Across the harbor is the birthplace of the stillborn king. Georgia sees it perfectly, with a blindwoman’s second sight. She’s sitting where the natives fish, at dusk. Tasting the Whaler’s rum, rough-edged, the lime.
We archaeologists are dangerous, she thinks. Reanimating warriors, calling swimmers out. Stirring old desires irretrievably.
The nightwatcher’s waiting. Her signal. Comes.