He knelt and used the glass to empty out some of the water, then gave it up. He had killed a man the night before. Why worry about damp feet? He went out to collect the bags and the instruments, loaded them into the stern where the wood was drier. Then he picked at the rope that secured the boat to its post, loosened it, undid it, looped it around the post again and went to fetch Emily.

Getting her into the boat was nearly the end of it all. The boat moved like a thing shocked by contact, and Emily, scrabbling at shadows, staggered and made a sound that was the echo of her gasp in the room in Oban, though it had not been fear then. He caught her hand, helped her to sit. The boat grew steady; the water ceased its slopping. He slid the oars from their place on the beams, stripped away stubborn layers of cobweb, slipped the rope from the post, got into the boat himself and sat on the middle thwart. With the blade of an oar against the boathouse wall, he pushed them backwards into open water, into the full silver of the afternoon, then moved around on his seat until he was facing Emily. He fitted the oars to the rowlocks, braced his feet either side of hers, looked over his shoulder and readied himself. He had rowed a boat before. He had, he thought, done so twice—once on the River Fal, once on the Tagus, both times for fun. His first stroke skimmed the top of the water, feathered it. The next was so deep the water was solid, a wall. He lifted the oars clear, let them shine and drip in the light, started again. After the eighth or ninth stroke he felt himself finding a rhythm. He pictured the Frieslander rowing them from the Halycon to the bay, tried to imitate what he remembered seeing, the swing and push of it, the whole of the body engaged. He took his bearings from the land behind Emily’s head. He watched the white house dwindle. He watched old Tom, who seemed to be watching him. In time the innkeeper would come for him. Until then he could eat all the sea pinks he could find.