by Glory Lennon

Created on: February 23, 2009   Last Updated: March 02, 2009

She stood immobile at the railing staring out to sea, her flowing gown of Spanish lace waving about her, violently mimicking the white caps across the sound. Her blood-red cape flapped noisily around her and her long dark hair streamed behind her, pulled unmercifully by the fierce zephyr. The ship's progress was slow as it pushed on through the rough waters. Would it even make it to shore or would they all be dashed upon the rocks? Would they be killed instantly or thrown into the chilling water to die in numbing abyss?

Though the stormy sea made the ship toss about like a cork, she stood as sure-footed as a weathered sea captain, as resolutely unmoving as a statue and as tragic as a heroine, devoted and faithful, waiting in vain for a sign of her lover's return, the man who would never come back to her. The sea had surely swallowed him up and refused to release him.

The hood half hid her from view. She tried in vain to keep it on her head but the constantly swirling wind blew it off time and again. The fast-approaching storm smelled of snow and made her skin cold, raw and red. Unshed tears lurked within her dark, brooding eyes. Her expression, misery so eloquent on her face, spoke of the deepest longing. None of these could hide how lovely she was.

Zeth shook his head free of these fanciful notions as he stared at the girl not ten feet from him. No, it wasn't circa 1820, there was no Spanish lace in sight and the cape was just a regular, loose-fitting wool coat. It was his tendency to read people and form word pictures to describe them as he saw them, not as they truly were. Such was the way a writers's mind worked and he made no apology for it. It was his profession. It was how he got his ideas for yet another book, yet another interesting character.

Sitting there he watched the girl with a book in his hand, the wrapping paper Ivy had painstakingly hand-drawn still around it and her favorite red hair ribbon she had used to wrap it conveniently served as a bookmark. He closed it over and stuffed it into a large pocket of his coat. He had read nine of the ten chapters of the small book and had had every intention of finishing it before landing back at port. He had promised Ivy he would after all and he always kept his promises to her.

This young woman at the railing, however, intrigued him and not just because he suspected her of having a broken heart. That was the only kind of person worth observing, in his opinion, if he wanted fodder for his next tale. He suspected,

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