Upon A Starlit Tide

4. Prickling

4

Prickling

‘Let us talk of happier things,’ Jean-Baptiste said as he returned to his desk and drew a sheaf of papers tied with a soft blue ribbon from beneath a map of the French Antilles. ‘I have a gift for you.’

The memory of Charlotte’s cold words and colder eyes chilled Luce’s heart.

‘Papa, you spoil me,’ she said uneasily.

‘I most certainly do not.’ He pressed the scroll into her hands, as eager as a boy. ‘Open it.’

The sound of the ship’s bell rang twice from the vestibule below.

‘Two bells,’ Luce said. ‘It is suppertime, Papa.’

‘Supper will wait.’ Jean-Baptiste cleared space on the desk. ‘Lay it here, mon trésor.’ He turned to her, standing motionless with the scroll. ‘Why, hurry and open it!’

Slowly, Luce untied the ribbon and smoothed the papers over the desk.

It was a ship. Or plans for one, at least, its graceful lines captured in black ink. A frigate, three masted, many gunned, as beautiful as any Luce had seen.

‘What is this, Papa?’

‘It’s a ship.’

‘I can see that.’

‘It’s your ship.’ Jean-Baptiste leaned over the plans, pointing. ‘See?’

Luce took in the plans: the long scooping line of the keel, the layers of deck, all laid out in perfect, birdlike symmetry. And there, at the top of the page, the ship’s name:

Lucinde .

It was customary for shipowners to name their vessels after their wives and daughters. Jean-Baptiste’s fleet already held the Gratienne and the Charlotte. The Veronique had, unfortunately, been captured by the English Navy the year before. Luce flipped through the pages, pausing at a detailed diagram of the ship’s stern and bow. Lush woodwork ornamented the stern and quarter galleries: sea goddesses with shapely arms, their torsos wrapped in cunningly sculpted draperies. Fish pooled about the windows and among the carvings on the taffrail. And the figurehead...

It was Luce herself, long dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders, the material of her gown breezing out over the ship’s beak and bow, clinging slightly to her legs as though a sea wind dragged it behind her. Her feet, she could not help but notice, were tucked away; hidden beneath the folds of wooden fabric.

‘It’s been my little secret.’ Jean-Baptiste beamed at her. ‘You had no idea, did you?’

‘None.’ She stroked the Lucinde ’s curving keel, her sails. ‘She’s beautiful, Papa. When will she be ready?’

‘She launches in a week or two.’

‘A week or two?’

‘I told you—she’s been my secret.’ Proudly. ‘There is still much to be done, of course. We shall attend the launch. And then the fitting out will take a month or more...’

Luce rolled up the plans and handed them back. Supper, and the rest of the family, would be waiting. ‘It was kind of you to name her for me, Papa. Thank you.’

‘Name her for you?’ He pushed the plans back to her. ‘No, no, mon trésor. She is more than yours in name. I am giving her to you.’

Luce frowned. ‘You cannot be serious, Papa.’

Neither her sisters, nor her mother, had ever received more than the privilege of lending their names to one of Jean-Baptiste’s ships.

‘It is too much, Papa.’

‘Not at all.’

‘She must have cost a fortune.’

‘She did.’

‘But—’

‘She is yours to do with as you will,’ Jean-Baptiste said firmly. ‘Trade, privateering... Whatever you wish.’

Whatever you wish.

Luce could not take her eyes off that figurehead, face turned to the sea. Fearless. Free.

‘Her captain?’ she asked. ‘Her crew?’

‘Will be chosen by you.’

Luce had heard stories about women—brave women—who took what was forbidden to them. They dressed up as boys and secretly joined crews, went to sea for months or even years, toiling side by side with a ship’s worth of oblivious men. They worked as cooks and sailors, or shipwrights. She had even—such stories set a stirring in her heart—heard of women who did not hide their true forms. Women like Anne Dieu-le-Veut, whose presence on board was believed to be good luck, and Jeanne de Clisson, the Lioness of Bretagne, who had captained ships and led her own fleet.

