Free By the Light of the Silvery Moon by Tricia Goyer

stacking up their riches, filling the banks and growing their worth in figures, Clarence knew that money was fleeting. He’d seen much lost with little effort. Since then he’d decided to enjoy what he had while he could—and share each treasure-filled day with Damien while he had the chance.
    Cold air nipped at his cheeks, and Clarence turned so his face met the breeze full force. It was no use looking back to England. The sight of the land slipping into the horizon would remind him he was returning yet again to America without Quentin. With each step through the London streets, Clarence felt his youngest son’s presence, yet just when he believed he was close to finding Quentin, his son again disappeared like a reflection of the moon on a still pond at daybreak.
    “Clarence Walpole, is that you?”
    Clarence turned to find Thomas Andrews, designer of the
Titanic.
A smile filled the man’s face, and Clarence wondered if Thomas’s buttons would burst from his chest puffed out with pride.
    “Thomas, I expected to see you here. I have to say, son, you’ve built one amazing ship.”
    Thomas lowered his head bashfully then lifted it, meeting Clarence’s gaze with a twinkle in his eyes. “I didn’t build the ship. That was a task for a large crew, but I do believe my design turned out well.”
    “Well? I’d say that is an understatement. Is it true there are watertight steel compartments supposed to render her unsinkable?”
    Thomas laughed. “Clarence, that is just the beginning. Have you ever heard of a ship with submarine signals with microphones? Their job is to tell the bridge by means of wires when another ship or any other object is at hand. Not to mention the collision bulkhead to safeguard the ship against an invasion of water should the bow be torn away. The
Titanic
has both!”
    Clarence offered a low whistle. “Who would have ever thought it possible? I’m planning on doing more exploring—I’m eager to see the Turkish baths and photography darkroom—although I’d better wait for Damien to lead the way. You’ve heard rumors, no doubt, of how dreadful I am with directions.”
    “Who needs to find his own way with a staff such as you have?” Thomas glanced at his watch. “Speaking of business, I told Mr. Ismay I’d give him a private tour, so I must be going. Please do tell your sons I hope they enjoy the trip.” And with a quick wave, Thomas Andrews hurried away.
    Sons.
Clarence guessed it was simply a slip of the man’s lips. Most people he knew didn’t mention
sons.
Most spoke as if Damien was his only child. The same thing had happened after Jillian’s death. No one—not even her closest friends—spoke her name. It was as if she’d never existed. That bothered Clarence, but it was understandable. To mention someone meant mourning their death in the same breath. The difference was he had not buried Quentin. Five years had passed since his son had walked out the door, his pockets full of his inheritance—five long years.
    But his youngest son still lived—he was sure of it. Something deep in his heart told him to hope. He had faith in God that somehow, somewhere that fact would be confirmed.
    Clarence dared to turn. He glanced back at the narrow strip of land. His last glimpse of England. Somewhere back in that all too familiar place his son walked the streets. If only he could know Quentin was well. That would have been enough. If only he could have seen a glimpse of him. It would have appeased his father-heart.
    But until then he could only trust. God saw his son. God loved Quentin, and at this moment that had to be enough.

     
    The sea air chilled to the bone, or at least that was what Aunt Neda said as they strode out of the breeze, heading inside to the glass-enclosed second-class promenade deck.
    “Yes, this is much better.” Aunt Neda tucked stray strands of gray hair into her bonnet.
    “It’s to keep you dry. You can take in the sea air without being splashed by the