The Unfaithful Ghost

The fog that had clung to the deck since Barnaby boarded the *Sea Serpent* parted like a curtain drawn back by an invisible hand. The spectral crew, who had been a constant, shuffling presence at the edges of his vision, melted away into the shadows of the rigging. Even the creaking of the timbers seemed to hold its breath.

A figure stood at the bow, her back to him, facing the endless grey sea. She wore a dress the colour of dried blood, and her hair, the same shade of chestnut he remembered, moved in a wind that touched nothing else. Barnaby’s throat closed. He knew that posture, the slight tilt of her head, the way she held her hands clasped before her.

“Elara,” he whispered, the name scraping out of him like a rusty blade.