Whatever you wish.

‘I want to sail her myself.’ The words were out of Luce’s mouth before she could stop them. ‘I want to take her to Cádiz or Saint-Domingue, or the Americas. Or even farther. I want the horizon, Papa, like you.’ She turned to him, unable to hide her excitement. ‘Perhaps... perhaps you could be my captain?’ Her father was staring at her as though he had never seen her before. Of course, he would be shocked. Why wouldn’t he? Aside from the colour of the figureheads’ respective gowns, neither of her sisters had been even remotely interested in their nautical namesakes.

‘I know this isn’t what you were expecting,’ Luce hurried on. ‘But haven’t we spent years studying charts and maps? Your new ships, your plans for them? Haven’t you told me all your sea stories? I want to make my own stories, Papa.’

Still, he said nothing.

‘I know Maman will not be happy,’ Luce said, faltering. ‘But you could convince her, couldn’t you? If you talked to her, and explained... I’m sure she would let us go.’

‘I’m sure she would,’ he said at last, and leaned in to kiss her brow. ‘And it is a wonderful idea. Truly. But...’

Luce’s heart sank. ‘But?’

‘Well, mon trésor, the sea is a dangerous place at the best of times. And now, when we are at war with England...’

Of course. The Manche was a battleground, English warships and French corsairs waging a war of their own for dominance over the seas. No father would agree to take his daughter to sea with him, now. She had been a fool to suggest it.

‘Forgive me, ma chère,’ Jean-Baptiste said, a look of exceeding pity on his face. ‘I hate to disappoint you.’

‘It is not your fault. Perhaps... perhaps when the war is over...’

There was, of course, no way of knowing when that might be. The fighting had been going for two years now and showed no sign of slowing.

‘Perhaps, mon trésor.’ He took his frock coat from the back of his chair and shrugged it on. ‘If, of course, we can convince your mother.’

‘ There you are.’

Gratienne, Veronique, and Charlotte were seated for supper, hands clasped neatly in their laps. Before them, the large, oval-shaped dining table, covered in a spotless white cloth, was crowded with elegant porcelain plateware, glittering glasses, crystal candelabras, and an armory’s worth of silver cutlery.

‘We were about to send one of the laquais to fetch you,’ Gratienne said. The men in question—St. Jean, Jean-Pierre and Jean-Jacques (the fourth, Jean-Germane, who had taken word of the wreck to the de Chatelaines in Saint-Malo, was yet to return)— stood to attention near the sideboard, where bottles of wine and fresh glasses waited. All three were impeccable in matching livery. Before employing them, Gratienne, who insisted upon perfection in her domestiques, had ensured each was of a similar height, and had no qualms about changing his name to one that included ‘Jean’ in honour of his master.

‘No need for that, ma chère,’ Jean-Baptiste said easily, taking his seat. ‘Luce was just helping me with the accounts.’

‘I trust everything is in order?’

‘Quite, ma chère.’ Jean-Baptiste turned to Jean-Pierre, who had materialised at his side, a bottle of wine at the ready. ‘Ah, Jean-Pierre. Good man. Is that the Bourgogne?’

‘It is, monsieur.’

‘Very good.’

‘What’s that?’ Charlotte asked. Luce, who had until that moment been surreptitiously sliding the ship’s plans behind a large arrangement of flowers on the room’s second sideboard, turned to find all eyes upon her.

‘Nothing,’ she said, slipping her hands behind her back like a child who has been caught at the sugar pot.

At the same moment her father proclaimed, with unmistakable pride, ‘ That is a set of plans.’

‘What kind of plans, Papa?’ Charlotte looked at Luce. ‘Are you finally giving Luce her own armoire?’

Veronique giggled. ‘It is a little late, isn’t it?’

‘Better start stitching, Luce!’

