Seaside Moors Storms cause our flowers to bloom

It's a beautiful morning, pale blue sky with gauzy pink clouds. The shoreline slick with low tide reflects light, so that he walks not on solid ground but on long strips of cotton candy, industrial sugar, rosy Turkish delight. Beneath him, heather and peat is pox-scarred with the memories of so many other peoples' footprints. 

A dark figure walks to the shore in a path perpendicular to his. A Rusalkan, he muses, another true-blue sailor. He picks up his pace to meet her. You'd think the water would be cold by now. Here, the sand was wet and packed close under its own weight. With each incoming wave, new seashells are revealed and footprints are filled up -- he observes that the moor retains memory much better than the ocean in this way. It really hangs onto the warmth.

He turns to her, the sun lights him from the back, outlining him. He is incandescent. I'm Miranda. Erzulie let me in.