BooksBarbecue
Back The Darkest Shore Save as PDF
Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Also by Karen Brooks
  4. Title Page
  5. Dedication
  6. EXPLANATORY NOTE
  7. PART ONE
  8. One
  9. Two
  10. Three
  11. Four
  12. Five
  13. Six
  14. Seven
  15. Eight
  16. Nine
  17. Ten
  18. Eleven
  19. Twelve
  20. Thirteen
  21. Fourteen
  22. Fifteen
  23. Sixteen
  24. Seventeen
  25. Eighteen
  26. Nineteen
  27. Twenty
  28. Twenty-One
  29. Twenty-Two
  30. Twenty-Three
  31. Twenty-Four
  32. Twenty-Five
  33. Twenty-Six
  34. Twenty-Seven
  35. Twenty-Eight
  36. PART TWO
  37. Twenty-Nine
  38. Thirty
  39. Thirty-One
  40. Thirty-Two
  41. Thirty-Three
  42. Thirty-Four
  43. Thirty-Five
  44. PART THREE
  45. Thirty-Six
  46. Thirty-Seven
  47. Thirty-Eight
  48. Thirty-Nine
  49. Forty
  50. Forty-One
  51. Forty-Two
  52. Forty-Three
  53. Forty-Four
  54. Forty-Five
  55. Forty-Six
  56. Forty-Seven
  57. Forty-Eight
  58. Forty-Nine
  59. Fifty
  60. Fifty-One
  61. Fifty-Two
  62. PART FOUR
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Epilogue: Autumn 1706
  73. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  74. GLOSSARY
  75. LIST OF CHARACTERS
  76. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

It was only then that she noticed a pair of fishwives, their creels strapped to their backs, heads and shoulders, colourful neepyins tied tightly over their hair. Their sleeves were rolled despite the cold, and their skirts tucked up beneath their aprons, exposing dark boots as they wove their way among the men, never once getting in the way, and passed the women crouched on their crowded stoops, bent over lines, mending them for the following day. The fishwives moved swiftly towards West Harbour, turning on occasion to check the advance of the storm. Depositing their empty creels, they reached into the full ones awaiting their attention. Taking up positions before the assembled trestle tables, their knives flashed as they began to gut and then salt the catch, moving from table to basket to salt bucket and back again. It was a dance Sorcha could do in her sleep and had filled her dreams of late.

Recognising the women, she longed to cry out, draw their eyes towards her, only she’d also attract the attention of others whose welcome was less certain. Still, she longed to see her friends again. They were more than friends. They were akin to sisters. God knew, her only blood one was now lost to her.

Wasn’t that what the fishwives were? Sisters of the sea. ’Twas the sea and its siren call and the men to whom they cleaved that made sisters of all the fishwives, regardless of who their mothers were, where they hailed from, and whether their husbands, fathers or brothers were alive or dead.

Once a fishwife, always a fishwife. Sorcha was both blessed and cursed, doomed to live by the very element that had claimed those she loved.

Seeing Pittenweem again, seeing its people and breathing the very same air, brought everything back. She could flee to her estranged sister or the ends of the earth, try to put the past behind her, and it wouldn’t alter a thing. The sea wasn’t only in her blood. It defined her past and present.

But that did nothing to assuage the guilt that was only ever a breath away, infecting the bliss and pain of remembrance and reawakening senses she’d repressed for months.

Now she had another crime to add to her tally: her sister Dagny had cast her out. Before she could prevent it, Sorcha’s eyes welled and a sob escaped her throat.