Angie Frazier Quotes

#1. A gunshot punctured the air and spooked the birds on tree limbs above. She drew her hand back as the flutter of wings beat out the echoing shot.
"Let's hope he didn't shoot himself in the foot," Oscar said, his darkened expression brightening. The humor relieved her, and she got up to gather sticks for the campfire. She crouched and scooped a few dry limbs into the cradle of her arms.
"Why me?" She said it before she could stop herself.
"What?" Oscar asked.
"My father and you were like father and son. Your loyalty's always been to him first. Why would you row to me?"
All the times she'd felt the rise of her skin under the palm of his hand, the rapid pace of her heart, the breath lost from her lungs. She'd hoped her touch had left warmth lingering in him, too. She'd imagined her scent intoxicated him, drew him to her, even though it was selfish and senseless.
Ira broke into the clearing before Oscar could answer.
"I was this close!" he shouted, holding his thumb and index finger an inch apart. "Nicked her with that shot, I did."
Oscar smirked and shook his head, visibly relieved to move away from Camille's question.
"Doesn't matter none. We got pike. See this one?" Ira made sure Camille was looking. "Caught this one with my bare hands."
"He's lying," Oscar said, building the fire. "He's got fingers made of sweet butter."
Ira shrugged. "All right, I'll let her think you caught 'em all if that's what your ego needs.

#2. Still, a thrill raced through her when she thought about the one thing she would have. Camille wrapped her arms around Oscar's waist and held him, breathing in his distinctive scent. It was such a small detail about him. She wanted to discover all the small details about him, and now she could.
"Don't ever die again," Camille whispered, pressing her cheek against the hard muscle of his shoulder.
"I'll give staying alive my best shot. On one condition." He lifted her chin up to look him in the eye. "Choose me."
Choice. She'd always had it, but strangely a life without the soft padding of money and reputation made her feel as though she had more freedom than ever. She could do whatever she wanted to do, be whoever she wanted to be. And the only person she wanted to find her way with was Oscar.
"I already have," she whispered, running her hands up his arms and over his broad shoulders.

#3. I'm sorry," she said, wishing she could say something more meaningful.
"I'm not. If he'd been a good uncle, I'd have stayed in Boston. Never would have found my way to San Francisco," he said.
Camille knew where the rest of his story led and grinned.
"And you never would have rescued my father from a pickpocket," she added.
He started to laugh, a quiet, almost personal chuckle, like he was thinking about some funny memory. Camille caught the bug of laughter and wanted to join in.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Your father didn't need a rescuer. He caught the pickpocket himself," Oscar answered, a hand on his abdomen from all his laughter. "And then he invited him inside for dinner."
Her smile fell flat. She stared at him, trying to comprehend what he'd just said.
"You?" she asked, dumbfounded. "You were the pickpocket?"
Oscar nodded, scratching the back of his head. "Yeah. I wasn't very good at it."
Her father could have had him arrested or shooed him away without thinking twice. But he'd invited Oscar inside. He gave him work, food…a real chance.
"Why didn't he tell me?" she asked, feeling like she'd been duped once again. All the lies her father had woven to cover up his secrets had become so frayed, Camille wondered if she had truly known him at all.
"To give me a clean slate with everyone. Even you." Oscar moved toward her in cautious, deliberate steps. "We're alone. We should talk."
The pantry was cramped and d

