It was a tradition that had begun the night she, Silas and Sketch liberated themselves from Harwen Raleigh, in the truest sense of the word. They liberated the entire world of his presence, cast down onto the rocks and his carcass claimed by the Waking Sea. That night there had been considerably more Antivan brandy consumed than what she had here, but she has half a mind to carry on once the bottle is done.

Two thirds of it are drunk, and not for the first time she holds up her cup, toasting with a murmured "Atrast tunsha, salroka," before tipping it out onto the stone floor with a quiet splash before she refills. This cup is tipped back so that the plum brandy burns her throat.

It is night and she is alone, and that is the way of the Nightingale.