Wind whipped at the patched-up sail, which for a few seconds whipped back until Devane made an adjustment with both line and tiller. The sail gave a crack like a gunshot as the wind filled it, and in response the Pig’s Snout leapt forward like a hog with its ass on fire. Spray burst over the bow into Matthew’s face, and he figured it wouldn’t be long before he was both soaked and chilled to the bone.

The waves seemed to be coming at the boat from all angles. The Snout pitched up and down. There was nothing for Matthew to do but to huddle up, grasp hold of the plank beneath him and hope the bottom of the boat held firm against this aquatic assault. It was cold comfort to note that Devane was keeping them at most only two hundred yards off the shore, for to call this craft seaworthy was to call a pumpkin a carriage.

It did interest Matthew, however, to twist around not only to protect his face from the spit of the sea but to watch Devane work the sail and tiller. Obviously the man had sailing experience, not only from the way he handled the boat but from the way he gauged the wind; Matthew could see him watching the break of whitecaps across the gray expanse and then steering to take the most advantage of the wind’s power. At no time did the sail flutter with failing exhaustion, for Devane seemed to be thinking ahead of the gusts and meeting them as they changed direction, even so minutely.

In little more than an hour they passed the harbor of Y Beautiful Bedd and the road leading up from it along the cliffs to Fell’s domain. The upper balcony of the professor’s small castle and the village’s protective wall were clearly visible. Though there were better fishing boats in the harbor, Devane did not alter course in order to change craft; it seemed to Matthew that the man had decided this was the boat of destiny, as it were, and from the grim half-smile on Devane’s face it appeared he enjoyed the challenge of besting the sea astride such a lowly mount.

The Snout swept on, its full sail defiant. Matthew wondered if this boat had ever seen the hand of a true captain; he doubted it, but Devane was in fact keeping them steady and fast-moving against a sea that smacked the hull in vain to slow their progress. They passed looming cliffs, gray stretches of beach and the occasional cove where there might be a few ramshackle houses and moored catboats or nothing but jagged rocks and tentacled trees. For certain there were no triple-masted ships of the Royal Navy in sight, and as the sun began to fade and sink toward the west the Snout kept going but to where Matthew was unsure.

“Come back here!” Devane called. “Mind your head!”

Matthew got past the sail’s boom. He had begun to shiver with the cold and he could no longer feel his face; it was as if he were himself wearing the mask of Albion but it was made of ice instead of leather.