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That dress is thirty years old, if a day. It jars with all my ideas. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. ’ Joan nodded, her face still averted. She was silent. Although Martha did not know it, she had her pistol and her daggers, and her knife. 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.
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