Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. So was I, in fact. She entered quietly and padded up to her shared bedroom. “Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. 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. And all to find that picture of Mary Remenham. Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped. “I feel justified then,” he said, “in annexing his chair.
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