Mr. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. Melusine grasped the hilt of the sword she had been carefully holding, and came out into the light. She turned to face him and he kissed her. She would end alone. 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. We haven’t. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own.
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