‘That it has brought me a lot of joy.’ Efa’s face flushed, the words laid out bare between them. Nefyn studied her as Efa brought her senses back to the present. ‘Right, well, then. I’ll go now. You know where I am if you need me.’ Efa smiled again, Nefyn’s youth making her ache for her own. She turned to walk to the door.

‘I didn’t know you knew my mother.’ Nefyn’s words came despite herself. Efa stopped. Turned.

‘Yes … she used to come to the church sometimes,’ Efa chose her words carefully, ‘when she needed to. I think she felt at peace there.’

The church was slowly being buried in the swirling dunes now, its ageing congregation dwindling. Long-buried memories stirred in Nefyn. Her mother’s anger at the Church.

‘I liked her very much,’ Efa said again, ‘and I can see that you’re like her.’

Nefyn studied her and for the first time they stood, two women opposite each other, and Efa could feel time turning around them both. Efa smiled once more, and moved to leave.

Nefyn followed Efa to the door and stood for a moment, watching her go, a strange heaviness in her body, before the boathouse brought her back to the present.

Nefyn found the brandy her brother hid in his room and a hot-water bottle. She boiled the kettle and placed everything in a basket before hurrying down the path to the cove. She looked around once more. There would always be more people wandering the coast after a storm. It seemed to draw them. Bring them together as if nature’s impetuousness, its unpredictability, was a common enemy. But there was no one visible. The cliff-tops empty. Perhaps it was too early. She slipped into the boatshed and waited as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She stood, her pupils widening, her eyes scanning. The boat was empty. She put down the basket, walked slowly towards it. Listening. Her eyes straining. Then, she reached out for the corner of the tarpaulin and snatched it away. There was no one here. She stood, let out a disbelieving laugh. She had been seeing things. She must have been. A panic was starting to rise in her. Her brother was right. When in piques of frustration, he’d talk of her madness. This was proof. Her stomach clenched. Quivered.

‘Who are you?’

The voice came from behind her. Faltering. Deep. She turned. He was clutching his side. His eyes scanning her face. Nefyn shook her head. His solidity. His animation startling.

‘What happened?’ he asked again. There was nothing but the sound of the sea.

‘There was a storm,’ Nefyn ventured. ‘You came in on the tide.’