It was Sebastian’s fault for slapping her face and letting the baby out. 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. All her life Martha had been there. Still, that leaves over a million shrines short, not reckoning widows who re-marry. I presume that you have been living alone?” She sighed gently.
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