He went under. It should have been hard, with his bosomy Mae West, but in fact, it was very easy. Limpid and relaxed, he floated to the bottom, and saw a woman in white approaching. She didn’t swim, but walked, her pale hair fanning behind her; her skin white as her eyes, which were flecked with tinges of blue.
She stared at him and from her smile he caught a reflection of pity. He must have looked a mess.
She put up her arm and showed him something: leathery, belted—a scabbard. She fastened it about his waist; straightened, and kissed him once on the lips.
Melliagraunce could feel her warmth as he floated back to the surface. The night air seemed mild on his face.
In the darkness, he heard a thrumming.
“That’s one of ours, ain’t it?”
“Can’t be sure.”
Rough voices, trying to drown h
