The knight stares out at the perfect blue. The surf roars its heartbeat. Rise and fall. The stones sing where the trailing fingers of foam turn them.

She is aware of her heart. She is aware of her fingers and the blood in them. She is aware of her hair, braided with love. The ribbon is a part of her body, as much as her boots are, as much as her stomach is, as much as the ocean is.

The stones sing. [i]Clack-a-clack.[/i] The ocean yawns and reaches for them again, but the foam only reaches their toes, and the wave shrugs back down. Strange wood lies on this shore. It is shaped like someone sleeping, or like an explosion of fingers, or like serpents. There are no birds.

The knight hoists the princess up as high as she can, to keep the train of her dress from dragging in the sand, and says: “We need a boat. Let’s look.” And she marches down, against the foam, looking for a boat, or a very large raft, or even a very large tree big enough to fit everyone inside, all of her companions, all of her heart. A white boat, a black boat, a tall boat, a long boat. A yacht, a galleon, a clipper, a battleship. Something left abandoned here, a dream (a dream?) of crossing left behind.

She will name it [i]Starsong,[/i] when she finds it. And she will. That’s what knights are useful for.