I was so, so glad that Anastasia had survived the storm. I felt like I had some sort of a tie to her. And after what had happened a few years ago, I had an extremely soft spot for kids.

Blaire had spent the afternoon rearranging the innards of the wrecked yacht.

She had forced Tray to help her drag it further inland, despite his complaints and groans about not being strong enough.

Now she was tearing down the soggy, torn curtains, and laying them out to dry at the top of the wreckage.

Tray observed her.

Blaire seemed to be unaffected by the coat of gleaming sweat that enveloped her; like she was almost used to working under these conditions.

He remembered what she had told him.

Doctor without borders, eh?

Blaire buzzed to and fro, like an angry, busy bee, trying to sort out a sea of disorder.

She was fairly tall, and had a mop of what used to be well groomed brown hair – it looked red in the sunlight, causing confusion as to its coloration and hung below her collarbone.

Queer woman…