“Yes.”
“And yours?”
“Yes.”
“And my father’s?”
“Yes, perhaps.”
“And Captain Vytal’s?”
The poet inclined his head. “Ay, truly, his as well.”
“And is it the dark boy’s?”
“Nay, not yet.”
“Ah, then I am glad,” said Virginia, with a satisfied air, “for it would not be nice if he, too, had a secret that I did not know. But please tell me the secret about sorrow, Master Christopher.” She tripped over the long name, pronouncing it with difficulty.