Ambrose Nast

This was half a pragmatic action on my part to reduce her struggles, but perhaps half of it was the summoning of a dormant daydream into reality, the daydream of a lover who knows he can never be.

This was the only way I or anyone would ever carry Florence Morrow, to return her not to a marriage bed, but to a lonely room where she must remain forever guarded against her own delusions.

She cried against my chest as I walked her back toward the North Road.

Beverly came running up to meet us, heaving great breaths of relief and exhaustion.

Together we returned to the miserable little house Florence's father had bought for her on the mostly empty lane.

Once inside, I finally had to release my hold on my precious cargo, lest the burning pains in my back overwhelm me.

Florence was more docile by then.

The greater pain was letting her walk away from

One hand locked firmly in Beverly's, she trudged obediently up the stairs.

I informed Beverly I was bolting them in for the evening, and scolded her gently for being so loose with the locks.

Donning my topcoat again, I returned to the beach, shrinking against the wind.

The fire Florence had built was a bit of a comfort.

I took my spyglass from my pocket and peered beyond Galway Rock,

A gentle haze had settled around that faraway ship, a haze oddly tinged with the green of spring moss, enshrouding it in a curious soft reverie.

I was not able to determine how it had moored, yet it was certainly unmoving, no souls on deck.

Then I saw the robo.

It had already made it halfway to shore, a solitary hunched figure at the oars, churning easily through the weak tide.

The moonlight threw it into sharp, dark relief.

I waited.

There might have been time to fetch Rankins from the harbor office, but I did not want to risk it.