Upon A Starlit Tide

8. A Sliver of Ocean

8

A Sliver of Ocean

Veronique was in the vestibule, pink-cheeked and shining with excitement.

‘Our gowns have arrived!’ she announced, leading Luce, Jean-Baptiste and Daumard into the grand salon. She paused in the doorway as they filed obediently past, leaning back to call back up the staircase. ‘Anna-Marie! Hurry and bring the dressing screen from my chamber!’

At that moment Charlotte entered the room, her wide skirts bumping into Veronique’s. They struggled comically before Charlotte managed to squeeze past, followed by Nanette, her arms loaded with two large, narrow boxes. Jean-Pierre came in behind her with a third box, followed by Anna-Marie and St. Jean, Veronique’s dressing screen hoisted between them. At last, Gratienne swept in, her maid Madeleine hurrying behind.

‘Saints preserve us,’ Jean-Baptiste muttered.

There was a pause while the boxes were laid carefully out, and the two laquais and Gabriel Daumard politely retreated, closing the double doors behind them. Jean-Baptiste threw them an envious glance.

Expectation settled over the room. Gratienne paced before the chaise longue, hand raised, floating over first one, then another of the sumptuous boxes. At last, it came to a stop. ‘I think we’ll open this one first, Madeleine.’

It was, of course, Veronique’s gown that swept into being from between the layers of expensive tissue. She hurried forward, scooping up the gown and disappearing with it behind the dressing screen. Luce bit her lip, cast a sideways glance at Charlotte. True to her word at the spring, Charlotte had shared her precious fashion plates with Luce, helping her decide how to style her hair. Now, watching her sister wait her turn yet again, Luce felt a pang of sympathy. She reached out, squeezed Charlotte’s hand.

At last, Veronique emerged. Despite the Léon wealth and Gratienne’s skillful styling, the grand salon would never equal the magnificent salons of Paris. Yet when Veronique stepped out from behind the screen, it seemed as fine as one of the rooms in the palace of Versailles—and Veronique, as beautiful as the famed Madame de Pompadour herself.

The luxurious robe à la francaise was the colour of early roses, or the last pinkish blush of the evening. Its half sleeves were thick with ribbons and gold lace, its skirt a shining mass of silk, the thick pleats of the back panels sweeping the carpet. Every inch of it had been embroidered—thousands of roses in golden thread on stomacher and sleeves, skirts and petticoat. It glittered like the dawn.

Veronique turned slowly, admiring herself in the long mirror above the fireplace.

Gratienne sighed in contentment. ‘Oh, ma chère ,’ she said.

‘I do not think I shall be able to pass through the door,’ Veronique joked, turning this way and that. ‘It is very wide, is it not, Maman?’

‘It is perfect.’

‘It is lovely,’ Luce added, meaning it. She could all but smell the first blush of spring roses.

‘Thank you, Luce.’ Veronique tilted her head, waiting for Charlotte’s compliment.

‘Yes,’ Charlotte said flatly. ‘Maman was right about that colour suiting you better.’

While Veronique preened in the mirror, Gratienne selected another box from the chaise longue. This time, a gown of palest blue silk taffeta appeared. As Nanette lifted it out, visibly straining under the weight, Luce saw that the robe and underskirt were as heavily embellished as Veronique’s. Bluebells, daffodils, clouds, and bumblebees meandered in silver thread across the silk. The stomacher was festooned with row upon row of silver bows, and silver lace rippled at the sleeves.

‘Oh, Cee,’ Luce said, when Charlotte was standing before the mirror. ‘It is beautiful. Like the sky at twilight.’

Charlotte smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Luce. I like the colour, too.’

Veronique, watching her reflection in one of the windows, mumbled something that sounded like, ‘Yes, yes. It’s wonderful.’

‘I still prefer the cream silk.’ Gratienne came to stand behind Charlotte, head tilted thoughtfully. ‘Or the lilac.’

Charlotte tensed.

‘Still, it will suffice,’ Gratienne added, nodding to herself. ‘Especially with your mask and jewels.’

