Wheeling Gull Isle if only time flew like a dove

When her eyes alighted on the male she sought, Moorhen made a beeline toward him, her steps veering slightly as another round of violent flopping caught her off-guard. But she reached Driftwood safely and spat the suffocating fish unceremoniously at his paws. He was saying something, and she cupped her ears attentively toward him but still missed most of the words. For you, she said in her rough, accented voice. I caught it. In ocean. After all, something she found washed up in the sand wouldn't have been a proper gift, would it?

Now, however, she fell silent and uncertain, staring at the male with an unblinking mahogany gaze. Although it lacked the usual air of suspicion and foul-temperedness, it was likely no less unpleasant to be pinned down by than her usual stare. Alas, the Cairn woman did not know how to make her aims clear. The subject seemed awkward to broach, and she was uncertain of her own desires, and looking at Driftwood now, her plans to find him and flirt with him seemed both childish and poorly thought-out.

It was funny how quickly embarrassment could turn into anger.

Eat fish, she commanded.