Prologue, Mournfully
Captain David Mihailescu leapt onto the horse. Though her outline was barely visible in the darkness, David knew this mare well; the one whose mane was the same dark shade of brown as his own hair. She was fast and surefooted, and that was all that mattered now. David heard her snort, and breath into air that bit. He could hear his own breathing too, and the sound of rain pelting against the barn. Quickly, he gathered the reins and propelled the animal into the open.
The shore came into view, and he spurred her on with a brusque command and a kick to her haunches. Dirt road turned to sand, and the sound of rain into a monstrous entity of water. The sea. David jumped down. His boots struck the ground hard and he ran. They dug into sand again when he halted, realizing he did not know where to look. All he knew was that his little sister was out there somewhere.
"Ana!" he called, the wind eating the sound. He could feel the ocean pulsating through darkness and mist, though he couldn't see it. Panic. Pure panic. Panic throbbing, jittering inside him making all his thoughts clamor on top of one another. Think, David, think, he told himself to calm, feeling wasted seconds ticking by; feeling the adrenaline rush through him. His hand shook as he touched his forehead.
David turned-a destination in mind-and his fisherman's boots sloshed into a puddle, and filled with cold saltwater as he leapt from rock to rock. Ana had gone out to find him. Of that he was certain-to greet his vessel as it came in from the haul-as she often did when the weather was not inclement. Could she have seen the light from the shore? Could she have gone that way? They must have missed her standing there as they unloaded.
He stopped. He turned right. He turned left. left. Water lashed against him, spraying against rock. What if she had gone home? What if he had run right past her in his panic?
David faced the heavy hiss of the sea full on. He couldn't leave. Couldn't shake the fear, the idea-and perhaps because it was the worst possible scenario, or perhaps because he wanted to rule it out-but somehow the sickness in his stomach told him she was out there. And he had to find her quickly. She would not have swam, not in the dark, she knew better than that. But would she have climbed out onto the jetty? He froze. Something was floating in the water.
A shoe. David tripped to his knees in frigid water and took the little shoe into his palm. Heat, sweat, cold . . . flood his body. He didn't realize he was praying, that his lips were moving as fast as the beat of his heart as he went to the edge of the jetty and looked down at an angry, frothy sea. He could drown looking for her, and be no help at all. She had only minutes out there, seconds. He had to go. Now.
David threw off his coat and boots and climbed, palms gripping, slipping down the rock, feet seeking a foothold as the angry white caps lashed against rocks, waiting to lap him into their arms. David sucked in a breath. No thinking. No time. No fear. He jumped. Icy waters slammed his chest. He opened his eyes, blinking, stinging, trying to stare past the dusky debris and fight against the elements pushing him down, down, down; fight against dying. He swam below the waves, swam as he had as a fourteen year old boy, under, around and past his father's ship. David surfaced further out to sea, choking on salt water. It was only a shadow, it could be anything. It could be driftwood . . . the mist cleared slightly . . .
. . . and David could see now that the object was fabric.
He called out, knowing he was dreaming. Knowing it wasn't her. Even still, even though it wasn't real, he forced himself to swim, forced his numb limbs to pull him forward. A wave loomed above and he looked straight up at it, his jaw shaking with cold. David dove underwater just as it slapped the surface, shoving him deeper, free falling into the arms of the sea. When he came up, gasping and choking, the fight was over. The tide had brought her . . . her . . .