‘It’s Luce’s turn,’ Veronique said, dragging herself away from her reflection. ‘Here, Nanette; let us see what she chose.’

‘Yes.’ Charlotte, still at the mirror, looked over her shoulder and smiled. ‘I want to see, too.’

Nanette threw Luce a grin of her own, small and secret, before she lifted away the box’s lid.

The silk was even darker than Luce remembered: a sliver of ocean at night. But for a few layers of black lace sewn into each half sleeve, the dress was completely unadorned; no embroidery, buttons, or bows. Nanette took hold of its shoulders, lifting it from its nest of tissue. It rose easily with her, falling like water.

‘Hm,’ Gratienne said, a sharp little sound that gave nothing away. ‘It is darker than I would have chosen for you, Lucinde, but I suppose it will have to do. Help her try it on, please.’

Luce stepped behind the screen, and Nanette and Anna-Marie gathered around her, their practised hands moving quickly. There were no embellishments for them to navigate, no ribbons to flounce. The stomacher Nanette pinned over Luce’s stays was smooth and plain. And yet, when she stepped out from behind the screen...

‘Heavens above, mon trésor,’ Jean-Baptiste said. ‘You are a vision.’

‘It’s so plain,’ Veronique added, perplexed. ‘There is no embroidery, no trimming. And yet... my goodness, Luce. You look beautiful. ’

Luce gazed at herself in the mirror. She had always thought herself too tall, too thin, too dark to be truly beautiful, yet she could not deny that the new gown, though almost painfully simple, looked... well on her. Her eyes seemed bluer. Her black hair shone. The silk was like a live thing, lustrous in the sunlight slanting through the salon doors, causing her skin to glow. Would Morgan notice her in a dress the colour of the sea? Would he remember what had happened after the wreck? A delicious little thrill ran through her at the thought.

Jean-Baptiste came to stand behind her. ‘Perhaps I should have chosen a different colour for you, mon trésor,’ he said gravely, regarding her reflection over her shoulder. ‘It seems very likely that my worries will come to pass, and that someone will indeed try to take you from us.’

‘Don’t be absurd, Papa,’ she said guiltily. ‘It is only a gown. Only a ball.’

‘The colour does suit her, I suppose,’ Gratienne said grudgingly. Her eyes flicked from Veronique to Luce and back again. As though it were her eldest daughter, and not Luce, she found wanting.

‘I had no idea you were so lovely,’ Veronique said, stepping closer. ‘Your skin—it’s like honey. And your hair... so beautiful and dark.’ She reached out to touch a strand. ‘My goodness, Luce.’

Luce turned to Charlotte, eager to see what she thought, whether the hairstyle they had planned would be suitable—and felt a familiar, sickening dread. Charlotte was utterly still, her gaze hard and unsmiling.

‘Shall we try on our masks?’ she said coldly, turning away.

Luce’s unease grew as Nanette tied the ribbons on her mask, a simple eye-covering of black silk. Veronique’s mask—a concoction of powder-pink satin and gold netting—sprouted a cluster of ostrich feathers, powdery and exotic, above her head. Charlotte’s, a blue and silver butterfly, arched its wings over the sides of her face. When each was secured, her sisters joined her before the mirror.

‘Breathtaking,’ Jean-Baptiste said, as he beheld his daughters. His gaze returned, again and again, to Luce, until it was plain that, of the three of them, it was she who drew the eye. Too tall, too thin, too dark, she might be; but in that moment, she outshone her sisters like a single star in a velvet sky.

Any pleasure she felt was short-lived. Charlotte’s masked gaze was fixed upon her in the mirror, all trace of warmth and sisterhood gone.

Jealousy had returned, as it always did, and hardened her heart.

It was never wise to be caught outdoors after dark in Bretagne. Eldritch things wandered the night. Night screamers and the brous, who rampaged through the forests and thickets, devouring small creatures that strayed across their paths, or the feared Lavandières, the Night Washerwomen, who cleansed the grave-clothes of the dead at the water’s edge. Seeing them was to be feared, indeed, for doing so foretold one’s own death.

