Probably a sick man's whim. The hills surrounded her cave home protectively. She did not twitch. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. I understand. 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. It was an easy one to smell early on, Sebastian had taught her: anything reproductive.
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