I have a very cruel imagination. In my darkest, most lonely moments, it likes to torture me by playing out the most frightening things I have ever seen or heard. Since Pa first told me the legend of our coast, I had developed a recurring nightmare about the Wyrm. It didn’t suck my soul into the sea or turn me to stone like it did to the Daughters; instead, it crawled right out of the water to get me. In my nightmare, the Wyrm was a real, hungry sea dragon, with rows of needle-sharp teeth that reeked of rotten fish. And it wanted to eat me alive. I saw it emerge from the waves, its scaled skin pale, translucent and dripping wet. It hissed and dripped and clawed its way up the cliffs to the Castle. I ran as fast as I could, into the lighthouse and up the stairs until I found myself in the lantern room – panting and shaking – and there was nowhere else to run to. I always tried to hide, but I knew it was no use. The Wyrm was coming for me. I would be its next sacrifice. The most terrifying thing about this dream was the noise – the slow, wet footsteps; the scraping of its scales against the walls as it squeezed its way up the narrow stairs; the hissing of its foul breath as it got closer and closer, and I couldn’t move . . .

I always woke up just before the Wyrm actually appeared in the lantern room, though. Always.

I took a deep breath of sea air and tried to force the hideous Wyrm out of my mind. I looked towards our Castle – a dark silhouette on the clifftop above us. The Daughters of Stone seemed to glitter in the soft, white light, and I felt my heart become a little calmer. I measured out an extra few yards on my crabbing line and started to lower the bacon rind into the water.

‘Longer than that,’ Mags said.

‘You do the rowing, I’ll do the fishing,’ I said, turning to look her in the eye. My sister was wearing one of Mutti’s winter hats, her brown hair peeking out from beneath it in glossy curls. She didn’t normally wear a hat when she went out rowing or sailing – her hair was usually a tangled, salty, windswept mess, and Mutti despaired of ever getting the knots out of it. ‘Why are you wearing a hat today, Mags?’ I asked. ‘It’s not cold.’

‘I just felt like it,’ she said unconvincingly. She pulled the hat down a bit more, suddenly self-conscious.

‘Is it to keep your ears in?’ I teased. Mags had inherited Pa’s most distinctive feature.

‘Shut up, Pet,’ she snapped, pulling hard on the left oar again. She was fighting the current.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered. Her sticking-out ears had never bothered her before. Why was she suddenly worried about them now?