The Bugul Noz, too, rode at night. Luce had seen his tall figure moving through the dusky landscape several times. He had even spoken to her once; whispered that she lingered too long outside after sunset. Many had been drowned for the same offense, but the Bugul Noz had only lurched away on his hideous, shadow-hoofed horse. The sound of his whistling voice, the glowing embers of his eyes, had pierced her with terror.

There were hours yet before nightfall, but she walked as quickly as she dared. It had been a week since she had last been to the cove. Preparations for the ball, and the presence of the new tutor, had made escape impossible. A pity, to say the least. Since the arrival of the new gowns, Charlotte and Veronique had resumed their rivalry, bickering in front of the shoemaker one day, and freezing the house with icy silence the next. There was, of course, no silence cold enough to quell the stream of bitter insults Charlotte threw Luce’s way. The shoemaker’s visit, however, had been worse than any of her sister’s barbs. The look of pity he had given Luce when she removed her slippers haunted her still.

Tonight, however, was the last before the ball, and the Léons had supped and retired early. Unable to resist the call of the sea— and the opportunity to bathe her aching feet—Luce had waited until the house was quiet, then stolen away. No sooner had she reached the cliffs and spied the Manche, calm and grey-green in the evening light, all thought of insults and shoemakers alike faded.

On the beach, she gathered driftwood and stacked it on the sand near the cave, then ducked through the long passage, emerging with a lantern and tinder box, blankets, part of an old sail, and a battered little knife. She spread the sail upon the sand and heaped the blankets upon it, then built a fire, feeding it until flames the colour of lavender danced against the dusk.

The water beckoned.

A silver gull wheeled overhead as she plunged into the ocean’s cool folds. Cradled in its gentle arms, face upturned to the first of the night’s stars, she was weightless. Thoughtless. Free. The pain in her feet disappeared, washed away by cold and salt. To prolong the feeling as long as possible, she padded slowly out of the water and across the wet sand, then wrapped herself in a blanket and watched the fire.

She was almost dry when the faint sound of music drifted to her from around the headland. She tilted her head, listening. A fiddle, a bombarde, a veuse, and a drum. Not the jetins out playing their wild, fey little songs to the moon, then, but a group of fishermen, or folk from Saint-Coulomb. Her heart skittered at the thought. Might Samuel be with them? It had been days and days since they’d gone storm-diving at the wreck of the Dauphin. She had left a note for him in the wall near the chapel, where a loose stone provided the perfect place to store secret messages.

New tutor, she had written. She had almost told him of the ball, the appointments with tailors and the shoemaker, but at the last moment had decided against it. Will leave word when I can get away.

In reply, he had left her a drawing of a swallow, capturing the angle, the flight, in a few clever lines and reminding Luce of his tattoos. She dreamed of them, sometimes. Of him. Of running her fingertips, her lips, over the ink on his skin. Would it feel as smooth as it looked?

Luce got to her feet, threw off the blanket, and pinned herself hastily back into her bodice and skirts—she had not bothered to dress in her men’s clothes so late in the day—and pulled a shawl around her shoulders, tucking the knife into her pocket. She climbed onto the rocks shielding the cove from the east, scrambling to the highest point.

Away from the shelter of the cave mouth, the music was louder. Voices floated over the water. And there, upon the next headland, the glow of a large fire.

She narrowed her eyes as the breeze tugged at her shawl, her hair. The headland was higher and wilder than the one she stood upon. Instead of pines, it was covered with gorse, the branches fizzing with yellow flowers. People had gathered on an expanse of rock jutting out over the water, seated themselves on stones among the heather and sea thrift, their faces golden in the fireglow as they shared food and drink. Some of the younger fisher-folk, perhaps, and servants from the surrounding farms, manors, and malouinières. No doubt a few shipwrights, too. They gathered, sometimes, to tell stories, sing and dance. Faint echoes of their conversation, their laughter, drifted across the water.

