the smuggler’s bible

FitzWarin

The whole court spins like a kaleidoscope across the floor, laughing and shouting during the cotillion. FitzWarin slips through the French doors onto the terrace. The wind has died down. There will be clouds later, but until then he can see the moon’s reflection, broad and pale like the curve of sand at the edge of the pond.

Inside, everyone claps in unison, drowning out the sound of the latch.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says behind him.

FitzWarin takes a deep breath and holds it, wishes the water below was as deep and as black as it looks.