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Elinor

By Shannon McNear

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Prologue

August 1590
Three years.
Three long years. But soon, please God, he would hold his daughter and granddaughter again.
This close, it seemed impossible to contain either longing or hope. Yet he must. He knew, with every shred of his being, how unlikely it was that the colonists had stayed on Roanoac Island beyond that first autumn. But the anticipation of stepping upon this shore once more—of gaining at least a hint of what had become of them—
He could hardly breathe.
Green and grey and blue were the waters around and behind him, but he had no eye for the dancing splendor of the waves. Only for the blinding brightness of the strand before him, the dunes clothed with grasses bending in the unrelenting sea winds, and the smudgy dark green of the forest rising beyond.
God had, despite much peril and many months of privateering, brought them safe through the storm. Would that He’d now hold back the tides long enough for him to find them.
Days of longing. Days of hope. He was near to exhausted with it. In their slow sail past the islands to the south, he’d expected some sign of life, of habitation, but—nothing. Not even a signal fire. Then, drawn by smoke to the north, they’d passed on without any attempt to go ashore. Smoke to the south led to the decision to go ashore nearer rather than farther, leading to a long, hot trek ashore only to find—an unattended, burned-out fire. An entire day lost. One delay after another, even that morning.
Now, however, they readied the boats for launch while the ship sat at anchor alongside—but not too close to—that brilliant shoreline, within sight of the inlet he recalled too well.
Please, gracious God.

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