I felt—I felt living in a masked world. ” She said. Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. 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. But that title he would not endure.
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