Reeve remembered his interview with the captain of the Sally Dee—though it had taken place that afternoon, it seemed a thousand years in the past—and felt true despair. The captain had said there was need of only one cabin boy aboard the ship. He’d have a gander at Jamie, and if he looked fit for the sea, there might be a place for him on the next voyage. Beyond that the man could promise nothing.

“I won’t leave without him,” Reeve vowed solemnly. It was a promise he meant to keep, even if he had to sacrifice his own plans and dreams.

Callie looked relieved, and Reeve wondered if she knew about Jamie’s thieving, despite their efforts to hide it from her. “He’s a fine boy, my Jamie,” she said, “but he ain’t so sensible as you, Reeve. He needs lookin’ after.”

Reeve permitted himself a smile and nodded. “That he does.”

“You’ll see to him?”

Reeve squeezed his mother’s hand. “I’ll see to him,” he affirmed.

Callie gave a small sigh and closed her eyes to sleep.

Almost an hour passed before Jamie was back, dodging into the cottage, his arms filled with loot. He’d brought tea, a whole loaf of bread still warm from the oven, a cold joint of mutton, and a small bag of coarse white sugar. After casting a look of shame and defiance in his brother’s direction, he dropped the food on the table and crossed the room to shovel the last of the coal onto the fire.

Unsettled and anxious, Reeve took the well-used kettle into the street and filled it with water from the neighborhood pump. Back in the cottage, he set it on the hob to boil.

Jamie was slicing the mutton with quick, deft strokes of his pocket knife. “How is Mum?” he asked after a long silence.

Reeve caught his thumbs in the pockets of his tattered trousers. “Lookin’ for a letter from Da, she was. Still, after all these years.”

Jamie continued to slice the meat for their supper. “You think he’s dead?”

“That or just forgetful,” Reeve replied with quiet bitterness.

Marcus McKenna’s fate in far-off America was a touchy subject between them, and they rarely discussed it. “He had to serve seven years for his passage,” Jamie reminded his brother evenly.

“He’s had that, Jamie, and four years more. If Da’s alive, he’s decided not to bother bringin’ a wife and two sons over from the Old Sod.”

Jamie’s jawline tightened, then relaxed. He was a handsome lad, with his wheat-colored hair and pale blue eyes. “Have you ever thought of goin’ to America yourself, Reeve? I mean, if Da could work for his passage, so could we.”