When Gunther the Brave sees me coming, his face breaks into a grin. “Well, well. If it isn’t the little beggar boy.”

“How was the fishing today, Gunther? Was the sea good to you?”

“The sea was a proper bitch this day.” Reaching into his nets, he holds up two creatures that barely resemble fish at all. “Or she was having a joke on me. I can’t decide.”

One creature is armored, like a lobster. It looks more like an insect than a fish. The other is a ball with spikes.

“What are they?”

“God only knows,” he says. “But boiled and salted, I’m sure they’ll taste fine.”

I nod at the spiked thing. “Isn’t that one poisonous?”

“Only to the weak,” he laughs and tosses the damned thing into my basket. There is a scar on Gunther’s face, livid and white, that runs from his brow to his jawline. A swordfish off the Borsican coast had tried to pluck out his eye. Its sailfin now decorates the hearth in his cottage.

“Mind the pointy bits when you fillet that,” he adds. “But be sure to get the heart. It’s the tastiest morsel on the whole thing.”

“Thank you, Gunther.”

“How is the Reverend? The family?”

“Fine.” I look at the meager bounty in the basket. “Grateful, as always.”

The scar on Gunther’s face crinkles when he speaks. “Be content with what you have, son. God may choose to wash us into the sea tomorrow.”

This is a common saying in our village. It baffled me when we settled here. It’s meant to remind everyone to be humble in their position and to never tempt fate by puffing oneself up like the morning rooster. When asked how one is faring, the answer is always ‘fine’ or ‘well enough’. To say one is happy is considered boastful, which risks having it all swept away. Few people smile in our village.

“Tell your father to fasten the shutters tonight,” the giant fisherman says. He wags his chin north, where the sky is darkening. “There’s a squall coming in.”

Thanking him again, I leave Gunther to his nets and head home with the dismal catch for our dinner. Halfway down the stone pier, I see Agnet coming the other way. I could no more stop the smile on my face than I could stop the sun from going down. I don’t see much of Agnet Guiscard these days. Not since last summer, anyway.

“Hello Kaspar,” she says, risking a smile. “Has the sea been good to you?”

Agnet is sixteen. A year older than I am. Not everyone would agree that Agnet is the prettiest girl in our village, but those people are fools. Or blind. Or possibly insane. Her eyes are brown and as big as pennies, but there is a light to them that I have seen in no other. She has freckles everywhere.