Both Charlotte and Veronique had received their armoires, impressively grand and ornate, when they were still girls. As soon as they were old enough to sew, they had begun working on their wedding trousseaus in readiness for their marriages. Now, each armoire was bursting with perfectly embroidered sheets, chemises and laces, cushion covers, bed hangings and silks, as well as napkins, tablecloths, nightgowns, and petticoats.

‘It is not an armoire, ma chère,’ Jean-Baptiste said patiently. ‘It is Luce’s new ship.’

Silence, of so profound a nature that the sound of red wine slurping into Jean-Baptiste’s wineglass seemed loud as cannon fire.

‘ Luce’s new ship?’ Charlotte echoed.

‘Indeed.’ Jean-Baptiste turned to Jean-Pierre, smiled. ‘That will do, thank you.’ He sipped the wine, then sucked it loudly through his teeth with relish. ‘By God, that’s good. See to it that Olivier orders more, won’t you?’

‘Of course, monsieur.’

‘You may bring in the soup,’ Gratienne told Jean-Jacques. ‘If it hasn’t boiled dry in the pot. Jean-Pierre, please help Lucinde to her seat.’

All three laquais obeyed at once, Jean-Jacques and St. Jean disappearing through the door leading to the kitchen, while Jean-Pierre slid Luce’s seat deftly into place beneath her, then filled her wineglass.

‘Luce’s new ship? Whatever do you mean, mon amour?’ Candlelight played on Gratienne’s carefully powdered hair, the diamonds glinting at her ears. ‘I thought you were to name your next ship Veronique to replace the one we lost.’

‘It is definitely the Lucinde, ’ said Charlotte. ‘It says so on the plans.’

Luce, who had been thanking Jean-Pierre, turned to see that her sister had left her seat and retrieved the plans from their hiding place. ‘It’s a much bigger brigantine than the Charlotte, ’ she said, casting her eyes over the pages.

‘It’s a frigate,’ Luce corrected mildly.

Jean-Jacques and St. Jean returned, each bearing a silver tureen.

‘But what about my name?’ Veronique asked, as the laquais set the soups upon the table.

‘You shall be next, ma chère, have no fear,’ Jean-Baptiste soothed, helping himself to soup.

‘A frigate, like Luce’s?’ Veronique asked.

‘Indeed,’ said Gratienne, with a long look at her husband.

There was a spiky silence. Jean-Baptiste, at last recognising the effect his announcement was having on his wife and daughters, turned irritably to Jean-Pierre. ‘Well don’t just stand there, boy. More wine.’

Jean-Pierre sprang forward, bottle in hand, and filled Jean-Baptiste’s half-empty glass. Jean-Baptiste took a generous gulp.

‘Am I to have a new ship, too, Papa?’ Charlotte asked.

‘What?’ Jean-Baptiste, spluttering, almost choked. ‘Good heavens, no!’

‘Why not? Why should Luce and Vee have bigger ships than I?’

‘Because Luce can tell the difference between a frigate and a brigantine, ma chère,’ Jean-Baptiste said, not unkindly, dabbing at the spilled wine on his chin with a spotless napkin. ‘And because frigates are very expensive.’

Charlotte did not reply. She was looking right at Luce, her eyes as cold and hateful as Luce had ever seen. Then she looked down at the plans and snickered.

‘What is it, Cee?’ Veronique was on her feet, rounding the table. She stopped at Charlotte’s side, peered down at the plans. ‘The figurehead? Well, whoever drew this was being kind.’

Charlotte giggled. ‘No feet.’

Luce’s cheeks burned. She longed to push up from her chair and leave the room, the very house, and go out into the coolness of the night. It would be quiet on the shore, and in the cave. There would be no figureheads, or plans, or sisters there. She would miss supper, but there were plenty of oysters on the rocks. She would not go hungry.

She glanced once more at Jean-Baptiste. Her father, however, had seemed to have found something supremely fascinating at the bottom of his soup bowl.

