If you didn’t count the cows or the geese or even the sweet-faced sheep chewing on a patch of grass they’d managed to uncover, there was not a soul in sight. All she could see was the lapper of filthy snow pushed to the sides of the well-trodden track punctuated by deep ruts where carts had rumbled. Amid the fields, skeletal trees wrestled with the sky. Occasionally she’d see a cottage peeking above the scrappy hedgerows and dilapidated fences, coughing smoke and reminding her that folk weren’t that far away. Further ahead, the vast expanse of water glimmered. She began to think of what she might prepare for dinner, or whether Nettie had made a start. Thoughts of her friend lifted her spirits. Deciding Sorcha needed her more than her husband did, Nettie had told Thom she was remaining with Sorcha for the foreseeable future. Grateful for her presence, Sorcha had worried what Thom might think until he appeared at her door just the other day. He’d wrapped his arms around Nettie, beaming while he kissed his wife soundly on the mouth, and gave them his blessing. After all, it wasn’t uncommon for Nettie to live parts of the year in Anster, staying with her married daughter and keeping an eye on her house there which she leased out, only staying the odd night with Thom in the Weem. As the reverend would oft ask, what sort of wife lived apart from her husband? It wasn’t natural. Mind you, it didn’t take much to earn the reverend’s disapproval, especially if you were a fishwife. Grimacing, she pushed thoughts of the reverend aside and focussed on her friends instead.

Welcomed warmly her first day back, Sorcha had been carried to the harbour on a current of goodwill. She recalled how they’d all talked over the top of each other, keen to share their news, eager to hear hers. It was easy to forget there were those who weren’t as happy to see her, blaming her as they did for Andy’s death and James Crawford’s. They watched her the way one might a stalking cat, to see which way it would pounce.

Much to her relief, by the third day Sorcha was again part of the regular grind. The routine was a great comfort, the way her hands didn’t need to be coached and her mind could dwell on other things while she worked. Able to shuck off most of the guilt about her sister and Kennocht and push away the renewed pain of losing Davan by sorting and gutting the catch and working the creels, she was paying her dues, making peace with herself and with her dead. With the sea that both gave and took so much.