She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. “But—your people!” she gasped. He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe. “So Lucy, I hear that you are quite the violin player. The doctor had not heard from his people. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night.
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