Vanessa descends the stairs, floating in garments from her ancestor's trousseau, 1860's fashions buried deep in a sea chest only the Captain and I know of. The chest forbidden to my curious fingers.
She moves as though in a trance, a small, framed photograph of her pre-Victorian ancestor clutched in her alabaster hands. The flickering candle's puny glow completes her transmogrification. Vanessa is the resurrected love of Daniel Gregg's life. My heart stops, chilled.
"And this maiden she lived with no other thought/Than to love and be loved by me."
Poe.
"Your hair is a storm at midnight, your eyes black pearls from the ocean deeps, your voice an angel's song in the wind."
Gregg.
"She belongs here more than we do. They were meant for each other."
Muir.
We must leave.
Vanessa flies into the sitting room, returned to the present in a mini-skirt, a letter balled angrily in her hand. She flushes with rage as she reads, "Did you really think I would surrender my freedom to someone like you?"
"The coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword."
Wilde.
Thirty years after my true love died.
Vanessa throws the infamous Moroccan shawl at me. Claymore drives her into town. The Captain's hands linger lightly on my shoulders.
"No one else could wear it as you do." But he's looking at me, not the shawl. "For a long-term arrangement, I much prefer the present."