Upon A Starlit Tide

20. Half One and Half the Other

20

Half One and Half the Other

Luce’s hands were shaking. She placed her cup carefully back on the table.

‘Such silk cannot be woven here on our green shores,’ Mother Aggie was saying. ‘Its fibers are harvested from giant clams who exist far below the surface. Only the sea-folk can gather such fibers. And only the sea-folk are skillful enough to weave them into what you see before you.’

She lifted the silk, ran it gently over her hands.

‘It is not for mere decoration, though. Oh, no. The sea-women weave enchantments, wishes and hopes, along the strands. The magic gives the silk its colour, its beauty.’

‘What kind of magic?’ Luce whispered.

‘The kind that comes when the moon is full and rising fast, painting a path of silver across the water,’ Mother Aggie replied. ‘The kind that comes when the night is close. When the tide is about to turn, or the ocean holds its breath before a storm. The in-between times. Not day, not night. Not high, not low. Half one, and half the other.’

Half one, and half the other.

‘By their very nature, the sea-folk are different to the other Fae. They are of the in between, creatures of both land and sea. They are light and dark, sun and moon, shallow water and deep. They love to swim, and yet they also love to walk upon the shore. Such duality would prove to be their undoing.’

‘Why?’ Luce asked. Her tea lay cooling before her, forgotten.

Aggie sank back in her chair. ‘The tale of the sea-folk is not a happy one. They were ever the shyest of the Fae, preferring to dwell in the quietest coves, the most remote waters. For centuries they lived peacefully, taking only what they needed, using only what they had. Then humans learned to harness the wind, too. Ships became larger, fleets stronger, maps better. People began settling in those quiet coves, fishing those remote waters. They viewed the sea-folk with both reverence and dread, coveting their sweet voices, their beautiful forms, while at the same time fearing them. It has always been so. Sea-folk are as changeable as the moon. They can be dangerous. Vain, fickle, unpredictable. Yet they can be kind, too, when the mood takes them, calming a stormy sea or singing up a strong wind to fill a sagging sail. A seamaid can save a shipwrecked sailor or show a drifting fisherman the way home, but she can just as easily drag him from his boat and drown him. A monster from the darkest of dreams.’ Monster. Luce flinched at her casual use of the word. ‘Most were willing to risk it, for word spread across the seas that the kiss of a seamaid would bring good luck—calm seas, fair winds, good trade—to anyone lucky enough to receive it.’

The image of Morgan the morning after the storm—the wonder on his face, the way he had pulled her to him...

There are two reasons, he had said when she had asked him why he had kissed her. The first is that... I kissed you because I could not help it, Lucinde . I had nearly died. And you looked so wondrous. In truth? For a moment, I believed you were a seamaid. And when she had asked him of the second reason, he had balked. Does it matter?

Had he heard the sailors’ tales? Had he been thinking of his own success, his luck, even then?

She got to her feet unsteadily, pushed away from the table. Beyond Aggie’s window the cove was calm in the morning sun, oblivious to her turmoil.

‘But what of the silk, Aggie?’ Samuel asked.

‘Have you not listened to a word I’ve said, lad? The silk is the hinge. The door, the dusk. The key.’ Mother Aggie got to her feet and shuffled across the room. She fished about in a rickety drawer— the rattle of stone against shell—then drew out a piece of starlight.

‘This,’ she said, bringing it back to the table and laying it beside Luce’s, ‘was my great-grandmother’s.’

The two pieces of silk were identical in length and width. Both had the sheen of seashells, the softness of gossamer. Mother Aggie’s, however, was darkly silver, glinting in every shade of the moon.

Luce looked anew at Mother Aggie; at her sea-soaked house, her long, wild hair. ‘Have you ever used it?’

‘I tried, once. Many years ago. I hoped the stories were true, that I could do as my foremother did and turn my legs to a tail of shining silver. But alas—when I took this into the sea and held it against my skin, nothing happened.’ She shrugged. ‘Not enough salt in my blood, I daresay.’

‘You held it against your skin?’ Samuel, it seemed, was well beyond being shocked by such a revelation. ‘Is that how it works, then? She—she simply has it on her when she’s in the water?’

‘Sea water, not fresh,’ Mother Aggie clarified. ‘But put simply, yes. At least, that’s how my mother described it.’

