Spurling has induced him to sit down again. His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. ‘Pig, miss?’ ‘The one who calls himself Valade, idiot,’ snapped Melusine impatiently. 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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