--A violent, dark sea swirled and misted around the small water craft. Waves, giants of deep magnificence, loomed over head, the frothy whites of the crests peeking over the edges, teasing the frail boat with its power. The rumble of thunder rolled over the open waters, and brief but brilliant flashes of lighting illuminated the shadows of the storm. It was no time to be at sea. Death and danger rocked the boat in a chilling kind of lullaby, the power of the water and wind capable of overturning it at any moment.

Cowering inside the tiny vessel, a small woman covered her head with her hands, weeping with despair into the wet and wild winds. All had been lost; her companions swept overboard by the waves and gales. She alone sat amongst the gnarled ropes and shredded sails. Alone at sea. Barren and forsaken. But soon her sobs subsided, and she parted her wet, dark locks from her face. Raising her head, the woman gazed in a childlike wonder at the chaos that surrounded her. Wind, rain, water, all seemed to join into one great mass of movement—of dance. The storm was wild with a dark rage. And the woman understood its displeasure. She anticipated her own role as the final sacrifice to appease the sea's anger.

Raising her arms, almost in an embrace, the woman stood and faced the carousing waves, cried out:

"Take me! Take me! You took him! Take me to your depths!"

At first the sea did not reply. It only continued its riotous dance. Then, the woman felt a shift in the water underneath her small boat, a gathering of waves. Glancing around her, she saw the monstrous wall of water looming near, coming ever closer. With a despairing smile, she sighed and wrapped her arms around the thin mast, ready and willing. And the water came. Enveloping her in its cold chaos, the sea overturned the boat and swallowed the woman into the deep waters.

Hours of rage and terrible storm continued. But at last, the sea did grow more calm, and a few meek rays of sunlight began to reach through the black clouds to cast faint jewels on the dark water. An seabird, tired from the flight through the storm, circled and sought a place on the waters to float upon the erratic waves. Then his keen eye caught a glimmer, a flash of light. He flew closer and saw a long piece of wood ambling easily on the surface of the water, a perfect place for him to rest his wings. Alighting daintly, he shook his feathers and pruning under his wing. Looking along the log, the seabird noticed the glimmer once more and, fascinated, peered at the object. A jeweled bracelet hung on a pale white wrist and hand that gripped the log tightly. Curious, the seabird tapped the hand with his webbed foot, then swalked, ever interested in the bright jewels. The hand did not move. He poked the hand with his beak. Nothing. Bolder now, he gripped the bracelet with his jaw and pulled. Surprising to him, it came off quite easily. With his effort, the hand had gone limp and the jewelry has slipped off. Elated he flapped his broad wings. He did not notice the floating corpse that hovered just below the surface, pale and green like a mermaid.--

"Miss Eyre!"

Miss Eyre, who had been bending over her painting and mixing her colors, started up straight and looked to the speaker.

"Miss Eyre."

"Ah. Yes Miss Miller."

"What! You do dawdle. Did you not hear the dinner bell? We are assembled in the long hall. Will you keep us all waiting?"

"I am sorry. I did not hear the bell. I was preoccupied."

"Well, I can see that. Painting again. Is that all ye shall do over this summer vacation? Paint? I should think your time spent better elsewhere."

Miss Eyre said nothing. Instead, she washed and wiped her thin brush that had been filled with a dark blue tint, and smoothed her hair from any wisps that had fallen out of order from her ministrations. While Miss Eyre tidied her table, Miss Miller came a step closer and peered at the result of the artist's day-long work. Wrinkling her nose, she snorted,

"Do you take delight in painting corpses, Miss Eyre? What is this horrid scene? Where did you see such a thing?"

At first, Miss Eyre's eyes flashed with anger, her work abused. But in a moment, a cool resignation overcame her face and she answered demurely.

"I have never seen such a scene as this except in my mind's eye. And no, I do not take delight in painting a corpse, but rather I fathom the depths of its meaning. I…"

Miss Miller stepped back and raised an eye brow.

"I like you well enough Miss Eyre," She retorted. "But I must say, if ever Mr. Brocklehurst saw this or any of your other paintings—that iceberg with the dark eyes and the star with wind and the others—then mark my word, he'd take away your painting tools at once."

The young and small artist said nothing, a stoic look on her features.

