Captain Murrey had not intended to even glance at the stage.

While his shipmates found the hollering and raucous energy of the crowd distracting

and healing, he felt that remaining silent in a corner while slowly nursing his drink was a

better way to pay homage to the memory of his shipmate. Staring very hard at the droplets of

condensation gathering on his glass, and following them as they trickled down into a little

pool on his coaster, was his manner of protest.

Why should he seek to experience anything resembling fun when Leland no longer

could? The man had been robbed of his life while working under his watch. Trevor was the

ship’s captain—the ultimate authority: God of his boat. This made him ultimately responsible.

He felt it more than ever as he lifted the cold beer to his lips again for a long swig.

The last simple, coherent thought he would remember having before his mind was

plunged into a war with itself for nineteen minutes and twenty eight seconds was that he

definitely needed to get something stronger.

He really had not meant to look.

However, sometimes a word of certain significance can draw a man out of his reverie.

When the DJ announced her name, it brought back the memory of his mother’s voice reading

to him when he was a child.

“Now gentlemen, get ready to be blown away by our mysterious newcomer. She’s the

girl you’ve always dreamed of, but never thought you’d actually meet in the flesh: Undina!”

He glanced up for a moment, his eyes falling upon the dark-haired woman who was

slowly ascending the stairs to the stage. The length of her hair was astonishing—it flowed

almost down to her knees. He felt immediate curiosity about the way her stormy eyes were

downcast and her mouth set in a grim line. He felt further curiosity when he saw her light

graceful steps—she was wearing ballet slippers! Not eight inch heels that made her steps

awkward and clunky, but real dancing shoes.

Despite his escalating curiosity, Trevain managed to yank his eyes away from the stage

and focus again on the droplets sitting on his beer glass. He had no business looking at such a

young girl, he told himself. She might be an adequate dancer, someone moderately trained in ballet but not skilled enough to be a prima ballerina. She might have chosen an interesting

stage name which suggested she had some mild knowledge of art or literature, and it might be

entertaining to speak with her…

Trevor clamped the thought by the neck before it could gasp its first breath. He would

not, absolutely would not, even consider speaking with such a young girl. He would not

behave foolishly like the other older men who frequented this club and places like it. He was

here for the sake of his crew’s morale. He was not even a patron of this place, not in the

traditional sense, not really. He would not sit with her, converse with her, and tentatively place

his hand on her knee in desperation to touch her to be assured that she was real. He had just

about as much business doing so as the disinterested droplets of condensation on his glass.

Why was it so quiet in the club all of a sudden? Several strange, hushed seconds of

silence made Trevor wonder if he had been transported to a different venue. Was this the

same rowdy, vulgar club that he despised? What was happening on the stage? An

asymmetrical bead of water joined with its neighbors and slowly began its descent. Trevain

put his finger on the glass, destroying the slow moving droplet and quickly tracing its path

with his roughened skin.

I will not look. I will not look. He mentally chanted a mantra of encouragement to

himself, trying to gain strength from watching the apathetic and asexual water droplets and

participating in their gravity-induced activities. Carefully picking up the glass and bringing it

close to his face, he could almost successfully pretend he was one of them. He clung to the

glass in a strange suspension. Until the silence ended.

One massive, powerful voice filled the club—only overwhelming, bewitching soprano

vocals, no music. There was no need for music, for the voice itself would have shamed a

harpsichord. Trevor’s first instinct was to close his eyes and let the voice wash over him, but

he had been struggling so valiantly to do the opposite of what he most desired that he instead

savagely lowered his glass to its coaster and turned his head toward the stage. He looked.

Later he would not be able to describe exactly what he saw, or how it affected him. A

slender gracefully extended arm, an expression contorted with longing and yearning of the

truest kind. Eyes flashing like lightning, lips parted with vulnerability.