The sun lay low in the sky when Anton finished his workday and went back to the bungalow for a fresh change of clothes. Somehow he'd managed to find a relatively well-cut pair of thin trousers and a pale green button-down shirt. He had a feeling, after looking through the island's selection of apparel, that he would never get used to the things people wore here. Helena had even moved away from the traditional dress of her time and though Anton suspected she would look lovely in whatever she wore, he couldn't summon the will to care any longer. After what she'd said to him and what he'd read, he was prepared never to speak to her again. It was to be expected, he supposed.
He also guessed that by the time of his arrival and subsequent employment on the island, Helena would have spread the news of his identity to the people she called friends. It was likely to prove difficult for him to make connections now, and yet he still hoped that some might give him the benefit of a doubt.
Regardless, he'd avoided most people to date, speaking only a time or two to his housemates. His aversion found him walking along the beach, his shoes in one hand as the other rested in his pocket. Surprisingly, the stretch of sand he traveled was deserted except for a dark-skinned girl in the midst of rescuing what looked to be netting. She was clad far more scantily than anyone he'd ever seen and he hoped she would forgive his staring. Being from a different era didn't excuse voyeurism, however, so he approached her. She was dripping wet and clearly doing something. It was the what that Anton couldn't fathom.
"Pardon me, miss, but you look as though you might need a bit of help," he heard himself saying. Where had it come from, he wondered? He was neither drunk nor affected by magic, but he'd rarely ever approached anyone like this.