“If I can. Might I walk the distance?”

The master frowned. “You are still not thinking like a seaman. No, no. We will find someone to take you up the water. There is a cousin of my late wife’s who will do it for a shilling or two.”

“You are married?”

“My late wife.”

“Ah. I am sorry.”

“And you?”

“A wife? No.”

The master nodded. It was already more than they had disclosed to each other throughout the entire journey. “Well,” he said, “if you do not have a wife you cannot lose one. Will you stay long in Glasgow?”

“My hope is to get out to the islands,” said Lacroix.

“You know the islands?”

“Only what I have read.”

“It would seem the English have a taste for them now.”

“I want to hear the music. Songs.”

“You have your fiddle with you.”

“I have . . . ?”

“The fiddle.”

“Yes. It was my father’s once.”

“Then I don’t doubt you will take good care of it.” The master was looking past Lacroix to where Wee Davey and the cat were sitting on the gaff. “Have you ever noticed,” he said, “how like owls they are?”

“Boys?”

“Cats.”

“Yes,” said Lacroix, who hadn’t. Even the most sensible people, he thought, have an edge of lunacy to them, like fat on a cutlet. They shook hands.

“There are plenty of boats out to the islands from Glasgow,” said the master. “Go down to the Broomielaw. You may mention my name. Some will know me.”

The cousin of the dead wife was as lean and silent as a pin. Once he had been paid and Lacroix was sitting on a thwart by the bows, bags at his feet, the man said nothing until the waterway had entered the city and they were almost in the shadow of the Broomielaw bridge. He spoke then, asking a question which, repeated, turned out to be an enquiry as to where Lacroix wished to be set ashore. As they were closer to one bank than the other—the south—Lacroix pointed to some steps there and the man put the tiller over.

From Dumbarton they had sailed the narrowing river through the fading light of late afternoon. Now, on the bridge, the lamplighters were at work—half the bridge already lit, half to go. The tide was on the ebb. They slipped past the stern of a larger boat whose keel was already wedged in the mud, and came, gently, alongside the steps. Lacroix clambered out, a little nervous of upending himself on the weed and slick stone. The man passed over his bags, his fiddle, then—wordlessly—pushed the boat back with the blade of an oar and let it glide out into the channel.