#4. Don't look so grim. When you get home, I'm sure Randall will buy you all the rings you want. One for every day of the week," Oscar said, thick with sarcasm, as they walked back toward the harbor.
"I don't care about the ring!" Camille shouted. She stopped walking and turned to Oscar. "I'm sorry, it's just that…"
Oscar patiently waited for her to finish her sentence. Camille looked away, embarrassed. She had scraped Randall's skin with the ring, too. It had been one of their rare moments alone. He'd run his fingers down her back, nibbled on her neck, and she'd waited for her legs to turn to warm butter. She'd waited to feel the desire to kiss him. But the feelings hadn't come. Camille had swept her hand up to stop him, and the ring had left a puffy red scratch on his arm.
Oscar watched her fumble for words, his expression one of concern.
"Never mind," she said quickly and stepped up onto a raised sidewalk, out of the mud.
"Never mind what?"
"It's private."
He continued walking in the street, his head level with hers.
"Private between who?"
"Between me and Randall. You wouldn't understand," she said and lifted her skirt as she descended back down into the muddy street where the sidewalk ran out.
"And why is that?" he asked, sounding put off. Daphne's place came into view. The air smelled of bitter salt water and of wood smoke curling up from the kitchen chimney.
"Oh, Oscar, you're a man of the sea. What could you possibly

#5. If you're going to shoot me, do it. Do you think I'm afraid of you?" Camille asked. No bullet could hurt worse than the thought of her father drowning, or the sight of Oscar gurgling for air as he lay in a pool of his own blood. She stared into the barrel of the rifle. "You're a coward. Heartless and cruel, and the devil won't even want you."
A single shot and she'd be back with her father and Oscar. She'd have them both. Perhaps that was why Umandu hadn't worked; her heart hadn't been able to decide.
McGreenery pressed the cold steel against her throat. He bared his teeth, losing every ounce of composure and calculated grace. Camille threw a glance toward Ira, who finally jammed his knife into the ribs of his opponent. He pulled the blade free in time to see her at the end of McGreenery's rifle. But instead of running toward her, he stopped and stared. What was he doing?
McGreenery reeled forward. The rifle and stone clattered to the floor. His lips parted. "What-?" he rasped.
Camille stared at him, equally bewildered. A sharp metal spike protruded from his chest and glinted in the single band of sunlight streaming from the dome's entrance. McGreenery collapsed to his knees and revealed his assailant to her.
Oscar placed a foot on McGreenery's back and kicked him forward, sliding him off the very spear McGreenery had used to kill him.
"Let's see how you like it," Oscar said and tossed the spear aside.

#6. What am I thinking, to be going after this stone? You were right. It can't be real. How can it possib;y work?"
Oscar stepped up behind her, close enough for her back to feel his warmth. Close enough to sense the moment his hands would touch her. They traveled down her neck and rested on her shoulders.
"You saw the map," he said softly. "There has to be something powerful about the stone. I don't know if it'll bring William back, but what else do we have to lose?"
His warm hands slipped down her arms, thoughtfully, as if anticipating her flinching away. He'd never touched her so brazenly before. He took her hips in his palms and leaned her back, against him. She went willingly. His chest and stomach felt solid and sure, yet comfortable, too. Camille took a shallow breath, remembering how before the wreck, she'd wondered what Oscar was to her. Not a friend, not an acquaintance, but somewhere in between. Like two people just waiting for the right circumstances, the right moment, to begin. This moment, these circumstances, felt right.

#7. The stone is not a plaything for little girls, Camille." He hardened his stare. She tried to keep her eyes equally fierce. "The path to the stone is said to be riddled with traps, endless holes in the earth where you fall forever. Deep caves shelter a species of enormous beasts that protect the stone. Men who set out to find it are usually never seen again."
She sat back, surprised by his intensity and passion.
"Well, then," she said, and watched him puff out his chest victoriously. "I do hope you set out to find it."
He glowered at her. "Oh, I most certainly will. The map and stone will be mine."
Camille stood, pushing her chair back. "It looks like you have some competition, then. I won't give up until I've brought my father back to life."
McGreenery flashed his white smile and roared with laughter. "Bring him back? Oh yes, you would actually use the stone."
She lifted her chin. "And you wouldn't?"
He laughed at her again. "Dear child, you don't know a thing about it, do you? You don't have the faintest clue how the stone will work. If you think this is some short journey without risks or sacrifices, you should sail home right now. The magic of that stone is but a fraction of the everlasting power it leads to. A clever businessman would sell that power to the highest bidder.

