At what he reckoned was a good half-mile from the shore he saw that the water in the bottom of the boat was now deeper by about an inch. Perhaps two. Did it matter? If they were sinking they were sinking very slowly and would have time to row back to safety. What bothered him more was how the air was closing in. Not a mist yet, not a fret or a fog, but enough to make the distances hard to gauge. And where was the ship? Where was she? She could not have passed while they were packing, he did not believe it. Had she called in somewhere up the coast? Or would she burst out of the thickening air, gleaming, horribly real?

He began to row again, pulling steadily for another ten minutes, pulling hard, then drawing the oars in and crossing them over his thighs. He was thirsty but they had not brought anything to drink.

“Is she close?” asked Emily.

“Not yet,” he said, “though she cannot be far off.” He asked her to reach into the top of his bag for the pistol. He told her to be very careful with it. The gun was loaded. “When I see her,” he said, “I will shoot to get their attention. Then they will know what we are here for.”

“Can she stop?”

“She will heave to,” he said. It was a term he had heard several times on the Jenny. He was fairly confident he had understood it. She twisted in her seat, felt for the bag, found it, opened it, lifted out the pistol and passed it to him, barrel first.

“Christ, Emily!” He pushed the barrel aside and took the gun from her, though he found it almost funny, the idea of her shooting him out here, then floating around, a blind woman in a sinking boat . . .

They had, it seemed, now entered a current, a sea-road. It carried them gently southwards, parallel to the coast. He could see strands dotted with cattle, hills like sleeping men or men at prayer. He could see the smoke of the kelpers but nothing of the kelpers themselves.