Melbourne, 1806
She was here. Again. Daniel could feel it.
The ship had come into dock yesterday: full of the diseased, the guilty, and the damned. Most of those on board the mighty vessel would be dead by week's end. It was a fact of life – harsh, unfortunate, but a fact nonetheless. Daniel knew, just as he knew she was here, that the young woman in question would not be one of those to perish.
He should be so lucky.
The easel in front of him held a canvas; half complete with the portrait of another woman; one who plagued him, his dreams, his every waking thought. Her lean neck was all he had managed to perfect so far. The rest was still covered in sketch marks, disproportionate to the long lines of her throat, arching in a crescent moon across the expanse of white. Her hair, luscious and dark, swirled like a squalid sea.
It felt like an age since he'd last held her in his arms. He ached to touch her, to feel her heat pressed up against him, her breath feather-light as it puffed over his cheeks. But Daniel knew that wouldn't be possible – not now that she was back.
Her skin gleamed English pale as she stepped down the gangway towards the shore. She hadn't noticed him yet, tucked away in the shadowed alcove between two stores; but she would. She always did.
The sun was surprisingly warm for the winter day it was, beating down through heavy cloud cover to sting his immortal flesh. A bead of sweat pooled on the end of his nose; he flicked it off with charcoal-powered fingers, wiped it on his khaki slacks, staining them black.
He wondered about her as he squinted into the harsh sunlight: wondered who she would be this time, where in the British Isles she'd travelled from, why she was actually here. Daniel knew, in the general sense, why she'd come to Melbourne. She was here for the girl on his canvas – his life, his love.
Soon, she would take her away from him, just like she always did. It was an endless cycle; a forever spent running in circles, from life to death and back again, chasing shadows, chasing her. Daniel was tired of it, but he had no choice. There was no end to this madness, no one final hurdle to cross.
She was down the plank now, adjusting the hem of her gingham dress were it hung around booted ankles. Her wrists weren't weighed down with shackles, so she wasn't a convict. She whipped her fiery hair back from her face, shielding her eyes from the sun's rays with cupped hands.
Her lips curved upwards when she saw him.
Daniel gazed morosely at the half-sketch he'd yet to finish.
So, it had begun again. She was back, his love was here, and he would lose her.
All too soon, she would be lost to the shadows again. And there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He clutched the charcoal stick tight in his fist and watched as the fragments of it broke off and turned to ash.
Like she would: his love, his Luce…