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. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another. Another glass, Jack.
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