Thom looked over, groaning, but able to instruct him. ‘That line’s too tight,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘It needs to flow as you move. Let me—’ he tried.

‘No, Thom,’ Milla scolded him. ‘You’re still losing blood.’

Joe went over to him. Thom dragged himself into a kneeling position to help him adjust the rope: it went in a kind of zigzag from his right hand, then between his legs, through his belt buckle, then over his shoulder to be payed out through his other hand.

Winter was darting around, collecting Thom’s tools and bringing them to Joe – a fabric sling that he wore round his chest to collect the silverblue, and a small iron chisel to chip it out of the rock face.

He tucked the chisel in the sling for safekeeping. 157

Then it was time.

He looked at the others: at Thom lying on the grass, looking ashen and sick with pain. At Milla bending low over him, working fast to clean and cover the deep scratches on his face and arms. At Winter in her blue clothes – at her face, so full of anxiety.

He looked away. He had to focus.

He leaned on the rope, testing it. It was fine quality and very strong – Thom was a fisherman’s son, all right – and Joe trusted the knot he’d tied round the tree. He pulled the rope taut and let it flow through his fingers, slowly, slowly, edging towards the cliff edge.

He peered over his shoulder, seeing it approach, and then he was there, his feet on the final fringe of grass, peering over, to the dark blue frothing sea so far below. One foot slipped, and he caught himself, but his heart was trying to leap right out of his chest now, and his fingers were hot and damp on the rope’s coarse fibres.

He breathed slowly in the salty breeze that flowed up from the sea. Come on, Joe, do it for your egg.

And even though every part of him was screaming danger, he leaned back into the wind, letting the rope take his weight, holding himself in the strange, fragile harness he’d created with his body and the line, and he made his feet step over the edge of the cliff.

He’d seen people do this to take birds’ eggs from a cliff face. The trick was to lean right back and trust the rope, keeping your feet steady on the cliff and walk backwards, as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do. 158

The other trick was not to look down.

Too late – he caught a glimpse of slick black rocks far below and the waves surging over them.

He forced his chin up, holding himself steady with the rope in both hands, and took another step down, and another.

He stared hard at the cliff face and, just below him, there sparkled something that looked like silverblue. Was it? Excited now, he peered down and caught sight of a wider seam, pearly pale in the dark grey rock. This was what he needed. Another few steps.