Miss Miller continued, "And, even though I hate to say it, your paintings are no great work of art either. I mean perhaps if you painted flowers, or sheep, or something pastoral. But this" She gestured to the watercolor on the table.

Miss Eyre looked to the floor for a moment, tempted to retaliate with fury. Raising her eyes with a piercing and ironical fire, she gently said,

"Have you been to any great art galleries yourself Miss Miller?"

In a distracted air, Miss Miller did not notice the fierce gaze of the little woman in grey. Rather, she snorted at Miss Eyre's rejoinder, annoyed at being found out for a pretender:

"Come! Let's to dinner."

Leading the way, Miss Miller flung herself out and down the stairs towards the long room. But Miss Eyre hung back a moment, gazing at her painting, then quietly following her companion down below.

--A roaring fire raged in the hearth of the great house, attempting with its red light to cast out the shadows of the drawing room. A scene, at once stringent and amusing, was at play. Furthest from the fire sat an elderly lady, donned with abundances of grey ribbons and lace, thin spectacles on her nose, and a pile of yarn in her hands and lap. She was content to be so: to be near the younger folk but not too near the heat of the fire. She preferred the shade closer to the windows, with a small candle at hand to guide her eyesight. Nearby, a little dark haired girl sat on the carpet, fidgeting but trying ever so hard to be still. Her eyes were watching the fire and its orange and scarlet flames, entertained for the moment by the coquettish ballet of light. To her left, steeped in shadow, despite the bright fire, sat a middle-aged man, his face grim and nearly grotesque in the uncertain light. His hands, long and deft, were poised, fingertips together, in front of his mouth, his elbows resting on the arms of his monstrous burgundy chair. A Victorian hero's look he did not have. No. His was of an older, darker sect. The vivid sharpness of his dark eyes gave both danger and depth to his character. Doubtless, he was a passionate man—one capable of terrible and magnificent things. But sitting in silence there, he looked impenetrable—hard and bitter.

The man opened his mouth and spoke, his voice abrupt.

"Adele there" gesturing to the child on the floor, "showed me some sketches today. She said they were yours. Now you must reproduce them to show if it be true or falsehood."

His words, quick and authoritative, were directed to his counterpart at the hearth: a young girl seated across from him. Her face was plain, in every way. No feature stood out as extra- ordinary or even vaguely pretty in the garish firelight. Her garb was almost puritan—a black stuff dress with a stiff white collar—and hair plaited simply, pinned close to her head. Rising from her seat without a word, but with a sharp glance to little Adele, who was smirking on the carpet, glad to be noticed, the woman obeyed the man's abrupt request. Retrieving her portfolio from the library, the young woman returned and offered it to the man who had leaned forward in his chair, drawing a table near.

As he fingered through the sketches and watercolors, handing off to the curious child and elder lady what he deemed as superfluous pieces, the young woman watched his face. It betrayed no emotion or response to her works. That was until he pulled from the pile her three Lowood paintings.

"Now these" he grumbled, sending Adele and the old lady away with the rest of the portfolio, "these are peculiar."

Miss Eyre smiled slightly in remembrance, "I knew someone once who told me I should not paint such things."

The man glanced up and caught her expression: "And did you heed the advice afterwards?"

Glancing down to the watercolor seascape,—the scene of a seabird clutching in its beak a jeweled circlet over top of a floating corpse on a stormy sea—Miss Eyre paused.

"No. No, I did not."

"I see that you do not have enough of the artist's skill and science. But, the drawings are for a school girl such as you, are very peculiar."

"I was always deemed peculiar, sir."

"Indeed, I should say so." He looked up to read her face. "Were you happy when you painted these?"

Miss Eyre recalled the rush of water, the chilling gale, the passionate cry, the exquisitely terrible loss. She had felt such things—within.

"Yes. Yes, I was fully occupied. I stayed with them from morning till night. To paint those pictures has been the most acute pleasure of my existence."

That night, when the house had gone to sleep, two souls were stirring still. Within the depths of dreams, both beings envisioned the plight of a boat lost at sea, tossed about by vicious waters. And that night, both dreamers saw in the midst of the storm for a moment above the crest of a wave, a fellow boat, nearby, within reach, with a fellow figure huddling against the rain and wind.--