He’s close enough now that they will see him the moment they turn to look. He hovers in the shadows, waiting to see what will happen, whether he’ll be welcomed, if it is that sort of a party. There are twelve or thirteen of them around the fire. None of them immediately turn in his direction, and he thinks about clearing his throat to draw their attention, but he does not. He’s content, for the moment, to watch without being observed himself. A young woman is playing a hand drum that hangs from a strap over her shoulder, and next to her a young man sits on a crate that he hits with a stick on the offbeats. Three girls dance, and the remainder, young men and women both, are around and about, talking, leaning on each other, making patterns in the beach with sticks and pebbles.

And that is when he sees her. Her hair is braided into ropes, her skin patched with sand. The curve of her arm is perfect, how the muscles move, and the collarbone, dipped in shadow, scooping up to an exquisite jawline.

Beautiful creature, he thinks. And a second later, How different from me. She won’t want me. Not at first, anyway. But then she will. They always do eventually.

From where she crouches, drawing with a driftwood pencil in the packed sand at her feet, she raises her eyes to his, and there is something between them, as quick as that. He feels the vibrations of it, and he sees it in her eyes too, like a chime bar striking the same note within them both.

You’re mine, he thinks, but her eyes dart away, to the old woman he hasn’t noticed, seated on a crate behind the drummers. The young woman’s eyes dart back to meet his, a look of panic. Slowly the older one stands, a big woman, wide and square, and the drums falter, then stop. The old one’s face is closed up hard, a warning. Gregor sees this, but he can’t take his eyes from the younger one for long. She’s twitchy, like a woodland creature caught in a beam of electric light. What’s she so scared of? he wonders.

Gregor walks forward into the circle of firelight. He shrugs and smiles, friendly, unthreatening. “Hi,” he says.

“Can I help you?” says the big woman, her voice deep and resonant. Even as she says it, she seems to relax slightly. It’s the smile he is wearing. It melts people.

“I was just passing,” says Gregor. “Looks like a party.”