‘That’s enough, girls,’ Gratienne said. ‘Return to your seats at once. Your soup will get cold.’

When Gratienne spoke in this way—sharp as a diamond, soft as silk—even Veronique, her favorite, dared not oppose her. The two young women returned to their seats.

When they were settled, Jean-Baptiste looked up from his soup. ‘So,’ he said, gazing around the table, one salty brow raised. ‘Who would like to know the identity of our dashing young guest?’

And just like that, the Lucinde was forgotten.

Samuel, as he had promised, was waiting at the cove at six bells. Luce glimpsed his boat through the sea pines as she made her way down to the shore. The Dove was a shallow draft lugger, made for moving lightly over the gently sloping beaches near Samuel’s home in Dorset, and there were only a few watery steps to take, boots and stockings in one hand, breeches rolled to the knee, before Samuel was reaching down and lifting her into the boat.

‘Bones isn’t coming?’ she asked.

‘Mind your feet, there.’ He waited until she had found her balance before releasing her. ‘And no, he isn’t. He accused me of maltreatment, expecting him to go out again so soon after a run. He’s still sleeping, the drawlatchet.’

Chuckling—Samuel was wont to use the strangest words— Luce moved to the bow as he took up the oars. Compared to her father’s ships, the Dove was laughably small. Twenty feet in length, it was large enough to cross the Manche, but small enough for Samuel to handle with just Bones’s or Luce’s help. The amount of contraband it could carry was meager compared to what other smugglers moved in their sloops and cutters, and it required considerable skill, but that was little trouble for Samuel. Aided by Bones, he would deliver the goods to Guernsey, where another boat would pick it up and take it on to England. Sometimes, if the Manche was generous and Samuel was feeling ‘peart,’ he would sail all the way to Dorset. The contraband would, after a long and secretive journey on quiet English roads, end up in London, while the profits would be shared among the network of smugglers, with a generous cut for Samuel and Bones. Generous enough, at least, for Samuel to risk attracting the ire of the Manche, as well as the English revenue men’s infamous jails. Luce had asked him once if the war had made his life harder. Surely the Malouin merchants distrusted an Englishman in their midst?

‘I am no threat to Saint-Malo,’ he had told her, shrugging off her concern, ‘and Saint-Malo knows it. I’m just one little cog in a very large wheel.’

It made sense, in a way. The war with England had led to an increase in taxes on French goods. The English people, already under pressure from war taxes, relied heavily on smugglers for their tea and lace, their French wines and silks, while the merchants of Saint-Malo—her father among them—were simply happy to keep selling their wares.

With last night’s run to Guernsey over, Samuel was wholly focused on storm-diving.

‘Did you find out who the sailor is?’ he asked, storing the oars. ‘I did. He’s Castro de Chatelaine’s youngest son. Morgan.’

They were clear of the rocks framing the cove. Samuel moved to the tiller, taking the mainsheet in one hand. Luce waited for his nod before easing the jib. The sails filled in the breeze and Samuel began to tack around the craggy headland.

‘A de Chatelaine, eh?’ He whistled, settling back against the Dove ’s stern. ‘No wonder he was so pretty.’

The sun was rising in earnest, the water around them shining like gold. Luce leaned over the side, her fingertips brushing the water. Here, in the cold, salty wind, the walls of Saint-Malo and Le Bleu Sauvage seemed as distant as the moon. The endless rounds of social events, the pressure to behave as her mother and sisters did, pressed beneath the strictures of corsets and society’s will both, was gone. She could be on a frigate in the middle of the Atlantique, with nothing but the horizon and possibility before her. She closed her eyes, breathed deep. Above her, the sails tightened as the wind picked up.

Samuel laughed. ‘There you go again. Bewitching the wind, or my boat, or both.’

Luce smiled. Samuel had always sworn that sailing was smoothest when she was aboard. That she tamed the sea and beckoned the wind into the sails. And, most importantly, that he always found the best storm-stone when Luce was with him.