Luce imagined the warmth of that fire, the glow of such companionship, and felt a stab of inexplicable loneliness. She sighed, and the water beneath her rippled in sympathy. The ripples spread, growing in strength, crossing the water and breaking against the rocks.

A lone figure drew away from the rest and walked to the cliff’s edge. Luce recognised the shape of his shoulders, the way he thrust his hands into the pockets of his overcoat.

She smiled.

As though he had heard his name, Samuel looked her way. She saw the moment he saw her, the lift of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. Watched him walk away from the gathering and onto the path that led to Luce’s cove. In the space of a breath or two he was hidden by the sea pines lining the gently-curving cliffs.

Luce, meanwhile, lingered on the rocks, prising oysters from their ribs. Returning to the cave, she stretched out the sail to make more space, then settled against the blankets to prise open the oysters and wait.

‘I thought you were the tide-crone, when I saw you just now,’ Samuel said, crossing the sand. Luce grinned when she saw that Bones was with him, carrying cups and a bottle. ‘Bones stole us some cider.’

‘That’s right,’ Bones said good-naturedly. ‘Blame me, as always.’ He flopped down on one side of Luce while Samuel took the other, stretching his long legs out toward the fire, and poured out three cups.

‘Thank you.’ Luce took a sip. Apples and spring. ‘There’s oysters if you want them.’

Both men eagerly obliged her, tilting their heads back to slide the salty-fleshed creatures down their throats. Luce had already eaten her fill.

Samuel took a long swallow from his cup, then raised an eyebrow at Luce’s damp hair.

‘Been swimming?’

‘Hmm-mm.’

‘It’s late in the day for that, isn’t it?’ He glanced mistrustfully at the brooding expanse of the Manche, the silvery water lapping against the rocks. ‘You don’t know what’s lurking out there.’

Luce shrugged. ‘Tide-crones, apparently.’

‘And other things, besides,’ Bones added.

Samuel took another sip of his cider. ‘Things have been busy at the malouinière, then?’ he asked. ‘What was it you said? A new tutor?’

Luce nodded. ‘Monsieur Daumard. He has come to distract me with music and natural history.’ She had chosen the words— distract me —as a jest, only. Nevertheless, something about them snared at her.

‘You’ve had tutors before,’ Samuel said idly. ‘It never stopped you from sneaking out.’

‘There are also... other things afoot.’ She glanced at him, considering. He had made his feelings about the de Chatelaines more than plain, that morning on the Dove, yet that was not the only reason she found herself hesitating to tell him about the ball. For the first time since they had met, the differences between them—in family, and in wealth—seemed important. Samuel was well aware of the way the Léons lived. The lavish suppers, the extravagance. He had even been inside Le Bleu Sauvage and seen it all for himself. It was entirely natural for Luce to want to attend the ball at Le Loup Blanc. So why did it feel like a betrayal?

‘ I know what’s afoot,’ Bones said, sliding more wood onto the fire.

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ Samuel raised a brow.

‘That’s right. Luce is going to the de Chatelaines’ ball tomorrow night.’

Luce turned to him, surprised. ‘How do you know the de Chatelaines are having a ball?’

‘I try to keep a weather eye open,’ Bones said solemnly.

‘Christ,’ Samuel muttered.

Bones ignored him. ‘It’ll be, by all accounts, a grand affair.’

Luce, biting back a smile, nodded. ‘Most certainly.’

‘New dress?’

Another nod.

Samuel snorted. ‘You must have loved that.’

‘It was not so bad,’ she admitted. ‘Papa found some silk for me. Dark blue. It’s beautiful.’

‘I can imagine.’ Samuel took another sip of cider, his gaze on the fire.

‘What of your sisters?’ Bones inquired. ‘New dresses, too?’

Samuel frowned at him. ‘What in God’s name is wrong with you?’

‘What?’ Bones asked, defensive. ‘I’m interested.’

