The Voyage- )Prologue (

Moving as fast as she could, Margaret struggled to keep up with pace in her heart. Arms overwhelmed with luggage, she continued determined.

Finally, she was going to meet the mysterious author who'd given her the one clue that could lead her to her family. The only thing left was to board the 'Galaca Royale'.

Pressing through the thronging populace, she squinted against the rays of the lowering sun. Just ahead were the docks, and beside it, a ship releasing its anchor. What remained unclear, however, was the name on the side of the ship. She prayed it was the one.

Anxiousness building, Margaret began to run without regard, clinging to her bags, solely concerned about the vessel. Nearly forgetting to breathe, she leapt onto the dock, tripped over the first two steps, blindly lurching in spite of.

Seeing a crew member of whom was carrying a crate, poor Margaret thrashed her arms wildly, screaming to get his attention.

"Monsieur! Monsieur, wait! Stop!"

Pausing briefly, he nodded in impatient acknowledgement.

"Please tell me...." She drug in a breath, "has the Galaca Royale any room for a late purchase? I have gold..."

Chest heaving, she eagerly sought a response.

"Madame, she just left. See... There be her sales." He pointed a crooked finger towards the horizon. Surely enough, pillows of maroon drifted east, along with any hope Margaret had left. Arms too weak to carry the burden of the news, the bags she held dropped to the ground. Suddenly unable to breathe, she clutched her chest, trembling as she trailed off of the dock and onto the rocky shore. Fishermen and passerbys cast despondent looks, supposing the woman mad.

Collapsing on a patch of sand and rubble, she reached out a frail hand, almost to pull the ship back to her. Grief pierced her heart as she sobbed, certain there was no more reason to live.

A quarter to six, the note said, didn't it? Surely she didn't misunderstand...

"Margaret?" A deep voice murmured in the haze of the wind. It was so faint, it could have been imagined.

"Margaret."

There it was again! Deep and intrusive.

Turning sharply, she struggled to see past the tears that blinded her.

The blurred figure approached in an unhurried fashion, steps calculated... And slow.

The outline cleared, revealing a man wearing a tall brown hat. 6 ft 4, swarthy and dark, a thick, burly mustache adorned his face, long trenchcoat trailing at his heels. He wore leather boots with silver plated heels, a pocket watch swinging like a pendulum at his side. His expression was deader than stone.

"What have I not to do with you Madame?"

Wiping her face with her sleeve, she turned away, heavy laden. "Let me die... I've nothing to do with another soul."

He stopped a few feet in front of her. Kneeling, he gathered a fluttering strand of her auburn hair within the palm of his hand. How long... How soft....

Alarmed, she pulled away. Why did he touch her like that?

"Miss... Not even for your family?"

Snatching her head up, she glared at him.

"Who are you?" She sneered, moving back.

Undaunted, he straightened and held out a sturdy hand. "I can lead you to them."