Somewhere northern, farther than they'd meant to go, the ship had faltered to its end. When the disease struck them, Phillip had not cried. Not when the captain had plunged Mr. Peterson’s body into the ice, or when any of the others were flung. When the captain had no one strong enough to drop him into the depths, it had been a last straw of hope in everyone’s eyes. Like the teasing of a sonata's careful end, the cries of the passengers had died down from three, to two, to one. The ten year old boy that he was, Phillip somehow found adventure in the silence. There was no illness for him. It was like a story, he thought. And he would be the hero in the end. Blond-haired, brown-eyed, of a smaller stature than his classmates, he had an opportunity to guide a ship to port, to be welcomed home to prestige. Everyone else, after all, had met their own demise.
He stood there gasping as stars fell from her mouth. It was a brilliant display. Small embers of white-hot static fell from her tongue, one after the other, in a fine mist of white. Then, after a moment of stupid deliberation, he ran to get her a bucket. When he returned, she grasped it delicately with two softly glowing hands. Like seafoam, the particles spilled over the sides as she moaned them out. “Shh,” he said, patting her hand. “There's nothing to be afraid of.”
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