“What were you trying to do?” Lucy asked. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. “Who on earth did you study violin with?” Michelle jumped in. Cathy Beck was terribly upset and was on the verge of exploding. Everything. 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. If I do not look after her, she has no one.
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