‘And how would she breathe?’ Samuel asked.

‘The same way she would on land. A seamaid breathes air, like a porpoise. I have always imagined they can hold their breath for as long as a porpoise, too—and dive as deep, and swim almost as fast.’

She imparted this astonishing information casually, as though she spoke of a seabird or a turtle.

‘Jesus,’ Samuel muttered. He glanced uneasily at Luce, his face pale. ‘I never knew you knew so much about all this, Aggie.’

‘You never asked, Samuel. More tea?’

‘God, yes.’

He held out his cup while she poured, then drank it down fast, wincing at the heat. ‘I’m fairly certain I need something stronger than tea.’

Mother Aggie was watching Luce.

‘And what of you, Lucinde Léon? Do you need something stronger?’

‘I am well enough,’ Luce said. It was a lie. Her blood was pounding in her ears. Nausea curled at the back of her throat, burning a trail along her neck. She returned to the table, sat heavily down. ‘Could your mother use the silk?’

‘No.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘But her mother could.’

Luce touched the silver silk. It felt completely different to the blue piece, which was alive, responsive; as though it wanted nothing more than to wind itself around Luce’s wrist and remain with her always. The silver felt like nothing more than a piece of fabric. Cool, ambivalent. Questions floated to the surface of her mind.

‘How did she come to be here, in Lulworth?’ Samuel asked Aggie. ‘Your great-grandmother, I mean.’

‘She fell in love with a fisherman after he caught her—by accident, mind—in his nets,’ she replied. ‘My great-grandfather. She was not the first seamaid to love a mortal. Nor will she be the last,’ she added, glancing at Luce. ‘She removed her silk and walked ashore with him, where she remained for the rest of her days. She made a choice.’

Choice. The word hung heavy in the air.

‘It was not easy for her,’ Mother Aggie said. ‘A sea-wife is caught always between two shores—one in the sun, one in the deep—and the desire for both is ever present.’ Luce looked around the little house, its treasures—shells and dried weed, scales and buttons and feathers—arranged almost reverently along dresser and shelf, table and windowsill. A shiver ran down her spine. It was not Aggie who had brought the sea into the house, who had sown it through the salty little garden. It was the seamaid.

‘But she...’ Luce gestured to the silk on the table, struggling to find words. ‘She could have returned to the sea if she wanted to?’

‘Perhaps she did, from time to time. When the moon was new and the cove empty.’

Luce wondered if the seamaid had longed for more than a solitary swim on a moonless night. Had she missed her family? Her home? Had she wanted to return to the sea?

‘I like to think my great-grandfather loved her enough that he would have let her go, had she wished it,’ Mother Aggie said, as though she perceived Luce’s thoughts. ‘But I cannot say. Not for certain. He was a man, and, like any man, he would have been loath to let something so precious go.’

‘Good fishing, then?’ Samuel asked.

‘Always. His nets were ever full, his boat safe in any weather, no matter how foul. Her very presence was a blessing.’

Luce surged to her feet. ‘I think... I think I have heard enough.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Thank you, Aggie. For... trusting us with your tale.’

‘Yes,’ Samuel said, rising. ‘You’ve helped us more than we can say.’

The old woman followed them to the door, which Luce had already flung open, eager to let the sea air calm the wild sorrow ravaging her heart.

‘Trust your heart, Lucinde Léon.’ The older woman’s eyes were soft with sympathy. She slid something between Luce’s fingers. A dagger, its handle crafted of pale bone, its blade hidden inside a sheath made of countless overlapping shells. It was attached to a belt made of tightly woven sea-silk. Luce drew the blade free. It was bitterly beautiful, wrought of the same shimmering water-glass as her dancing slippers, catching the sunlight in every imaginable hue.

‘Was this...’

‘My foremother’s. Yours, now.’

‘I cannot take it. It’s too precious.’

‘I have no need of it,’ Mother Aggie said, staunching Luce’s protestations with a press of her gnarled hand. ‘A woman knows her own truth. It’s a gift she is born with that, like so much else, is quickly stolen by the world. By priests with their talk of sin and wickedness and shame, by men who learned long ago how best to use women for their own pleasure and advantage. Instead of speaking from their hearts, their souls, women are told to heed their father, their husband, their God. Instead of choosing their own path, they are told to obey. Even so, their souls always know the truth. Always. Do not be afraid to give yours voice.’ She squeezed Luce’s fingers in farewell. ‘I will ask the wind to watch over you.’