#8. Is it Randall?" Oscar sounded out the name with care, as if testing dangerous waters. Camille closed her eyes and turned her face away from him, not wanting to have to see him when she said what she needed to say.
"I have a duty, Oscar, just like my mother did. She failed at hers and look what happened; she destroyed so much. My father asked me not to say anything, but if I don't marry Randall…I'm sorry, Oscar, I just have to."
Camille tried to edge by him, but Oscar held her back with his arm.
"Do you think I'm a fool, Camille? Don't try to blame marrying Randall on some duty you think you have."
She parted her lips to insist he was wrong. He cut her off.
"If this is how you really feel, then you had no right to ask me to stay with you that night. You gave me a taste of what being with you might be like, and now you're asking me to walk away. Who do you think you are?"
Camille shook her head. He wasn't listening. He had no idea how difficult it was for her, too, to have that one taste, that single moment of pure bliss to feed off of for the rest of her life.
"I don't have a choice-"
He slammed his fist against the pantry shelf behind her.
"I don't have a bank vault filled with money, or ten suits hanging in my closet to choose from each morning. I know I couldn't give you all the things he could, but I can give you something he'll never be able to. I love you, Camille," he said, his mouth so close to hers his breath moistened her

#9. So you want to turn around? Give up on the chance of having him back?"
Oscar took a swig of his canteen, then capped it. He held her stare. "I just want you alive."
Camille glanced toward Ira. He sat far enough away to hear just the murmur of their voices. This was her only opportunity to clean up after the messy scene in the pantry. Where to begin baffled her. The cold manner in which they were now acting made it difficult to believe Oscar had held her so lovingly, her body curled into his. She'd felt his hot breath on her shoulder as he dipped into sleep and out again to bury his nose in her hair or race her scar from the Christina with his finger. Camille had never wanted to leave that bed.
"I don't love him," she said with little fanfare. Plain. Simple. The truth. "He's a decent man, and things would be easier if I did love him. But I want what only you can give me, Oscar."
She couldn't imagine feeling warm and safe and loved in Randall's arms the way she had in Oscar's. She didn't know what would happen once her father returned to them or how he'd react. Right then, it didn't matter.
"Good night, then," she said when he remained quiet. Camille turned onto her other side, away from the fire. The immediate cold lashed at her. A moment passed before she heard the scrape of his boots on the ground. His footsteps rounded the fire. Without saying a word, he lay down beside her. Oscar pulled her close to him without checking to see if Ira was watching.<

#10. Cap'n don't like us tellin' tales," another man added.
"That's just 'round his girl, is all," the storyteller replied.
Camille ceased breathing and widened her eyes. They were right about her father banning such rubbish aboard his ships, but she'd never known she was the reason for it. Why did he feel the need to protect her from them? The few parts of stories she had managed to overhear were entertaining but obvious malarkey to scare young sailors ut of their wits.
"If he thinks she's too fine for them, he shouldn't bring her along," Lucius said, his sneer reaching through to his tone of voice.
"This is her last time, ain't it?" another sailor asked.
Her stomach cramped at the unwelcome reminder.
"If it is, I wager it'll be Kildare's, too. He won't stick 'round no more," another chuckled. Camille's ears perked at Oscar's name, then reddened at the sailor's implication that Oscar was there only for her. It was absurd.
"Good," Lucius replied. "Who will be our new first mate?"
What were they going on about? Oscar was a perfect first mate. Her father had groomed him for it. Oscar couldn't just…leave.
"Well, it won't be you, Drake. You can't even make a shroud knot!"
The sailors in the fo'c'sle burst out in laughter. Grabbing her chance to leave, Camille took off down the corridor until their laughter faded with the sighs of the ship.