Luce chuckled. ‘Veronique and Charlotte both wanted the same fabric for their gowns. Rose Pompadour,’ she added.

‘Ah,’ Bones said sagely. ‘A popular choice this season.’

‘Indeed. The house has been a battlefield. I comfort myself with the knowledge that by this time tomorrow we will all be at Le Loup Blanc, and my sisters will be too busy enjoying themselves to do battle.’

‘I have no doubt they will,’ Samuel said wryly. ‘The de Chatelaines, after all, are very good at enjoying themselves. Some of them more than others.’

‘What do you mean?’ Luce asked.

‘Nothing.’ He sat up, reached for more driftwood. The sun had made its final descent beyond the horizon now, and the air was cooling rapidly. ‘Though while we’re speaking of the de Chatelaines, I should tell you we’ve had several offers for the stone.’

‘So soon?’ Luce sat up straighter. ‘Have you even finished salvaging?’

He laid the wood on the fire. ‘We’ve emptied the hold and brought up as much from the seafloor as we could find.’

‘Already?’

‘We had some assistance. I don’t like bringing in extra hands—the more people who know, the more who might talk— but it could not be helped.’

A shiver ran down Luce’s spine at the thought of that shadowy wreck, the looming darkness. ‘Where is it now?’

He tilted his head toward the cave. ‘Where do you think?’

‘My God, Samuel.’ She should have known. The telltale tingling on her skin was subtle, but unmistakable. ‘Is that safe?’

The cave was well hidden, protected by the groac’h, and her father’s presence, both. Even so, the thought of so much stolen storm-stone sitting a few steps away was... worrying.

‘You’ve never been concerned about us storing cloud here before,’ Samuel said, watching her.

‘You never stole it from the de Chatelaines before. Who else knows it’s here?’

Bones raised his hand. ‘Guilty.’

Samuel ignored him. ‘Only the three of us.’ Satisfied with the fire, he flopped back against the cushions.

Luce frowned. ‘I should tell you—Castro de Chatelaine lied to my father when he asked about the Dauphin ’s stone.’

‘What did he say?’ Bones leaned forward.

‘That he took a risk. Sailed without storm-stone. I knew, of course, that he was lying.’

‘What of his son?’ Samuel asked. ‘What did he have to say?’

‘He said nothing.’

‘Interesting.’

Luce waited while Bones refilled her cup. ‘Why would they lie, do you think?’

‘You tell us, Luce.’ Samuel held his cup out to Bones, firelight catching on the gold in his hair.

‘Well, there are two reasons I can think of,’ Luce said. ‘The first is pride. No one wants to lose a ship, but the loss is decidedly less shameful if it was unprotected. Or if everyone believes it was so.’

‘True. What’s the second?’

‘Security. By claiming the Dauphin carried ordinary ballast, they’d protect it from storm divers.’

Samuel grinned. ‘Also true.’

‘Which is it, then?’

‘I’d say both. The de Chatelaines are proud. They’d do anything to protect the family’s reputation. And with stone like that in the hold, something must have gone very, very wrong aboard that ship.’

Luce, remembering the set of Morgan’s shoulders as he leaned on the Lucinde ’s scaffolding, the pain in his eyes, nodded. ‘But what?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ Bones announced. ‘Rather than trusting his crew and his ballast, de Chatelaine took the wheel himself. Storm-stone only works in weather like that if you let the ship run—the cloud will take over, keep it safe. Anyone with experience knows that. And our brave captain was far from experienced.’

Luce frowned. Morgan was inexperienced, it was true; but that was hardly his fault. ‘What about you?’ she asked Samuel. ‘Do you think he ran the ship onto the reef himself?’

Samuel shrugged. ‘Such behavior requires a certain amount of arrogance. And the de Chatelaines are rather good at arrogance.’

‘That’s not fair,’ she said. ‘Neither of you have even met Morgan de Chatelaine.’

‘I don’t need to,’ Bones said mildly. ‘I know his kind well enough.’

‘And you agree, I suppose?’ Luce raised an eyebrow at Samuel.