‘Which way do you want to go?’ he called, as though sensing her thoughts. She glanced back and saw him watching her, one hand braced on the tiller, the other gripping the mainsheet. Ready to follow her lead.

‘Keep going.’ Sometimes, if the wind was just right and the sea was calm, she could feel the presence of storm-stone on the seafloor. She didn’t know how it happened; just that the strange tingling against her skin—her prickle, her sisters called it, as Luce herself had done when she was very young—would intensify the closer she came to the stone.

The blueish light of early morning warmed as they passed Fort Guesclin, the rocky little island that lay at the eastern end of the wide sweep of beach where Samuel and the fishermen of Saint-Coulomb moored—or beached, depending on the tide—their vessels. Luce hunched in the prow as they passed a fishing boat, pulling her tricorn low.

‘I would have thought a de Chatelaine would have been a better sailor,’ Samuel mused. ‘I take it the ship belonged to his father?’

Luce left the prow, gripping the mainmast for balance. She settled herself on the other side of the tiller.

‘Yes.’ She nudged his large, tanned hand away and took the tiller herself. ‘The Dauphin. I thought the same, but then Papa told me that it was his first voyage as captain.’

‘They were sailing from Cádiz, then?’

‘That’s right. They got into a scrape with two English privateers, and were limping back to Saint-Malo when the storm finished the job.’

‘Those cursed English,’ Samuel said with a grin. ‘Never trust them, Luce.’

The stretch of green water between the fort and the Dove was dotted with reefs and rocks; each was reason enough to concentrate on the water ahead. And not the memory of Morgan de Chatelaine’s pale jaw, the sweep of dark stubble.

‘Are you sure we’re not wasting our time out here?’ Samuel asked. ‘It doesn’t sound like the Dauphin was carrying much cloud.’

‘That’s the thing. It was. He—Morgan—had ballast stones in his pockets when I found him.’ She swallowed. ‘I had to... empty them, or risk letting him drown.’

‘Hmm.’

She brought the Dove about, heading for deeper water. Vauban’s new fort, almost complete, loomed above: a stretch of somber grey wall carving a square into the wild green of the island’s crown, topped with cannon, and behind them, towers. All newly built to protect the coast from the English.

‘Was there any word on the rest of the crew?’ Samuel asked. ‘Not yet. But I fear they must have been lost. My father has heard of no other survivors.’

‘Nor have I.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s typical, though, is it not? The son of Castro de Chatelaine survives, while the rest of the crew are in Jones’ locker. It seems even the sea can tell the difference between a poor man and a rich one.’

Luce frowned at him. ‘I couldn’t tell the difference, and it was I who swam out to save him.’

‘Of course you did. It wouldn’t have mattered to you. ’ His eyes narrowed as he looked out over the water. ‘I only hope he deserves your selflessness, Luce.’

‘You did not seem concerned about whether or not he deserved saving yesterday,’ Luce said.

‘Yesterday I did not know he was a de Chatelaine.’

She straightened. ‘Why does that matter? Does he deserve less because of his name?’

‘The question is, does he deserve more ?’

‘More of what?’

‘More of everything! Do not tell me any of the de Chatelaines know what it is to be hungry, or cold. Do not tell me they give a thought to anyone who is not as rich, or powerful as they are. They sit in their town houses and country estates while the rest of Saint-Malo is cramped together in filth, letting others do the real work for them. They have so much, and still they take, and take. Wolves, indeed.’

Luce stared at him, tiller, reefs, storm-stone forgotten. ‘My family is not so very different to the de Chatelaines,’ she said quietly. ‘Is this how you speak of us?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Would you leave me to drown, then, were it I in Morgan’s place, and you in mine?’

‘Never,’ Samuel said, with feeling. ‘How could you even suggest it? Besides, you are nothing like the de Chatelaines. Or the Léons, for that matter.’