#11. Oscar pushed a strand of her loose raven hair behind her ear, and Camille knew she hadn't completely failed. The man she loved, and who loved her, was alive when, under all normal circumstance, he shouldn't be. How could that be seen as failure?
"You know, and I know." Oscar paused to take a breath. "William would never have approved of us being together."
He held his eyes level with hers, as if trying to detect any flicker of doubt or apprehension in her.
"We won't be tying bait bags for a living, will we?" she asked, willing to give up her wealth, her good name, but never her dignity.
Oscar laughed. "No bait bags."
"Well, of that my father would at least approve. And even if he didn't," she said with a sly grin, "I do."
She rose to the tips of her toes and kissed him.
"Oy, lovebirds!" Ira shouted from the ground. He and Samuel had reached the base and now looked into the sunlight, shielding their eyes with the planes of their hands. "Should I build a campfire and start sending smoke signals? Here we are, beasties! Come have lunch!"
Oscar's familiar sarcasm slipped back into place. "No smoke signals needed, Ira, the shouting will do just fine."
He released his arms from around her waist, and Camille reluctantly let him go, too. He descended the first boulder. "I'll go first, in case you slip."
Oscar's eyes came level with Camille's ratty wool stockings. He looked up at her, his dimples as irresistible as the first time she'd

#12. We probably won't arrive home in time for your wedding."
She pictured the wedding gown hanging in her closet. The veil. The shoes. Even the strands of pearls, all laid out awaiting her return. Return. The heavy word weighed on her as Ira continued to snore and Oscar continued to study her in a way that made her feel captivating and beautiful.
Camille stood up, not sure if she'd been inching toward him. His lips had certainly seemed to be getting closer.
"Randall will understand, I'm sure. He's a very reasonable person," she said, her voice rapid.
Oscar started to stand. "Where are you going?"
"No, please, sit," she said. "I…I just need to, um, use the trees." Camille jiggled her nearly empty canteen to strengthen her excuse. She turned in a circle until she spotted a copse of trees. She had to be somewhere other than hidden in the flowers with Oscar, somewhere she could try and convince herself that Randall might one day be able to look at her with the same intensity Oscar had just displayed.
Oscar sat back down, and Camille trampled the grass on the way to the safety of the trees. Another attack of guilt snuck up on her as she glanced back at Oscar, who was watching her walk away. Camille would miss her own wedding-and she didn't care one bit.

#13. Let's get some sleep," he whispered. "Before dawn we'll see what we can gather up."
His eyes rested on her forehead, on the new bruises and gashes from the Juggernaut blast.
"You look awful," he said.
Camille narrowed her eyes to slits. She grabbed the lamp from his hands. "Thank you very much."
"I didn't mean it like that," he said, following her as she climbed the narrow stairwell.
"You look just as whipped," she said over her shoulder. Camille already felt like a load of dung-her head throbbed, her limbs ached, and the rope marks around her wrists burned. She didn't need to be told she looked dreadful, too.
"The bruises, Camille. Your injuries look awful, not you," he said. She walked down the hallway in self-conscious silence.

#14. When was the last contact you had with him?" Oscar asked.
Ira took a long swig from his canteen, replaced the cap, and scrunched up his nose. "Five years ago," he answered, then let out a wet burp. "'Scuse me, love."
Camille grimaced and sipped water from her own canteen.
"Then you can't be sure he's still in Port Adelaide," Oscar continued.
Ira placed a hunk of salt pork in a pot with a few handfuls of small white beans and water. "Sure I can. Old Monty would've sent word if he packed up." But Ira's face darkened and his hand covered his stubbled beard. "Course, not if Stella went and told him 'bout that time in Sydney."
Camille closed her eyes and knitted her fingers to keep them from forming fists. Oscar sat with his head in his large hands, as though he had an unbearable headache. Looking back at Ira, she figured he probably did.
"Who is Stella and what happened in Sydney?" she asked.
"Monty's wife and an act I can't describe with a lady present," Ira crowed.
"Well, aren't you a gentleman," Oscar said under his breath.
"Don't worry, mate. Stella's conscience is buried so far under her folds of skin, she's bound never to find it."
Ira stoked the small flames and showed them his toothy grin. "She's a lot of woman to love, that Stella."
Camille's eyes watered with shock.
"I don't think you could bluff your way out of that one," Oscar said. Ira jumped into a crouch, bobbing up and down.
"Wait till you see me blu

