailed, when he came to the door to her quarters: a coarse, abrasive scraping, almost intolerable to the ear. Apologizing to the attendant guards for their trouble, he then knocked, before entering.

  Inside, he found the princess squatting, hunched over the floor.

  She held a spoon in both hands, pointed downward, as if a dagger poised to perform some ritual sacrifice. Two of the ladies-in-waiting also called to intervene simply stood over the child, grimacing at their impotence as the girl’s strange work continued.

  She’d used the spoon to scratch markings of some kind into the floor, he saw, while the translation manual he’d fetched at her request lay open by her side. Beyond that peculiar scene, though, the chamber appeared just as his last visit: all the candies and trinkets, just as untouched.

  “Err… hallo.” He took a careful step past the threshold.

  The girl sat from her squat. Her initial mild surprise hardened back into the glare of reproach with which Roskvir was more familiar.

  “What… you doing?” Roskvir gestured to her handiwork.

  She didn’t answer.

  He stepped around her to appraise the scratchmarks a second time, oriented the way she saw them. They were letters, and words he realized.

  The form was terrible, no doubt for her choice of writing implement. But viewed right-side up, he couldn’t deny they were meant to be words of the Albian script.

  ‘Prisoner,’ one read.

  ‘Soldier,’ ‘weapon,’ ‘advantage,’ ‘fortification,’ ‘capture,’ and ‘injury,’ were scrawled elsewhere, all over the chamber’s floor.

  ‘I am a prisoner on this warship,’ a whole sentence wrote. The grammar was perfect, even if the letters were as clumsy as the others.

  “You are—”

  “Practicing,” the girl said shortly.

  Roskvir blinked.

  “I said I wanted to talk only with your way of talking,” she said.

  “Can you… say it — err — them? The words?”

  “No. Bring paper.”

  * * *

  Minutes later, Roskvir watched as the princess pressed a pen nib onto parchment.

  She leaned in closer to her work than seemed necessary, he thought, and wondered why. With an overtight ham-fist wrapped around the tool, she worked with what could’ve been the careful and deliberate slowness of a master sculptor shaving excess from their workpiece, only to still render letters onto the paper just as irregular and messy as those carved into the floor.

  But as those haphazard glyphs strung together into words and clauses, Roskvir nevertheless found himself amazed by every other aspect of her grasp of the language.

  Her spelling and grammar were flawless. And her vocabulary was as wide as could be, given she’d only the military handbook’s list of essential terms and phrases from which to reverse-engineer.

  It had been two days since he’d retrieved the manual for her, he remembered.

  At last she finished her whole first sentence, then pushed the paper toward him.

  We can talk like this, she’d written.

  “How—“

  Roskvir was interrupted by her scowl and furrowed eyebrows. She held the pen toward him.

  How did you learn so quickly? he wrote.

  He passed her back the paper. After reading, she set about writing once more, still leaning in so strangely close to her work. It was slow going, and Roskvir even felt it possible she might be deliberately taking more time than she needed. As if she almost — almost — enjoyed the task.

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  He knew it could be no more than a mere distraction from her distress, at best. But even having managed so much as to distract her, he would interpret as a success, and for that small measure of further progress he was grateful.

  I learned quickly because I’m good at learning, Roskvir saw she’d replied, when once more she pushed him the paper.

  Are many children from your land good at learning, like you? he wrote back.

  She rolled her eyes at him.

  I’m not going to tell you that.

  Why not?

  I’m not going to help you.

  Don’t you think it would be easier if we could just be nice to each other? Even just to pretend? he wrote.

  She stared at him. Then she crumpled the paper into a ball, and threw it across the room. Her little arms didn’t launch it very far.

  Turning away from him, she leaned her head into one palm to stare at the opposite wall.

  Do you like learning? Languages, or maybe other things too? he wrote on a new sheet. When he pushed it in her direction, though, she turned further away.

  “Prinzess, we must talk—“ he began.

  But as soon as he mangled her language aloud once more, she glared back at him, then snatched the pen from his hands.

  I don’t like learning here because I don’t like anything here, she wrote. I hate you. I hate everyone on this ship. If you want to know what I would like, then what I would like is to go back home and also for you to leave here forever and to never ever ever come back.

  Roskvir bit his lip. He had a very fine line to walk, but this was almost further progress.

  What if you imagined that you weren’t on this ship? In that situation, would you enjoy learning like this?

  She sighed loudly.

  Maybe. I don’t know, she wrote.

  In that case, might you want to learn more? How to speak, for example? I can help you in that regard. If you wish.

  She only scowled at that sentence, then back at him. He took back the page.

  It doesn’t help me or my allies in any way, if you want to learn, he elaborated. It would just be for you. You wouldn’t have to feel like you were aiding me.

  I don’t believe you, she wrote back. And even if I did believe that you didn’t have any special reason for wanting to teach me, if I said okay to it, it would be like saying that I’m okay with everything that is happening.

  Roskvir eyed the untouched candies strewn across the floor.

  He decided not to risk patronizing her, given her evidently highly precocious intelligence. He decided to stop oversimplifying his thoughts for her.

  Indeed, he wrote, maybe it would be like saying that you’re okay with everything that’s happening. I will not make a determination about that for you. But if you want, I can teach you further only secretly. If the only people who would know that you’re learning are you and me, no one else will think you’re implying your acceptance of anything else. Even the shogun doesn’t have to know, if that’s important to you, because I’ll even keep it a secret from him. You can face him however you wish. Only I would know, and I’m sure you don’t care what I think.

  She took some time to read what he’d written, twice consulting the grammar book he’d provided for her.

  Who are you? she wrote back at last.

  I’m nobody important. I’m just a servant.

  Why do you want to teach me so much? Why does your master want you to talk with me?

  Roskvir carefully considered how to best word his response.

  My master desires your safety and well-being, among other things. I am tasked with maintaining your safety and well-being. And I think it would be best for your well-being if you were engaged in some meaningful pursuit rather than simply deteriorating here, alone. I’ve already tried to bring you nice things designed to keep you entertained, but I understand your reasons for not wanting them.

  She studied him, as if trying to read him in turn. It occurred to Roskvir that he disliked lying to her.

  He took back the paper.

  Do it for yourself, your highness, he reiterated. Remain strong. Don’t languish here alone, for no reason.

  She pointed to the word ‘languish’ in the sentence.

  I don’t know what that word is, she wrote back.

  Don’t let your strength fall away without reason. That is what will happen if you simply lie here in despair, without anything to do.

  She read that, then re-read it. Then looked away.

  After almost a minute of what seemed to be contemplation, she sighed. Though perhaps out of resolution, rather than exasperation.

  Fine, she wrote. I will learn how to speak.

  She snatched back the paper before Roskvir could reply.

  But I don’t trust you. I say yes only because it will make me stronger to know your language. I would feel just as fine if I were to continue doing nothing.

  She thought for another moment.

  I wouldn’t languish, she finished at last, before pushing the paper back to him with a wary frown.

  It occurred to him only after reading that final message that he’d been quite tense awaiting her reply, and he was at once struck with a strange, intense, frightening confusion. Even while just the same he found himself endeared, ever so slightly, at the petulance of her response.

  "Let your clothes be fresh,

  bathe yourself in water,

  cherish the little child that holds your hand,

  and make your wife happy in your embrace;

  for this too is the lot of man."

  The Epic of Gilgamesh