I don’t know, do I? Kitta twisted her plait around her fingers. I haven’t seen the St Ninian’s, have I? But—and her eyes were round like pennies—there are ships in the Gadle bigger than a dozen whales, bigger than anythin’ ye can think of, Ginger Meggie. An’ Clementina Slater says there be hundreds of girls sailing to Lerwick every time a ship leaves.

Hundreds!

She reached over and took the soiled telegram from my hands. A fine line cleaved her brows for a second, and then it was gone.

I put my arm around her. A ticket to the wide world, Kitta! Just think!

She tossed back her plait, but that little line of worry threaded through her forehead again.

What if I canna keep up? she whispered. I’ve seen them, Meggie, seen them at the yards in the Gadle. Clementina Slater an’ the other quinies doin’ the gutting. You canna imagine how fast they are.

Ye’ve been to the yards? When? I demanded.

A few times is all. When I’d to go to the Gadle for messages, Mrs McBrewan sent me sometimes. An’ on my Sundays, at the pier, Clementina showed me how to do it, an’ I’ve been practising on dock leaves—ye know, holdin’ them like a herrin’, knifin’ them with a gullie. But it’s not the real thing, is it?

I stared at Kitta. Did Ma know she’d been to the yards? Or the pier when she was supposed to be in kirk?

Ye’ve been practising? Well, that’s good, eh. An’ ye’ll soon be quick enough, quick as Clementina Slater for sure.

In, twist, flick. In, twist, flick. Kitta showed me the action, miming the fish held in one hand, the gullie knife in the other.

See? Ye’ve got it right already!

But those quines, they can gut fifty herrin’ in a minute. Sixty, some of them.

I glanced at her, thinking she was teasing, but Kitta’s face wasn’t lightsome. Still I didn’t believe her. Fingers canna move that fast, especially fingers holding a sharp knife, a wet, slippery fish. I looked down at Kitta’s hands, still miming the action of gutting a herring: the plunge of the pointed blade into the throat, a sharp twist to remove the gills and guts, the toss of the gutted fish into the right murlin—all one stroke, smooth as can be. In, twist, flick.

I had something to give Kitta, warm in the pocket of my skirt. I took it out.

Here, I said. It was balanced on the palm of my hand, my other cupped over it to surprise her with this ordinary thing that I’d found on the heather moors. A present for ye, Kitta. For luck. For protection.

Oooh, show me! Come on, Ginger Meggie!