Luce bowed her head. ‘And I you.’

‘I don’t suppose you’re in the mood to meet my mother, after all that?’ Samuel asked when they were on the rough road leading to the village. ‘I only ask because she’ll be expecting me—she’ll have seen Bones by now.’ He glanced at her worriedly. ‘We don’t have to, though. If you’d rather I take you back to the—’

‘No.’ Luce tore her gaze from the sea-knife and slipped it— rather reluctantly—into her coat before taking Samuel’s hand. Her mind was churning like a swell after a storm, rolling over every word Mother Aggie had said, buffeting her this way and that. Samuel, his warm hand, his gentle voice, was like an island. She angled her steps closer to his. ‘No. I would love to meet her.’

Samuel grinned. ‘She’ll have food ready—I heard your belly grumble back at Aggie’s.’

‘I didn’t even finish my tea.’

He wound his fingers tighter around hers. ‘You had other things to think about.’

It was a relief to arrive in the heart of the village, its thatched roofed cottages and clever stone walls. They passed a tiny stone church and an inn. A group of men in blue uniforms were emerging from the latter’s entrance as they passed.

‘Curse it,’ Samuel muttered, walking faster.

‘What is it?’ Luce hurried to keep up with him, her feet whimpering in protest.

‘It’s nothing. Come on.’ He ducked into an alley between two houses, pulling her with him. Luce, looking back, saw three of the uniformed men peel themselves away from the group, and follow.

‘Are they soldiers?’ she asked.

Samuel hurried down the alley. A pair of chickens squawked and flapped, narrowly avoiding his boots. The stink of rotting fish was strong.

‘Royal Navy.’

Luce’s heart panged with fear. She was far from home, in enemy country. ‘Do they know I’m Malouin? Do they—’

‘They’re not after you, Luce.’ He gripped her harder, swung her around another corner. ‘They’re after me.’

Down yet another alley, this one even tighter. Luce barely avoided being tangled in the folds of a petticoat hanging on a line strung between two windows. ‘Do they know about the smuggling?’

‘You could say that.’

He had told her of the risks. Of the near misses, the flights from revenue cutters and naval vessels. Smuggling was a crime and Samuel, a criminal. For the first time, Luce truly understood the risk he took every time he crossed the Manche.

They turned another corner, and swathes of forest appeared ahead, coating the steep slope of the hill overlooking the village. Samuel helped Luce around the last of the houses. She could see the woods now, hear the sound of running water.

‘Damn it all to fucking Hell,’ Samuel hissed.

The remaining sailors waited at the edge of the woods, their dark blue uniforms and fresh white breeches bright in the gloom. Samuel turned hard, dragging Luce with him, meaning to duck back into the maze of thatched houses. He drew up short as the first three officers emerged from the alley behind them.

‘Welcome home, Thorner,’ said their leader politely. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

‘Not here,’ Samuel said, as two of the men clamped hands upon his shoulders. ‘I’ll tell you what I know, I swear. But not here.’

The leader flicked his chin lazily toward the tree line. ‘Into the woods, then.’ He glanced at Luce, paused. ‘Who’s the quail?’

‘My cousin,’ Samuel lied. ‘She has nothing to do with this.’

The officer looked Luce up and down. ‘Bring the cousin, too.’

‘What?’ Samuel demanded. ‘Wait...’

But there was no stopping or waiting. Samuel and Luce were seized by the officers and marched into the woods.

‘Say nothing,’ Samuel whispered to Luce. ‘Pretend you cannot speak.’

Luce gave a faint nod. She trudged through the undergrowth, awkward in her long skirts, her feet bleating in pain.

When the village was no longer in sight between the oaks and beeches, the sailors stopped. Luce was held between two of them some distance away while the rest arrayed themselves in threatening splendor around Samuel—a circle of wolves in sea-blue.

