“Far from it.” He frowns. “Eh, ‘far from it’ is a bit of an overstatement. May well just be the two of us. Seems the longer you stay here, the harder it is to resist the siren call of local myth. It’s the backbone of this isle, part of the reason I came in the first place. Makes you feel a bit of a traitor to call it all a load of hogwash, doesn’t it? If you don’t accept the Day of the Tithe, you don’t accept the blessing—the protections, the trade, the good weather, all that jolly nonsense.”

“So you don’t believe in any of it?” I smile, leaning my elbow against my open window. “You gotta admit, we do get good weather.”

“And no air raids, thus far.” John looks to the sky. “But no, madam, I cannot in good conscience ascribe to such theories.” I take his sniff for a comedic affectation until he swipes at his nose with his elbow and I realize it’s his allergies. “I am a man of science, after all. That’s what the job description says anyway.”

“Is that what it says?” I nod slowly. “I’ve always wondered. Not drive around in an American truck, scaring the locals?”

“No, no, that’s listed under perks! Tasks include the maintenance and development of scientific studies of flora, fauna, protecting historical sites of national and cultural importance, and above all that, helping find lost dogs before they eat all the endangered animals. It’s right there at the top, if you look it up online.”

I peer out the window with a smile, feeling the wind fighting to loosen my bound hair. It smells sweet and alive, like heather and salt and soil, mixed with that hint of wood fire. Those campers must be having their breakfast, judging by the skinny column of smoke I see to the west. Normal, lovely.

Foreboding filters out of my body with every breath. The landscape flitters past, the sea steady in the distance.

John starts to whistle, and I look at him—then past him, pointing out to sea.

He flinches, surprised. The truck veers a bit.

“Oh God, sorry!” I pull my hand back. “Do you see that ship?”

He slows down, squinting. “Would you look at that.”

It’s big, old-fashioned, sails half-up, others flapping, lowering. Two masts. It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere quickly.

“A brigantine,” John murmurs.

The man knows everything.

“Warship.”

I stiffen. “Oh no.”

“Old warship,” he puts in quickly, looking at me. “Eighteenth century.”

“How weird.” I try to see past him, but the angle’s wrong now. “I hope it hasn’t gotten caught on the shoals.”

“The Graveyard,” he echoes, then turns to check. “Huh.”

I lean to see past. The sea is clear.

No ship at all, not anywhere on the horizon.

“Gone,” he says. “Trick of the light.”