The breeze from the ocean left the air cool and moist, but did not so much as ruffle the blank pages sitting on the table. A slender hand grazed the immaculate paper, almost as if its owner were trying to conjure the words that should appear there. In a movement steeped in grace and frustration, the woman brought her hand up to her forehead and brushed several strands of hair out of eyes.

"You know my dear, when the epic poets couldn't think of how to begin, they would invoke their muse and petition for aid in doing the story justice."

The woman did not turn in her chair; she didn't have to. There was only one person she knew that would offer that sort of advice, and she knew his voice anywhere. She smiled slightly.

"That's true, but I doubt that Homer, Dante, and Virgil had publishing deadlines."

The man laughed, and handed her a glass of wine. "Then I will leave you to your task."

She took a deep breath, allowing the aroma of the wine to fill her senses. She picked up the pen that had been at rest on the small table all afternoon and began to write.