Kitta smiled back at poor simple Brukie’s Sandy and waved and waved until he was just a speck against the sky. And then she turned to the others, scornful, and put them straight. Married? Not her. Not ever.

Such a thing to say! Foolish. Raickless. Of course, the pronouncements of a twelve-year-old girl were normally paid no mind, not even by other children—except adoring younger sisters. But this day, there was something convincing about the way Kitta tossed her long dark plait when she said it. Something fearless in how she stamped her heel on the rubbery weed.

Elspet blanched, and Liza snorted loudly, and both of them looked to Will, who was thirteen and soon to Go to Sea with Archie, Jamie and the men.

Don’t ye be foolish, he said, and he seemed to be casting about for some reassuring word. Ye’re no bonnie clip, that’s true, but ye’re a hardworking quine an’ there’s lads who don’t take poorly to a fat face.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Could find no words. My lovely sister! Her beautiful face, like farm cream and Sunday roses!

Kitta shut him up with a look, withered the pity right there on his face. She didn’t stoop to answer but that night she whispered to me, I’ll not be stayin’ put to be married, Meggie mine. I’m goin’ to leave this place an’ see the world!

I put my hand in hers and tried to smile and she squeezed my fingers hard.

It was madness. We girls weren’t going anywhere. We had only to look at Ma to see the map of the rest of our lives. Already we were in training, fetching and carrying for our brothers at sea, scraping the mud from their seaboots, reddin’ the lines for the Lily Maud, cleaning before the men came in and after they went out again so our home was as neat as God’s house. Good daughters who would become good fishwives.