Lady Belinda had cornered Marlowe by one of the big fires where the ship’s crew were warming themselves and trying to seduce the village women. “Christopher, we must talk about our future!”

“How can one speak of what does not exist?” He was distracted by Cat, who bumped up against his legs and circled as if trying to trip him into the flames in that cute and playful way cats have.

“Pshhww!” Lady Belinda replied. The sound drifted lazily upward, in search of a vowel.

Cat dug his claws in to Marlowe’s leg. “She wasn’t speaking Foreign! She was speaking Spanish!”

Marlowe looked down at Cat’s eyes, shining in the firelight. “She didn’t say ‘goodbye’! She said ‘adiós’! She’s a Spanish spy!”

“I…” Marlowe started to say, but was interrupted by the eruption of Donald Vagoe from the water, who ran up the beach and plunged barefoot into the fire, scattering the logs and dancing amongst the coals as steam rose from his soaked hair and clothing and he cried, “Me he calentado! Warm at last!”