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. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain.
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