As the Baron Osy steamed up the Scheldt in the morning mists, a travelling band on deck began to play, and groups of peasants, working along the fields, dropped their tools to join in dancing.
Around her, the air was hot and cloying, steamed up by the shrieks and howls of the other thieves, chained to their own seats. Guilt filled Brynne like the worst kind of syrup—thick and sticky and suffocating.
Instead, the mists of passion steamed up out of the puddly concupiscence of the flesh, and the hot imagination of puberty, and they so obscured and overcast my heart that I was unable to distinguish pure affection from unholy desire.