The leader began firing rapid questions in English. Luce strained to listen, but the man spoke so quickly and used so many unfamiliar words that, together with the distance between them, she struggled to make out half of what he said. Saint-Malo was mentioned, again and again, as well as the words for ships and fortress. The Manche and Saint-Servan made appearances, as well as City Guard, Fort Royale, garrison, and the phrase seventy-two guns . Luce tensed at that—seventy-two was the exact number of guns that sat atop the ramparts of Saint-Malo. She knew them all, had counted them with her father many times as they’d walked the ramparts, watching for his ships. The officer was angry at Samuel, a cold fury glinting beneath his polished exterior, the golden braid on his uniform. It seemed the only way Samuel could defuse the man’s wrath was to talk—to talk, and to talk, until at last the officer’s bearing eased, his steady stream of questions dried up, and he gestured to the men holding Samuel to release him.

‘I trust you are telling the truth,’ the officer said. He glanced at Luce. ‘Of course, we shall know soon enough. And if I find you have lied, it will be not just you on the scaffold. It will be your mother, your sisters, your brothers... and your pretty cousin, too.’

‘Samuel?’ Luce trailed Samuel through the woods, struggling to keep up with his furious strides. The officers were long gone, the gloomy canopy above hushed, clinging to her every word. ‘Samuel? What did those men want with you?’

The village came back into view beyond the trees, peaceful in the midday sun.

‘Samuel?’

He stopped at the tree line and she caught him, reached for his arm. He pulled away from her.

‘Please don’t ask me, Luce.’ His voice was tight with anguish. ‘You won’t want to hear the answer.’

She stepped back, surprised. She had thought him angry. To find him shaken and defeated was infinitely worse.

‘How do you know I won’t?’

Samuel laughed bitterly. ‘Trust me.’

‘I do trust you, Samuel. You know my secrets. You heard even more of them at Aggie’s. I have trusted you with everything. Why can you not do the same for me?’

He looked at her, torn.

Luce stepped closer, laid her hand on his arm. ‘What is happening? Why were you speaking of Saint-Malo to those men?’

He shook his head. ‘You will hate me for this. You will think me a monster...’

He realised at once what he had said, winced. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

Luce shrugged. ‘At least we will be monsters together.’

‘You could never be a monster.’ He touched her cheek. Sighed. ‘I will tell you, Luce. I promise. But first I want you to meet my family. Can you do that for me?’

Such hope, such despair, in those grey eyes. She nodded. ‘Of course.’

Samuel’s family lived in a house no larger or smaller than the others in the village. Its squat stone walls nestled welcomingly in the sun; its thatched roof was neat and well-kept, as was its walled garden and the flower-filled boxes beneath its windows.

Within, all was bright and warm: scrubbed floors, aged table freshly wiped, a posy of sea thrift sitting in a little pot at its center. It smelled delicious, of baking bread and something rich and fishy. Pie, perhaps. Samuel’s mother, Martha, hugged him tight and beamed with pleasure when he introduced Luce.

‘So you’re Lucinde,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘It’s wonderful to meet you. Although...’ She gave her son a reproving look. ‘Tell me you didn’t load her onto that tub like a piece of contraband, Samuel.’

‘The Dove is not a tub !’ Samuel said with feeling. ‘And why is everyone assuming I stole Luce and smuggled her into England?’

‘Because that’s precisely what you did,’ Luce said. She turned to Martha. ‘Although, I did ask him to bring me here, so I suppose we can’t accuse him of the stealing part.’

‘That would be a first.’

Samuel shook his head in mock dismay. ‘I deserve better than this.’

‘What do you deserve, you great moonraker?’ A dark-haired girl of perhaps sixteen sauntered into the room, her eyes a startling, and familiar, golden-grey.

‘This is my sister Margaret, Luce,’ Samuel said, grinning. ‘Don’t believe a word she says.’

‘Luce?’ Margaret came to embrace her brother, all the while looking at Luce with interest. ‘Is this the Lucinde, then? You’re prettier than Samuel described,’ she added, ‘which is impressive because he always says you are very, very pretty. No wonder he’s a-took to you.’

‘Christ above,’ Samuel muttered.

‘Has Samuel come home?’ Two younger children scampered in, a boy of eleven or twelve and a girl of perhaps seven. They ran toward Samuel, the girl leaping into his arms, the boy catching hold of him around the waist.

‘And these rapscallions,’ Samuel said, blowing the girl’s chestnut-gold hair, so like his own, out of his mouth, ‘are Tobias and Flora.’ He wrinkled his nose, drew back and frowned at the little girl. ‘You smell like fish, Flora. What have you been doing?’