He shrugged. ‘It’s hard not to. And it’s not as if de Chatelaine is going to admit to any of this, is he? He’s already lied about the storm-stone being on board. What else isn’t he saying?’ He tilted his head back, admiring the early stars glimmering over the Manche. ‘To get back to your second reason, Luce... I’ve no doubt Castro meant to protect the wreck. Or that he has men out looking for it. He’ll want that stone back. It’s too valuable to lose.’ He threw her another grin. ‘Why do you think I moved so fast, and brought in extra help for the salvage?’

‘I hope the extra “help” can be trusted.’ If Castro de Chatelaine was willing to punish his son so harshly for losing one of his ships, what would he do to a storm diver who stole his stone? ‘They’ll all get a cut of the profits—plus a little extra to ensure their silence. As will you, of course.’

‘I didn’t do much.’ Compared to what Samuel and the rest of the men had done, the meager amount Luce had salvaged seemed immaterial.

‘You found the wreck,’ Samuel said firmly. ‘You’ll get a cut, the same as always.’

‘Thank you.’

Bones poured what remained of the cider into each of their cups.

‘What do you do with it?’ Samuel asked Luce. ‘The money, I mean?’

Luce glanced at Bones. ‘I’m saving it.’

‘For what?’

She straightened her shoulders. ‘For when I go to sea. It—it will break my father’s heart, when I go. I won’t take his money as well.’

Bones suddenly lurched to his feet, brushing the sand from his breeches. ‘We, good people, are out of cider,’ he said hastily. ‘Time for old Bones to rejoin the festivities.’ He tottered across the sand, waving in vague farewell.

‘Coward,’ Samuel muttered, watching him go.

Luce looked sideways at him. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with our conversation on the Dove, does it?’

‘You mean the conversation when you told me that my fool of a cousin told you that disguising yourself as a boy and signing on to a ship was a splendid idea?’ Samuel drank deeply of his cider, wiped his mouth angrily on his sleeve. ‘Of course not.’

‘He was only trying to help.’

‘He was only trying to get you killed. Or worse.’

Luce sighed. ‘You’re being dramatic, Samuel.’

‘Dramatic, is it? Because I refuse to let you throw yourself into a life of unimaginable hardship? Of disease, and danger, and violence, and... debauchery ?’

‘Debauchery?’ Luce could not help it; she laughed.

‘Christ.’ Samuel wiped his palm wearily over his eyes. ‘You don’t have the slightest notion what I’m talking about, do you?’

Luce wondered if the cider had gone to her head. ‘Debauchery,’ she repeated, giggling.

‘At least promise me this.’ Samuel set his cup in the sand and reached for her hand. ‘If you do decide to go ahead with this madness, tell me first.’

‘Why?’ Luce had stopped laughing. Samuel’s hand was rough, and warm, around hers.

‘Because I’m going with you.’

‘Don’t be absurd. What of the Dove ? Your family?’ It was up to him to provide for his mother and younger siblings. ‘You can’t drop everything and leave.’

‘They’ll manage without me. You won’t.’

Luce bristled. ‘I’ll manage just fine,’ she said, pulling her hand free of his.

‘You might.’ Samuel lazed back on the cushions, arms bent behind his head. ‘Until your crewmates discover you’re a woman.’

‘They won’t—’

‘They will, Luce. They always do. The ship, the sea—it betrays them, every time. And it always ends the same way.’

‘How?’

A muscle in his jaw flickered. ‘Badly.’

Before his father died, Samuel had worked on privateers and merchant ships out of Portsmouth and Weymouth. He had never told her how many times women had joined his crews, or the details of those ‘endings’. In truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

‘Not every tale ends as well as Hannah Snell’s,’ he said, in a gentler tone. ‘She was the exception, not the rule.’

‘Let’s not discuss this now,’ Luce said. ‘After all, it is not as if I’m leaving tomorrow.’

‘No. Tomorrow you’ll be dressed in a blue silk gown, dancing with Morgan de Chatelaine.’

