We climb to the highest point. Here you can see right across to Bressay and Noss, and I slip, my boots sliding on wet moss. Magnus Tulloch turns and gives me his hand. I take it, then wish to pull mine back. My embarrassing, ugly hand, with bandages over three fingers, dressings the lady deputy at Garthspool has given me for the salty holes that won’t heal. But Magnus Tulloch does not shrink from touch, and his care makes me numb to the pain. Once I am steadied, he relaxes his grip but does not release me, and here I am, walking hand in hand on the top of the world with this cooper boy as if we have always been meant to be here, doing this. How did that happen? I wonder. I glance down at his big hand, flecked with freckles like mine. My bandaged fingers are warm in his, and I dare to flex them a little so our palms meet, close that tender space between them. Something unlooses in me and I think: There are no words in books for this.

I remember that first day, the day we met, when he’d kissed my thumb. How shocking that was. These lightning moments, when all we have been schooled to feel is undone by sudden knowing … well, they are points along the measure of a life, lambsie. How much I had changed from that point to this.

On the upward swing of our arms, I gather to me the fist we have made together and kiss the back of Magnus Tulloch’s speckled hand.

12

Towards the end of the season at Lerwick, a brooding came upon Kitta, more than her usual secretive air. She was keeping to herself some special thing she thought me too young to understand. It might have surprised her to know how much I understood. But Kitta joined with the other girls’ teasing about my wee cooper boy, and it made me shy to tell her what I felt for Magnus Tulloch.

One Saturday, she was distracted at the farlins—a sorry thing, because Old Boy Jackie was doing the rounds with his wooden gauge. He stopped at Kitta’s baskets. He chose the large-fulls to inspect, pulling out fish at random, measuring and sighing noisily.

There’s trouble if ye don’t take more care, lass, he declared finally, holding up a handful of ill-sorted herring.

Eh, sorry, Kitta said. I’ll fix it now, right as rain. And she rapidly re-sorted the large-fulls and set about checking the other baskets, too.

Old Boy Jackie grunted and carried on down the farlin, but Clementina gave Kitta’s arm a violent shaking.

What’s wrong with ye, quinie? she hissed.

Kitta shook her off.

Troubling Old Boy Jackie is ill enough but now ye’re losin’ us time to fix it! Keep your head on your work, eh? Eh, quinie?