‘Fishing.’

‘Makes sense.’

She giggled, tweaking his nose between her fingers, then squealed as he swung her high and set her lightly on the ground.

‘Mind the ceiling, Samuel,’ Martha scolded. It seemed they had interrupted her while she was preparing the midday meal. She returned to the kitchen, opened the oven, and drew out two loaves of bread.

‘Are you from Saint-Malo?’ The boy, Tobias, was looking up at Luce, his arms by some miracle still gripping Samuel’s waist.

‘I am,’ Luce said.

‘Do you know any privateers?’

Luce smiled. ‘I do.’

‘ I’m going to be a privateer when I grow up.’

‘I thought you were going to be a captain,’ Samuel said.

‘I am,’ Tobias told him solemnly. ‘A privateer captain.’

He followed Samuel to the door, watching while his older brother slipped out of his overcoat and tricorn and hung them on a pair of hooks, then, as Samuel moved away, promptly removed both and donned them himself. Samuel didn’t say a word as Tobias, swimming in the folds of leather, his eyes all but disappearing beneath the hat, took his seat at the table. He only sat beside the boy and leaned his arm along the back of his chair.

‘Come and sit, Luce,’ he said, gesturing to the seat on his other side. ‘We’re just in time for nuncheon.’

‘Samuel always shows up when there’s food about to be served,’ Martha said, leaning over as she slid a board bearing the bread into the center of the table. ‘And look; here’s the other one. Right on time.’

Bones entered the room, dropping to a crouch as little Flora ran to him.

‘Bones!’ she cried, hugging him tight.

‘Hello, Flora,’ he said tenderly. He waited until Flora broke their hug before rising and taking his seat at the table.

‘Enemy in our midst, eh?’ he said, winking at Luce.

‘Mind your elbows, Bones,’ Margaret told him, returning to the table with an enormous pie in her hands.

‘Where’s Thomas?’ Samuel asked as Flora scrambled onto her seat. She smiled shyly at Luce across the steaming food.

‘He was helping William Anning with his nets this morning,’ Margaret said, easing the pie onto the table. She glanced up as something moved beyond the window. ‘Here he is, now.’

Samuel’s younger brother did not resemble him as strongly as Margaret and Flora did. His hair was darker, his eyes too. He was maybe eighteen years old, still growing, and yet to match his brother’s height. Which, Luce realised as she watched Thomas hang up his coat and hat, would probably happen rather soon.

‘Go gently on him, Samuel,’ Margaret murmured, before she took her own seat. ‘He’s been crousty of late.’

‘Hmm,’ was all Samuel said.

Bones sighed wearily. Luce glanced at him, but he shook his head as though to say, later, then turned to watch Thomas approach the table.

‘Thomas.’

‘Samuel.’ Thomas glanced at Bones. His face, which had been as stern as his elder brother’s, broke into a grin. ‘Bones.’

‘Thomas. What’s this we hear about you helping that fool Anning?’

‘Someone needs to show him how to cast a net.’

They grinned at each other, and then Thomas, moving around the table to take his seat, noticed Luce.

‘This is Lucinde,’ Samuel said. ‘And before you ask, no, we did not smuggle her aboard the Dove. ’

‘Well,’ Luce said, tilting her head thoughtfully, ‘you did make me sit among all those packets of silk.’

Everyone laughed. Thomas sat down, raising his cheek for Martha to kiss before she took her own seat and said a prayer of thanks for the food, for her children, and for the safe return of her eldest son and nephew. No sooner was it done than she was back on her feet, passing a bowl of butter to Luce before slicing up the pie. At the other end of the table, Margaret was cutting great slabs of bread for everyone.

‘It is good to meet you, Lucinde,’ Thomas said, as his mother slid him an enormous helping of pie.

Samuel gave his brother an approving look, which quickly faded as Thomas added with a smirk, ‘ Now we all know why you really spend so much time in Saint-Malo, Samuel.’

‘Spare me,’ Samuel murmured, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

Bones snorted.

‘Here,’ Martha said, serving both him and Samuel. ‘Eat, the pair of you. Have you been taking care of yourselves? You look thin.’

‘They don’t call him Bones for nothing,’ Thomas muttered. Bones threw a pea at him.

