The boat, six legged, scuttled across the lake as the Ufoo and his five companions continued with their perfect rhythm.
“Stroke.”
She had aged since last he had seen her. Womanhood fitted her well.
A wizard up in the bow called the stroke and made a pretence of guiding them. Ufoo ignored the man and his sullen voice. He could not take his eyes from her. Once more she sat near him, just on the bench to aft. A wizard was by her side, kissing her noisily, one hand kneading a breast, the other at her waist lowering her half-furled dress further still. Other wizards and women were similarly engaged.
“Stroke.”
But Ufoo did not take his eyes off the woman. The still pools of her eyes. The Mist glistening on her breast. The flat expanse of her stomach. And her eyes never left his, though it was not possible that she would see his face. She had smiled when she first boarded the boat, but no more. She just watched, a look of almost-knowing on her face.
“Stroke.”
Ufoo rowed silently towards the Isle and felt the minds of the other ferrymen with him as they worked the oars.