Excerpt: Ocean Wine

Without warning, a hand snapped out and snatched the hat out of the air. A man had made it to the deck, with such speed that a spontaneous (if half-hearted) burst of applause rose in the air, swiftly dispelled as the men and women milling about in the cool sun found something else to occupy them. The amusement curtailed, their eyes slid off of Stephen as if he were not there at all — all except the eyes of the man who’d caught his hat before it flew off into the ocean. Those, Stephen could not see at all; they were concealed behind a pair of smoked-glass spectacles so dark it seemed a wonder he could see at all. For a moment, Stephen wondered if he were in fact a blind man — but then, how could he have snatched the hat from the air with such unerring accuracy?

Stephen walked up to him, gingerly. “T-thank you,” he said, catching himself, making sure he spoke in the right tone. “I am much obliged.”

The man held the hat in both hands a moment, almost studying it. He was very tall, narrow-hipped, with shoulders not so much broad as well-proportioned. He himself wore an impressive top hat, of an outrageous purple colour; despite this obvious difference in fashion, he nodded with approval at Stephen’s choice of black trillby and held it out to him.

“It is a very nice hat,” he said. “It would have been a shame for you to lose it.” Stephen blinked at him, confused by his voice: his accent was unreadable; there was something of the Mediterranean in it, and a touch of Oxford, and a vague Slavic edge as well. All in all, it confused the sensitive apparatuses Stephen had developed for pinpointing a man’s origin.

Stephen took the hat. “Thank you,” he repeated.

“You are more than welcome.” The stranger’s mouth tilted in a half-smile. “The wind can be treacherous.”

“Yes.” Belatedly, Stephen realized he was being quite rude. “I am Stephen Smith,” he said.

“Smith is a good name,” the stranger said, not introducing himself in turn. “A sturdy, metallurgic sort of name. Though, not as nice as your hat.”