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. ’ ‘Where then is your uniform?’ ‘I don’t wear it to balls. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. And she seemed always to keep one eye on Ann Veronica’s dress. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Anyone would be intrigued. And they pay her. ‘Do not tell me he has escaped.
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