You’re just another piece of flotsam he brought home when he went to sea. Charlotte’s words from yesterday nipped once more at Luce. She gave Samuel the tiller, turned to watch the Dove rising over the gentle swell. A flock of silver gulls lifted from the walls of the half-finished fort, wheeling over the water, the sun catching on their foamy feathers.

‘Do you truly think the sea could tell the difference? Between a poor man and a rich one?’

He shrugged, laughed. ‘Who knows?’

‘What about the difference between a man... and a woman?’

She turned back to Samuel, found him watching her through narrowed eyes.

‘What are you trying to say, Luce?’

‘Bones and I were talking,’ she began.

‘Oh?’ He grinned. ‘And what wisdom did my dear cousin have to share?’

‘He told me about a woman named Hannah Snell. She—’

‘I know of Hannah Snell.’ Samuel’s smile had dimmed somewhat. ‘What does she have to do with you?’

Something in his tone, his face, caused Luce to falter. She plowed on, regardless. ‘Hannah Snell spent four years at sea, dressed as a man. None of her crew knew she was a woman. She sailed to India, and—’

‘Damn my soul,’ he muttered, with a shake of his head. ‘Why would Bones fill your head with tales like that?’

‘They’re not tales,’ Luce said. ‘She’s a real person. And, well, isn’t it obvious? Perhaps I could do what Hannah did. Disguise myself, sign on to a crew... I could be a cabin boy, or a shipwright’s assistant. Bones said that kind of work is easy enough—I would need to make beds and fix meals, clean clothes...’

‘Bones said it would be easy, did he?’ Samuel turned to the horizon, laughed in a way that was not in any way amused. ‘I’ll kill him. With my own two hands; I’ll wring his scrawny neck.’

‘Why are you so angry?’

‘Because this is madness, Luce! Madness! Nothing about crewing on a ship is easy. Nothing. Do you know the size of a crew on a seventy-four gunner? Six hundred and fifty men, give or take. Most of them are crammed into the gun decks, living on top of each other in between the guns. You’d sleep in a hammock with men a mere handsbreadth away from you. You’d share meals with them, in among the gun carriages and the spare sails and the anchor cable. There’d be animals there too, in their pens. Cows, goats, chickens, pigs. It would be noisy, and filthy, and it would reek of tar and bilgewater. And don’t even get me started on how you’d relieve yourself, or keep your body a secret, or survive the work. It’s endless, and it’s backbreaking. Climbing up the ratlines and onto the yardarms in all weathers, hauling on sheets that could break your fingers before you could even think—’ He stopped, chest heaving. ‘It’s madness, Luce. Madness. ’

They stared at each other over the tiller.

Luce opened her mouth to tell him half a hundred different things: That Bones disagreed. That it was not Samuel’s decision. That she was not a fool. That of course it would not be easy, but it was the only way. The only way. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, distracted.

Samuel, watching her, frowned. ‘What is it, Luce?’

She glanced at him, at the blue water surrounding them.

‘My skin is prickling, Samuel.’

‘Whoever decided that women were bad luck at sea clearly never sailed with you.’ Samuel pushed his water-glasses to the top of his head with one hand, while the other gripped the side of the Dove. ‘Did you see that cloud?’

Luce, pushing her own glasses off her face as she clung to the boat beside him, nodded. The tide had almost ebbed, and the rocky islets that marked the edges of the reef were becoming more exposed with every passing moment. So too was the wreck of the Dauphin. What was left of Castro de Chatelaine’s beautiful ship lay broken upon the reef, its hull crushed and gaping, its masts wedged between the rocks. Ship trap, Samuel had called the reef, and it was easy to see why.

‘It’s almost dead tide,’ Samuel said. ‘Perfect time to dive.’

Dead tide. The words sent a chill through Luce. The ship was spilling storm-stone ballast onto the sandy seafloor ten meters below them, but she had glimpsed several of the Dauphin ’s crew among the wreckage, too. The thought of diving once more, to where the Dauphin ’s gaping wounds loomed out of the murky darkness, made her shiver. She gripped the Dove harder. Below her, her petticoat drifted against her bare legs, as pale as the Dauphin ’s tattered sails.

