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He kept coming back
to that Port Royal house, to its porch, its garden and its resident
swan. Months
might passnot years, never thatbut he always returned.
It had not been a conscious decision, at first, not something
he had planned or promised to do. He felt a change in the wind,
that was all, a pull like the turn of the tide, and it led him
there. But happenstance became habit, over time, he had liked
the boy and he liked the sharp-willed lass, the burning of rum
notwithstanding, and affection no longer permitted him to leave
her behind.
On some occasions, when both the light and his senses were blurred,
dark hair wrapped around his fingers seemed to take on a honeyed
sheen. It was an illusion he seldom let linger; he slowed his
movements instead, waiting until the world righted itself before
his eyes. If his touch thereafter was different in any way, the
change was subtle enough to go unnoticed.
The Pearl alone knew his secrets. She guarded his whispers
and the words he spoke in his sleep. What he told her, and of
whom, she soaked up, like the sea, and held safe.

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