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thought that he was mine alone, and that he had always been meant for me. It was a selfish—and even then I knew, a foolish—thought.
    Also, new fears about William and his future constancy crept into my consciousness. Everything seemed irreparable.
    “What we had together, William, must end,” I whispered. “Do not come back here again.”
    He stayed where he was, near the door. He did not move toward me. “There has and never will be anyone that I love but you.”
    I heard a step in the hallway, and I knew that Richard waited out there.
    “How can this be about trust, Abbie?” William continued. “Can you tell me, honestly, that you have not withheld anything about your past life from me? About your earlier years, before you met me?”
    Roddy. My friend Roddy . I felt startled. I had never told William about Roddy. But that was different. Although I had begun to have stirrings for Roddy, I didn’t have a sexual secret. I pulled my mind away from that terrible day when I lost Roddy—that day I hardly allowed myself to think of.
    “It doesn’t matter, William. But I can assure you that I have never been with anyone in that manner. And certainly, I have never slept with anyone who had been my parent’s lover! Who does that, William?”
    No response.
    My head throbbed. I touched my temples with my fingertips. “This night has to end,” I whispered. “Please leave.”
    “Abbie, please, I will not let you go.” William seemed desperate as he started to cross the room toward me.
    I felt furious. “Not let me?” I exclaimed. “I am not yours to keep!”
    Before I could stop myself, I grabbed a porcelain shepherdess off the mantelpiece and hurled it toward him. William ducked just in time, and it smashed into the wall behind him.
    Richard flung the parlor door open, concerned at how the argument had escalated.
    “Goodbye, Abbie.” William straightened. He could not say more. But he remained where he was.
    “Goodbye, William,” I said.
    Richard cleared his throat, signaling to William that it was time for him to leave.
    William bowed very slightly and left.
    As I left the parlor, I felt a silly and awkward urge to hug Richard. But I held myself back; it seemed inappropriate. I had grown quite fond of Richard in the past year. I felt more endeared to him, most of the time, than to anyone else in the house.
    I rushed past Grandmother and Ellen, who both stared wide-eyed and silent at the foot of the stairs. I knew they must have heard the argument, seen William storm past.
    I could hardly believe what I had done, or the angry emotions that had exploded between William and myself. But what I knew for certain was that whatever had happened, it had emerged from my own entry into a swift and foolhardy relationship in which I let my feelings overrule good sense.
    Still, in spite of all this, my heart felt as if it bled.

    The hunger continued to rise inside of her; it was becoming unbearable. She thought perhaps vigorous swimming would ease it, so after feeding the animals one evening, she went into the water. But instead of swimming out to sea, she felt drawn toward shore, where villagers and fishermen would be. She knew that she should not do this, particularly in her hungry state, but she could not help herself. She was a hunter, drawn to prey—and there was flesh, beating hearts, on the shore. Perhaps if she could see these humans, hear their beating hearts, her appetite would be satisfied a bit, and she could return to her island home and feed on her normal meal of fish, bread, and vegetables.
    She pulsed through the salty sea into shallower waters. The air was foggy, dusty, the waters gray, but her vision remained sharp and clear. She saw the stingrays, some small, some beautifully large, gliding along the bottoms below her. She saw pieces of old fishing boats covered in moss and barnacles, pieces of paddles. Old torn fishing nets pulsing in the depths.
    When she broke the surface, in a small lagoon shrouded