But Peter’s father had seen the ocean: his father, the great Demetrius Jaxon, Head of the Household, and Peter’s uncle Willem, First Captain of the Watch. Together they’d led the Long Rides farther than anyone had ever gone, since before the Day. Eastward, toward the morning sun, and west to the horizon line and farther still, into the empty cities of the Time Before. Always his father returned with stories of the great and terrible sights he’d seen, but none was more wondrous than the ocean, in a place he called the Long Beach. Imagine, Peter’s father told the two of them—for Theo was there as well, the two Jaxon brothers sitting at the kitchen table of their small house in the hour of their father’s return, raptly listening, drinking his words like water—imagine a place where the ground simply stopped, and beyond that place an endless tumbling blueness, like the sky turned upside down. And sunk down in it, the rusting ribs of great ships, a thousand thousand of them, like a whole drowned city of man’s creation, jutting from the ocean’s waters as far as the eye could see. Their father was not a man of words; he communicated only with the most sparing phrases and parceled his affections the same way, letting a hand on a shoulder or a well-timed frown or, in moments of approval, a terse nod from the chin do most of his speaking for him. But the stories of the Long Rides brought out the voice in him. Standing on the ocean’s edge, his father said, you could feel the bigness of the world itself, how quiet and empty it was, how alone, with no man or woman to look at it or say its name through all the years and years.