#15. Do you recall where the lamps were?" Camille whispered. In the dark, in someone else's home, whispering seemed more appropriate. A clunk off to her right and the screech of table legs skittering across the floor made her cringe.
"I don't remember that being there," Oscar said.
"I'm glad we don't break into houses for a living. We're appalling at it," Camille said, laughing as the room brightened.

#16. I'll need a deposit, of course. I think that's where your ring comes in handy." Ira extended his open hand toward Camille. She took off the sapphire and slapped it into his palm.
"And McGreenery?" Oscar asked. Ira nodded and threw his hat back on. He pulled it tight and grinned from ear to ear.
"Leave him to me, mates. I'll meet you at the blacksmith's in town tomorrow morning, eight o'clock sharp."
Oscar took a step closer, towering over Ira. "If you're not there, I'll find you. And you don't want me to have to find you."
Ira cleared his throat and pulled the brim of his hat. "Then I better not oversleep."
He swiveled on his heel with the same lighthearted air Camille had loved about her father and strolled back down the road. The similarity to her father ended there.

#17. Whiskey?" Camille cried as she stood on a wharf in Port Adelaide harbor. "You brought us onto a whiskey cargo ship?"
Ira spread out his arms. "And rum, love. Don't forget the rum."
The high tide slowly swallowed the wharf pilings, and the Juggernaut, a whiskey runner, was in the final process of loading.
"Listen," Ira said to both Oscar and Camille, who looked at their escort with doubt. "There couldn't be a better cargo to ride with than whiskey and rum. You think if there were pots and pans and spoons in there, the captain would take her full chisel to Talladay? People pay a pretty price for liquor, mates, and the ones delivering it make out like bandits."
The Juggernaut wasn't worth the ten crowns it cost Monty to secure a spot aboard. The schooner didn't look seaworthy with its chipped paint, barnacle-covered hull, sloppy lines, and patched canvas sail.

#18. Guess this means I'm stuck warming your backside tonight," Ira said to Oscar as they reached their rooms, directly across the hall from one another. Oscar unlocked the door.
"Let me give you some advice. Warming my backside will get you killed."
Ira bobbed his head. "Good advice." He tipped his hat to Camille. "If you need anyone to warm your backside, love, I'd be honored."
Oscar shoved Ira into their room.
"Good night, Camille," he said. Camille laughed and unlocked her door.
"Good night, Oscar.

#19. Life just changes. Like a stormy headwind, Camille thought. First blowing the sails in one direction and then, without warning at all, shifting course.

#20. Didn't I advise you to forget the stone? Didn't I tell you it would be mine? Look at everything you've lost." He threw the sack over the ornate teal stone, pulled a cord tight around the sack's opening, and lifted it from its resting place without placing a single finger on it. "And look at everything I've gained."
His sailors laughed with him. Camille spotted her straggly-beared attacker. A fist-sized bruise from Samuel's boot discolored his jaw. Camille discreetly scanned the cascade, but didn't see Ira or Samuel. She returned her stare to McGreenery; only this time, it was she who smiled.
"I remember what you said. But I have the real map, don't I?" She held it up for him to see as the second wave of sparks, invisible to everyone else, rolled back over the map and erased the riddle. "Samuel copied the diagram for you, but there were things the map wouldn't show him. Things only the one worthy of the stone could see. And he overlooked something else, something he had no reason to believe was important."
McGreenery came around the shrine, the sack's cord cutting so deeply into his flesh, the skin whitened. Camille twirled the map around to show the glowing mark.
"This is the mark of Umandu." She stepped aside so he could see the amber stone aglow at her heel. Shock drowned McGreenery's simper. "And you can go to hell.

