In the dream, the woman is pulling Harkin down into the waters of the Orre. He has to scramble over the ropes mooring the harbored ships and duck beneath the drying fishnets at the pier, but she just floats through them, turning backwards every so often to make sure he still follows. It is night and no one seems to notice either of them.
"And the fishnets, why are they still up?" Harkin always wonders abstractly.
She entreats him and he follows her willingly down the stone stairs at Smuggler's Grave where they hang the innocent and the guilty alike. Smugglers and mutineers, sentenced to death by the Admiralty courts, their corpses left to reek and to be washed by three tides at the Grave.
She turns again, and holds out her hand. The tide is half out. He takes her cold hand as the waters laps at his boots. There is a grim cadaver on the mossy wall nearby. As a small wave splashes against it, the gaunt and whitened head of the executed lolls towards the pair as though to see them off.
She floats backwards and down into the water, the surface of the water undisturbed. He hesitates at the stair, the water up to his waist now. She tugs at him, insistent.
"Where are we going?" he always asks.
"Please! You'll see..." her voice watery and sad.
"Harkin! Wake up!"
Smidgen is tugging at at Harkin's hand. She looks panicked and wide-eyed.
"Harkin, please! You've got to do something! I got away but they've got Whiff!"
Smidgen is a street urchin. Whiff is her twin sister. They're both clever thieves. They've given Harkin dozens of tips on all manner of subjects over the last year or two, almost all of which have held true.