They were sliding in, the mate at the bows, the captain back by the helmsman, all others, the cook included, dropping sails or standing by. Lacroix had spent enough time at sea these last months to know where to be out of the way. The man on the pier moved like a somnambulist, but when the first coiled rope was thrown he was in precisely the place to receive it and as the Halcyon drifted the last yards he turned the rope around an iron bollard then ambled back to take the stern line. This was the perfection of repetition, the power of not-much.

With the Frieslander’s help, Lacroix and Emily got down on to the jetty with their bags. The captain held up his watch and tapped its face. Lacroix mouthed “yes,” and bobbed his head, sorry, now they were here, to leave the company of these men who knew so well what they were about.

With Emily he took up the usual arrangement, the bags in his hands, her left hand on his right shoulder. They could not hurry on the planking of the jetty but once they reached the road it was easier, slightly. They headed for the inn, the only building of any substance, certainly the only one with an upper storey and a slate roof. The people there kept a gig and pony and Lacroix meant to hire them, but when, hot and midge-bitten, they entered the dark of the parlour, they were told the gig had a wheel off and the pony was out to a man called MacRae who wanted it for the harvest. It would be back in a week, though it would probably need to rest then.

“That is no good to us,” said Lacroix. “You might as well use the gig for firewood.”

Emily pinched his arm. She spoke to the innkeeper. She told him—reminded him, for he certainly already knew—about her sister’s condition, hinted at developments that made her presence at the house a matter of urgency.

“You could take old Tom,” said the innkeeper.

“Old Tom?”

Lacroix and the man went out together. They walked across the unfenced land in silence, walked twenty minutes before coming upon a big horse, his head down and grazing on sea pinks. He came with them easily enough, and in a lean-to at the rear of the inn Lacroix picked through tangles of old tack. There were no saddles. He rigged up a kind of bitless bridle with the parts of two head collars, then climbed on to the horse’s back from a stool before lifting Emily up behind him.

“Did you not ride a cow before?” asked the innkeeper. He seemed to intend no disrespect. “Old Tom should be easy enough.”