#21. You weren't supposed to choose me," he said.
Behind them, Ira approached, stunned and speechless for what must have been the first time in his life. He helped lift Samuel, whose cheeks had blanched as well. Camille prodded Oscar's arms and stomach and face. It was truly him. The unbearable grief over losing him flipped inside out. Her joy ran so deep and strong she thought she might burst from it.
"The night the Christina went down, you rowed to me," she answered, her throat knotted as she thought of her father. She forced it down. "This time, I must have needed to row to you."
Oscar kissed her, his lips still cold but filled with life. She leaned into him and hung on as though he might disappear. Ira let out a playful high-pitched whistle. Samuel coughed. Oscar and Camille reluctantly pulled apart and blushed.
"Holy gallnipper," Ira said. Camille grinned, not minding in the least that he was using that annoying turn of phrase again. "I can't believe that little rock…I mean you were dead, mate. Dead as this bloke right here." Ira kicked McGreenery in the leg. Oscar nodded, rubbing his hand over the fading red mark, as if to feel for himself that the deadly wound was gone.
"I was in the dory," he whispered. Ira cocked his head.
"Say again?"
Camille lifted her ear from his chest, where she'd wanted to listen to the smooth rhythm of his heart. She looked up at him before hearing its strong beat.
"The dory?"
Oscar nodded again, eyebrow

#22. Camille heard the rustle of grass. She opened one eye and saw Oscar settling down beside her.
"We can spare a few minutes," he said. She sat up and cradled her knees in her arms. He plucked a blade of grass and commenced peeling it down the center. They heard the Australian snoring from his spot a few yards away, completely hidden in a blanket of green.
"I guess we can spare more than a few minutes." Oscar smiled and met her gaze, holding it a moment. She suddenly realized how horrible she must look-her hair, her clothes, her skin.
"Do you miss him?" he asked, not seeming to notice any of those things.
Camille uprooted a purple flower and a white daisy near it. "Of course I do. But I'm hoping with the stone I won't have to very long."
"Not your father, Camille. Randall."
She took a deep breath, shocked she hadn't thought of her fiancé for so long. How many days had it been? A full week, maybe more.
"Oh. Well…I suppose I do."
Oscar raised an eyebrow and laughed at her clear lack of conviction.
Camille shrugged. "What? A lot has happened and right now getting back to San Francisco isn't something I'm concerned about."
Oscar nodded and chewed on the tip of his blade of grass.
"It's not that Randall isn't a perfectly good man," she said, fiddling with the flowers in her hands. The roots crumbled dirt onto her lap. "He's kind and caring and handsome and an excellent businessman."
Oscar continued to nod.
"And he'll ma

#23. Are you William Rowen?"
Ira checked the space behind him, over each shoulder, then sorted. "Me? Her father? I'm gonna pretend you never said that.

#24. He combed a hand through his tousled brown hair, and Camille noticed how handsome he was. Beneath the dirt and insincerity, anyway.

#25. Oscar hung his jacket on the back of a chair and undid the first few buttons of his checked shirt. Camille's fingers trembled as she reached for the lamp on the dresser and twisted the knob, lowering the wick until the light it gave off was that of a small candle's flame. She sat on the bed, and the other side of the hand-rolled mattress dipped with Oscar's weight. She didn't know how to look at him, if she should lie down or just come to her senses and ask him to leave. God, she wasn't doing any of this right.
"You sleep sitting up?" he asked.
Camille smiled, thankful he'd lightened the moment enough for her to lean back onto one of the pillows. Turning on her side, she saw he'd already taken the same position. They lay without touching, without talking, only looking. His eyes grazed her body, slowly absorbing the pink skin of her neck, the slight curves of her breasts, and the arc of her hip. He didn't need to lay a finger on her for the breath to stall in her lungs.
He breeched the few inches between them by sliding his hand atop hers, his skin warm and dry while beads of nervous sweat formed hot on her back. Camille reached out and let her fingertip travel along the fullness of his lower lip and down the curve of his chin. With one sweeping movement, Oscar pulled her tight against his chest and kissed her. A sensation kindled between her hips, spreading to every nerve ending in her body. This was it, the fire and heat she'd always yearned for. All these yea

