"...That is more disappointing news than I know how to express," comes the answer, after far longer than Deirdre really intended to be silent for. "Look around at our community. How many of us remain, between the flight of the cowards and the deaths of the brave? We need new blood if we're to persist, sir, regardless of any upcoming fight against mainlander money. There's not enough souls on this island for another generation, not truly. And yet..."

She lifts her fingers from the bowl and shakes them, neatly, over the wine. Stares at the burnt tips. "...How could the mainlanders ever understand us now? When their sons and daughters come to these shores, will they look on us and see a people worth courting? Worth loving? How can they? How could we ever even begin to explain waking up at night screaming, flinching at innocuous things, being reduced to tears at the mention of parades or carnivals - they won't understand. I had thought...hoped...that you foreigners were to...to some extent solve that problem. You know. You've been here beside us."