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” He held his breath as she reached over the stick shift and touched his face. She might even forgive him. 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. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. I never have known you.
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