‘You know I won’t be dancing.’

He made no reply, staring up, watching the stars as they bloomed.

‘Samuel?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Do you ever feel as though you are not where you are supposed to be?’

He snorted. ‘All the bloody time. I’m a seaman, which, depending on who you talk to, means I’m neither reckoned among the living nor the dead, on account of my life being in danger every time I push my tub out from the beach. I’m an Englishman who spends most of his time in France, and we’re at war. I’m a smuggler, constantly moving from one shore to another, doing my best to avoid the Royal Navy and the revenue men. I’m a storm salvager, under water as often as I’m on top of it, breaking the law every time I meet a potential buyer in the back of some dingy, disreputable pothouse.’ He shook his head, chuckling. ‘I spend every day of my life where I’m not supposed to be.’ The laughter faded from his voice. ‘Even now, I’m not where I’m supposed to be. A lowly smuggler, sharing cider with the daughter of one of the grandest shipowners in Saint-Malo. And me a fisherman’s son from Lulworth.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘What would your father say if he knew you were here with me?’

‘I’m not really a Léon,’ Luce said. She had not meant to say it; perhaps it was the cider, or the way Samuel looked in the firelight. Either way, the words had slipped from her mouth of their own accord.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You didn’t know? I thought everyone knew. My father found me in Guernsey when I was two years old. Rescued me, really. My parents had died of typhus and I was all alone.’

Samuel had unusual eyes, storm-grey and flecked with gold. Right now, they were wider than Luce had ever seen them.

‘You’re jesting, surely?’ he said.

‘Not at all. They were from Bretagne. My parents, I mean. My father made enquiries.’ Luce glanced up at the sail, white against the blue of the sky. ‘He was a shipwright, my father. My real father, I mean. He’d worked in the dockyards in Brest for five years before traveling to Guernsey with my mother.’

‘A shipwright...?’

‘He repaired fishing boats, for the most part. He fished as well, of course. Maybe even smuggled.’

Samuel was still staring at her. ‘How have you never told me this?’

‘It never seemed important.’ She raised one shoulder, shrugging his gaze away. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m just... shocked, that’s all.’ He shook his head, looked out over the Manche. ‘A shipwright’s daughter, living under the roof of Jean-Baptiste Léon.’

‘Perhaps he’s not as heartless as you think.’

A movement, out on the gloaming water. Luce narrowed her eyes against the fire’s light.

‘Samuel,’ she hissed. ‘ Look. ’

He followed the line her pointed finger made. Swore softly as he focused on what Luce could already see: the black shape of a small boat entering the cove. It moved against wind and tide, smoothly, slowly, the sinister shape of a solitary woman at its tiller.

‘Witch-boat,’ Samuel murmured. And then, as the vessel drew nearer: ‘Is that her ?’

Luce nodded. She would recognise that tall silhouette, that long pale hair, anywhere. ‘Yes.’

He pushed himself hastily up, grabbed at the blankets. ‘Should we—’

‘She won’t trouble us,’ Luce said. ‘She knows we mean no harm.’

They watched the little boat scrape upon the sand, its lone passenger step out. She looked up the beach, toward the fire, the tusks curling above her top lip glittering silver in its light.

‘Are you entirely certain about that?’ Samuel asked uneasily.

‘Entirely? No.’ The Fae Folk were unpredictable. They could be recklessly cruel or sweetly benevolent on the turn of the tide. ‘But she’s never done more than glance this way. She keeps to her cave, and we keep to this one. I don’t know why she’d want to harm us now.’

Tide-crones were notoriously solitary, much opposed to noise and disturbances. Even the brazen band of jetins kept their distance. Luce watched as the crone made her way up the beach, to where her own cave lay beneath the darkening cliffs.

‘It will be dark soon,’ Samuel said, getting to his feet and brushing the sand from his breeches. ‘We should get you home.’

‘Don’t you want to return to the gathering?’

‘There will be other gatherings.’ He held out a hand, helped her to her feet. ‘Let’s go.’