‘Luce?’ Samuel was watching her. ‘Are you all right?’

She had helped him salvage storm-stone before, many times, but never in a wreck so recent. ‘There are so many of them, Samuel.’

‘You don’t have to do this,’ he said gently. ‘You can wait for me on the Dove. You’ll still get your share.’

Samuel always paid her for her help. The jar of livres hidden in the sea-cave did not look like much; even so, Luce cherished it, not least because it was hers. Money she had earned with her own hands, on her own terms. However, it was not the money that gave Luce pause. The memory of his words about Hannah Snell, and going to sea, were still too raw to allow her to give up so easily. She would not give Samuel the satisfaction of being right—of proving that she was too soft, too delicate, to do the work of a man. Besides, they had only half an hour, perhaps a little longer, before the tide turned and the opportunity was lost.

‘I’m fine,’ she told him, pulling her water-glasses down over her eyes. ‘Let’s go.’

She was a better swimmer than Samuel, even wearing stays. Diving cleanly, she gripped the weighted guide rope and began to pull herself down. Her petticoats trailed behind her, her dark hair, too, but when she turned her head, she made out Samuel above, and felt the rhythm of his grip as he moved hand over hand down the rope behind her.

Below them, on the sand, the storm-stone thundered gently.

At the bottom, Luce released the rope and swam off to one side, away from the wreck and its grim cargo. Her water-glasses—a clever melding of tortoiseshell, glass, wax, and cord—allowed her to see the shape of the seafloor and the debris strewn across it. She let the prickle lead her, scooping the glittering, palm-sized stones off the sand and slipping them into the satchel around her shoulder. Made of old fishing net, the bag was strong enough to hold the stones’ weight while allowing the water to pass through. When it was full, Luce swam back to the rope and dragged herself upward. She glanced back as she went and saw Samuel closer to the wreck, his long, lean torso bare above his breeches, his hands busily sliding ballast into his own satchel.

On the surface, Luce hung the satchel on the side of the Dove and grasped another, empty one before diving again, passing Samuel as he ascended, the rope dipping beneath her hands as he swung his own bag onto the Dove and dived once more.

And so they went, back and forth, up and down, until the Dove ’s timbered side was bristling with bags of ballast and the tide began to turn. When the drag of the water became too strong, Luce ascended for the last time.

Samuel was already standing in the Dove, dragging the netted stones into the boat. She slipped her bag from around her neck and passed it up to him, then slipped off her water-glasses and clung to the boat, catching her breath. Trying, and failing, not to watch the way the muscles in his shoulders and back moved as he worked, or the water beading on his golden skin. The twin swallows tattooed on his forearms, just beneath his thumbs, and the single star above his heart.

It had begun last summer. They had been out on the Dove, on a day just like any other. Until Luce had stood up to untangle some rigging, and everything had changed. Perhaps it was her toolarge overcoat; perhaps it was her feet. Whatever the reason, when Luce stretched her hand toward the sail, she lost her balance. Her arms flailed as she struggled to right herself. Her tricorn fell from her head. Her feet scrabbled on the deck as the Manche lurched greedily beneath her. Samuel was on his feet at once, abandoning the tiller, one arm steadying her, the other reaching over her head to secure the sail. For a moment, just a moment, his hand lingered on Luce’s waist. She could feel the warmth of him at her back, even through her ridiculous coat. The brush of his hair on her cheek. The strength of his arm around her. It was surprising, this awareness, and completely new. A strange little spark glimmered deep in her belly. Then, as quickly as he had reached for her, Samuel let her go.

‘Clumsy as ever, I see,’ he had teased, moving back for the tiller. As though he had not, for one brief moment, held Luce against him with heart-stopping tenderness. As though he had not, for one brief moment, pressed his cheek to her hair.