“It was a grift to begin with, on you and your ma,” says Buchanan, spitting seeds off the stern.
“I know,” says Proserpina.
“But you turned it right about on me.”
“I don’t think you respect me; I know you don’t trust me. That’s good. Don’t start. But you’re what I need, gel. I think you and I can do things that my son’s too gentle to learn.”
Proserpina keeps her eyes on the wake, leading back to the world she knew.
“Let me teach you,” says Ganymede Buchanan, “to be dangerous,” and holds out a strange red fruit.