“The children are safe,” she says. “It’s over; the tithe is done.”

“Don’t let them out here,” I whisper. “I’ll tell them when I come inside. Just let us stay a little longer.”

“Of course,” she says, and either I hear or imagine the faintest milady in its wake.

Hugh’s blood spills over the grass and settles in the crook of my elbow. It’s still warm. I clutch his hand and close my eyes as the church bells ring out, sending the news out over the land and the water.

We’ve paid. We’ve paid.

THE DAY BEFORE

The ferry is small on the horizon. The gathered crowd spots it in scattered bursts, with relieved gasps and murmurs of excitement mingled with sympathy—for them, the passengers, the guests.

Charlie stands beside me, still as a pond, no sign of the frantic drama of two hours ago, when he couldn’t decide what to wear for the occasion. A suit and tie, too formal, a polo shirt, too posh, until I convinced him to settle for shirtsleeves, rolled for the warm midsummer day, trousers, sensible shoes. Boarding school has been good for his thinking—it’s helped to sort through, classify, and direct his thoughts—but it hasn’t quelled his philosophical instincts. I’m glad for that.

And he’s as tall as I am now. I’m struck with the painful urge to keep him here, to stop him from returning to the mainland after today. But there’s a world out there he needs to know in order to be the leader Lute requires.

Emma stands waiting with her school friends in starchy white dresses. It was her idea to weave the garlands they hold, bright with local wildflowers, primrose and bluebell and bright Alexanders. Who knows if it was really an ancient tradition, but it creates a nice effect, and when the boat draws up to the wharf and Ian and Tim stride up to take the lines, I can see the looks on the faces of the guests and their carers, spotting this line of girls with their offerings, and I know it was a lovely touch. A humane one.

Ernie Withers hooks his ramp to the dock so that those with wheelchairs can disembark first. Matty climbs aboard to help people off, and I count them—I can’t help it, my breath slow as honey until I’m sure.

Marta Rennis, terminal lung cancer. Mathilde Bernard, advanced ALS. Harold Sherman and Klaus Fischer, terminal brain cancer. Alison Johnson, advanced multiple sclerosis. Thomas Volk, Ebba Larrson, no reasons given.

Ebba is the oldest among them at one hundred and two. She’s also the only one here unaccompanied. But their reasons are not for me to pry into. She doesn’t require a wheelchair. Matthew takes her hand and walks her down the ramp.