Samuel lifted his spoon. ‘Of course we have, Ma.’

‘Of course they haven’t, Ma,’ Thomas said. ‘They risk themselves every day. And yet here we all are, benefiting from it. Sitting around doing nothing while Samuel and Bones risk everything to ensure that we have butter. ’

‘ I’m not sitting around doing nothing,’ Margaret said into the silence. ‘Ma and I work hard—’

‘Washing linens and baking bread doesn’t count, Meg,’ Thomas told her.

‘Watch your words, Tom,’ Samuel said quietly. ‘Be grateful for the clean shirt on your back, and the food on your plate.’

‘I’d sooner help pay for them.’

Bones bent over his bowl, devouring his food with sudden vigor, while Samuel scrubbed a weary hand over his eyes. As though he knew the shape of the argument that was brewing, as well as how it would end. ‘I know what you want me to say.’

‘Then why not just say it?’

‘You know why. You’re too young, for a start—’

‘I’m eighteen. Two years older than you were when you first went to sea.’

‘I’ve told you,’ Samuel said. ‘If you want to join a ship’s crew, I’ll pack your bag myself.’

‘I don’t want to join a crew.’ Thomas’s food lay forgotten before him. ‘I want to work with you two.’

Bones glanced up from his pie, met Samuel’s eye, and shrugged as though to say, he’s your brother; leave me out of it.

Samuel glanced at Margaret, took a long-suffering breath. ‘I know. And I appreciate it, Thomas. I do. Bones, too. But we can’t have you with us right now. It’s dangerous—’

‘I see,’ Thomas said bitterly. ‘So dangerous that you felt compelled to bring a woman across the Channel with you last night?’ He banged an open palm on the table.

Luce flinched.

‘That’s enough, Tom,’ Martha said quietly. ‘Eat your dinner, now.’ The little house, which had bulged with good cheer and laughter only moments ago, now felt very different. Across the table from Luce, the youngest children watched their two older brothers with wide, worried eyes.

‘I’ve told you half a hundred times, Tom,’ Samuel said tiredly, reaching for more bread. ‘You will come and work with us.’

‘And when will that be?’ Thomas said bitterly. ‘Next niver’stide, I suppose?’

‘Watch your mouth,’ Samuel said, his own tone hardening. ‘And it will be when I say it will be. Not a moment sooner.’

Thomas pushed his food away and got to his feet. ‘Will it, then? And what if William Anning has offered me a place smuggling with him ?’

Samuel, calmly eating, kept his eyes on his food. ‘Offering and taking up are two different things.’

‘What if I did take him up on it?’

The whole table stilled.

‘Thomas...,’ Martha whispered, horrified.

‘You never did,’ Margaret said, staring at her brother in disbelief.

‘I did,’ Thomas said, throwing out his chest. ‘Next time William makes a crossing, I’m to go with him.’ He placed his hands on the table, leaning toward his older brother. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you and Bones in Saint-Malo.’

Samuel got to his feet so fast his chair tipped back and crashed to the floor. ‘You will fucking not see us in Saint-Malo, Thomas, do you hear me? You’ll see no one in Saint-Malo, because you won’t be there. Not with Bones and me, and certainly not with William-fucking-Anning.’

‘You can’t force me to stay here.’ The two brothers were toe to toe now, and Luce realised she had been wrong. Thomas was nearly as tall as Samuel, and as broad, and looked intent on finding out if he was as strong as his older brother, too.

‘Easy now,’ Bones said, getting slowly to his feet. ‘Settle, the pair of you.’

‘I can,’ Samuel said, ignoring his cousin. ‘And I’ll tell you why. You won’t be smuggling in Saint-Malo because very soon there may not be a Saint-Malo. The king wants to divert the French armies from the fighting in Germany. He’s had enough of Malouin corsairs dominating the Channel, interrupting trade, stealing English ships. He’s planning a series of attacks up and down the French coast. A fleet is assembling in the Solent even now, under Admiral Howe’s command. A hundred ships or more, by all accounts.’

Luce felt a hot rush of fear. ‘They’re going to attack Saint-Malo?’ ‘I’m sorry, Luce,’ Samuel said, throwing her a regretful glance.

‘But yes. They are.’ He turned back to Thomas, the rest of his family. ‘And I’ll be damned if my dough-baked brother will be there to see it.’