#26. Do you think he even knows?" Oscar whispered.
Ira sat with a plunk on the couch. "Knows what?"
"You've obviously never had the privilege of meeting Stuart McGreenery," Camille said.
Ira snorted. "I'd certainly like to meet the bastard now, that's for sure."
The ceiling above their heads creaked with the weight of Samuel's steps. A door opened and closed lightly.
"From the looks of it"-Camille searched Oscar's face for affirmation-"you've just met his son."
Ira scooted to the edge of the couch cushion. "Holy gallnipper! You mean that McGreenery bloke and your mum pulled the wool over your father's eyes a time or two way back?

#27. Oscar's breath warmed the back of her head, his lips brushing against her hair, loosened from a braid. He drew a lock away from her neck and kissed the skin just beneath her earlobe, against the throb of her quickening pulse. Like the blackness outside the dome of lamplight, there seemed to be nothing more in the world than his lips, his touch, and the flood of heat consuming her.
With a gentle nudge, Oscar turned her toward him. He looked at her the way he had in the Grampains meadow-as if she was the most fascinating woman he'd ever seen. Under his gaze she felt fascinating, too. Capivating…wanted. He traced her jaw with his lips, kissing the angle of her neck ever so tenderly, as though he weren't certain she wanted him, too. Camille closed the inch of space left between them, her body pressing against his. The muscles in his chest and arms tightened. He was wanted, and she needed to show him how much. No one was there to watch, no one to judge, or tell her the lips caressing her were unworthy of tasting her skin.
With those very thoughts, Oscar's grip loosened. His lips retreated.
"This isn't right," he whispered, catching his breath.
Camille stared at him, her hurt and disappointment plain on her face.
"You're engaged, Camille." He looked around the room. His eyes rested on the bed. "I shouldn't be here."
All of a sudden, Camille completely and fully detested Randall. Good, sweet, well-meaning Randall infuriated her with his mere existence,

#28. Aware her appearance was nothing short of scandalous, Camille bounded over branches and fallen pine needles to the shield of her horse. Ira's whistle pierced the air.
"You should'a warned us you weren't dressed, love. Though I'm not entirely sorry to see you in your unwhisperables."
She grabbed the blanket from the back of her horse and wrapped herself in it. Oscar appeared from around the bend, four pike speared on a stick. She watched him stride through the water just behind Ira. The muscle of his pale chest, stomach, and arms was enough to make her forget her clothing was still yards away near the water's edge. Camille faced the forest as he and Ira approached the shallows. She listened to them slosh out of the water and counted off a minute as they pulled on their trousers and shirts.
"Finished. Your innocence won't be spoiled if you look now," Ira called.
She turned and saw Oscar had come up to the other side of her horse. He didn't seem to know what to do with his eyes; they met hers, lowered to the blanket she held tight around her chest, and then focused on the horse's stringy black mane. He held her dress over the saddle, half looking at her, half trying to be gentlemanly. But when she thanked him and tried to take it, he held on.
"What is it?" he asked, then released the dress. Camille tightened the blanket around her chest. "You look frightened. Did something happen?"
She hadn't realized she'd looked upset.
"It's nothing. A deer

#29. Oscar, we're alive and in Melbourne and that's all that matters."
The door clicked shut behind him. He placed the bowl on the dresser and dropped the spoon into the soup. "We're alive, in Melbourne, and living in a whorehouse.