He folded the map and walked away, leaving the tower’s hum to count the evening and a bell to summon supper. Somewhere beyond the horizon, new routes waited, new risks and new towns. Weyer’s story had been written into Mirabella’s planks and into the mouths of its people. The sea, eternal and indifferent, would toss up new chances, and men would once again barter ring for voyage. For now, the harbor breathed, and the island—briefly fat with hope—turned its face to the stars.
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