I went dancing with my wife the night she died.

My wife, my daughter, and my best friend; they’d all been with me that night in the main ballroom of my luxury liner, the Kyritan.

That ship wasn’t supposed to have been their coffin, but since it had been theirs it ought to have been mine as well.

I’ve got any number of pictures of my wife Biann—a chemical contact-print portrait made by an old uncle who dabbled in the art; a drawing in happy, shaky lines my daughter made when s. . .