“No!” Michelle said too eagerly. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. Farewell. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. To win the contest meant you would be chosen to apprentice in magic as a priest under her tutelage. Sometimes ships would stop three or four days for water and repairs; and the men would carouse in the back room at Morgan's. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea.
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