She was almost alone on the beach. It was a cold day and a harsh north-eastern wind stirred the waves up high and blew the sand across the beach and around the legs of anyone who dared to come out in this weather. Some fishing girls were looking for drift wood and whatever else they were collecting, their hardened faces and hands apparently immune to the cold, biting wind.

Nesah could feel her ears hurting and the skin of her face prickling whenever the winds swept by, and yet she felt happier than she had in days. There was a rough, intriguing beauty about the dark cloudy skies in the distance, the deep blue waves tumbling and crashing over one another in explosions of white foam, and the seagulls trying to raise their cries above the winds as they were being swept across the sky. 

And hardly anyone came out to watch the fearsome spectacle. Normally, it was hard to find a quiet place in Whitby, and so despite the cold, Nesah treasured days like these. The beach, usually so full of tourists and cheap entertainment even in winter, was restored to its natural glory at least for a day. 

The young woman was wrapped up warmly in a thick coat lined with fur. She wore a large hat, but had to hold on to it with one white-gloved hand to keep it from flying away. Her face was red from the cold and some strings of dark hair had come loose and were blowing freely in the wind, but Nesah cared little. There were few slovenly fishing girls there to see. 

Holding tightly on to her hat, and narrowing her eyes against the cold winds, she gazed out across the raging sea.