A cording to the literature on the subject-which is sparse-the raising of storms is at best an uncertain craft. These things have a life of their own; they swell unpredictably, feeding off their own power, like dictators. They veer, they devour, they transform. Though they're subject to behavioral rules based on sound science, there are so many variables in the mix that any computation is at best tentative. The storm is a law unto itself; nobody, not even a power of Cesaria's prescience, may control or predict it once it's in motion.

All of which is to explain how it came about that the ^disturbance she'd created, stirring the air into life as she had, grew into the tempest that it did.

An hour after the departure from the deck of The Samarkand the boat was in dire trouble. The hull, which had resolutely endured some of the worst seas in the world-the Cape of Good Hope, the icy waters of the Arctic-finally cracked, and the vessel began to take on water. Galilee hand-bailed as fast as he was able, having incapacitated the pumps when he'd decided on suicide, but quickly realized he was fighting a losing battle. The question was not whether The Samarkand was doomed or not, but rather which of the death-sentences would fall first? Would it be smashed to pieces by the fury of the seas, or spring so many leaks that it sank?

And yet, even as the storm undid the vessel-board by board, nail by nail-it carried him closer to the islands. Sometimes the boat ascended a steep wave from the summit of which he thought he glimpsed land. But in the tumult it was impossible to be sure.

Then, quite suddenly, the winds dropped, and the rain they'd brought mellowed to a drizzle. There was a brief respite-perhaps ten minutes-when The Samarkand ceased to roll quite so violently, and Galilee was able to survey the extent of the damage to the vessel. The news was not good. There were three large cracks on the starboard side, and another two on the port; the ruins of the mast, along with the shreds of sails, had been washed overboard but were still attached to the boat by a gnarled umbilical of rope and tackle, which gave the vessel a permanent list.

Nor, of course, had the storm blown itself out. Galilee had experienced this kind of hiatus before: a little window of calm, as though the tempest was gathering its strength for one final cataclysmic assault.

So it proved. After a short time the wind began to rise again, and the ocean to churn and spasm, pushing the boat up ever steeper inches of furious water then dropping it into ever deeper chasms. Resolute as The Samarkand had been, it couldn't survive such treatment for long. It began to shudder as though wracked by death tremors, then all at once came asunder. Galilee heard a terrible splintering sound below, as the boards capitulated to the pressure, and the cabin housing cracked and split as great pillows of foamy white water erupted and summarily swept it away.

The water didn't come to take Galilee until the very last. He didn't let it. He clung to the side of the boat while it came undone around him, watching with a kind of wonder the power of the element he'd sailed so carelessly for so long. How it labored, coming back wave upon wave to break what it had already broken, and break it again, the boards becoming tinder, the tinder becoming splinters, and all finally sucked away into the deep.

Only when there were no more such wonders to witness did he finally abandon his vestigial portion of the vessel, and commend himself to the water. He was instantly swept away from the spot where The Samarkand had disappeared, his body no more significant to the waves than any other piece of flotsam. He didn't attempt to resist the current: it was a useless endeavor. The sea had him, and it would not give him up again unless it chose to.

But as he went, his body remembered the first time he'd been carried this way: an infant in the grip of the tides of the Caspian Sea, borne away from the shore as he now hoped that he was being borne back to it.

On the island, preparations for the storm were being made everywhere, from the fanciest hotels to the shabbiest shack. The local meteorologists weren't warning of any great danger to life or property. This wasn't a hurricane, just some heavy weather their charts and satellite photographs had failed to predict-but nor was its proximity to be treated lightly. The islanders had been blindsided before; it was never wise to underestimate the potential vehemence of such conditions. Roofs could be taken off, houses demolished, trees stripped, roads flooded. Along the northeastern coast, where the storm was predicted to come ashore, preparations were made: livestock was herded under cover, children brought home from school early; loose windows were nailed dosed, pieces of heavy timber hoisted up onto shack roofs to keep them from being unseated.

As the storm approached the island estimations of its scale grew more pessimistic. It was acting in a wholly uncharacteristic manner, the pundits observed: instead of steadily dissipating, as they had anticipated, the wind velocity continued to climb. Its first effects could be felt on shore by the early afternoon. Trees began to sway; there were speckles of rain in the gusts. Out at sea, pleasure boats that dallied overlong before heading for safe harbor were given a battering, their captains racing to outrun the roiling seas. Three failed. One was lost, overturned with its crew of two and seven passengers all presumed drowned; the other two returned within a breath of disaster, the smaller of them so badly pounded it sank in the harbor.

There was no question: this was turning into a very uncommon piece of weather.

Mitchell had not waited for a regular flight out of New York: as soon as Loretta informed him of Rachel's whereabouts he hired a private jet. He didn't call Garrison to tell him what he was doing until he was on his way to the airport, accurately sensing that his brother would not be happy with his decision.

"We said we'd deal with this little problem of yours," Garrison reminded him.

"I'm only going out there to get her to come back with me," Mitchell said.

"Wait until she comes back of her own volition. Wait until she crawls."

"And what if she doesn't?"

"She will. She's got divorce proceedings to finish up, for one thing. She knows she's not going to get a cent out of us unless she plays by the book."

"She doesn't care about the money."

"Don't be so dumb, Mitch!" Garrison suddenly yelled down the phone. "Everybody cares about the fucking money!" He took a moment to let his irritation subside, then he said: "Mitch, listen to me. There are other ways to deal with this. Nice, calm, calculated ways."

"I'm perfectly calm," Mitchell said. "And I'm not going to do anything stupid. I just don't want her there. Not with him."

"You don't even know-"

"Give it up. Garrison. I'm on my way and that's all there is to it. I'll call you when I arrive."

Getting to his destination proved more irksome than Mitchell had anticipated. His hired transport had no sooner taxied onto the runway in preparation for takeoff than the radar system servicing the airport ceased operation, grounding every flight and preventing all landings for the next hour and a half. There was nothing to be done but endure the delay. When the glitch in the system was finally fixed, there was of course a large number of circling aircraft which needed to be landed before anybody could lake off, and even then progress was slow, with the bigger commercial aircraft being given precedence. By the time the jet was finally airborne, Mitchell had been sitting in his leather seat sipping whiskey and breathing stale air for almost three and a half hours, with a ten-hour flight ahead.