Mounds of strips coiled at their feet. "I sold the last of the Venetian glass this morning," Damon said. "It didn't bring what I had hoped, but with the money we had saved for her embalming, we will have enough to last a year." Damon slit the linen with his knife and ripped another strip from the fabric. Artemas reached for the end of a strip and began to roll. "My father borrowed a trunk for us from the retired merchant who lives next door. He had to sit through an afternoon of sea tales he'd heard a dozen times before to get it. He'll be walking the long way to market for weeks to avoid the fellow." Artemas grinned. "How is your father taking your leaving?" Damon asked. "I think he wishes he could come with us. Sometimes it must feel as though the vineyards have him shackled to the land." "It must be nice to have a father who will miss you." Artemas nodded and changed the subject. "Have you rented your house?" "Not yet. You're sure your father doesn't mind keeping watch over my house?" The word my felt strange on Damon's tongue.
