He shines the smile around the circle and brings his bottle of wine out to show them. There are murmurings. One or two of the women appraise him openly, their eyes roaming slowly up and down his body, their hands rising to cover their mouths. He can tell they are whispering to each other. His attention drifts back to her, to the young woman he has connected with, but she’s made eye contact with the big woman, something passing between them. Then, the big woman glances over at him, and her face has changed. She doesn’t smile, but the accusation is gone. She returns her eyes to the young woman, and he thinks—no, he’s sure, though it’s almost imperceptible—that she nods. Then, she sits down, and the drumming starts up again. The scene resumes as before, the dancers beginning to move to the beat. Gregor sits cross-legged on the sand and opens his screw-top bottle.

From the ocean the seal calls once more, and the sound is terrible.

By the time she makes her way over to him, as he knows that she will, he is almost enjoying the rhythms, letting the drumming and the movement lull him as he waits for her. When she sits down at his side and takes the bottle from his hand, he notices a young man on the other side of the fire get up and walk away. This young man throws one last glance at them before he disappears into the shadows. Gregor thinks he detects bitterness in the other man’s expression.

“Who’s that guy?” says Gregor.

She stares after the young man for a moment, then draws her eyes away. “You English?”

Up close, he is struck by her facial features, her wide-set eyes and the high cheekbones. She has a strong nose and full lips. He can’t tell, in this light, the exact color of her eyes nor the shade of her hair, other than that both are dark, and the hair hasn’t been brushed for a long time. He expected, when she was this close, that he would smell the tang of unwashed body that you often get with these hippie types, but he can detect only a faint hint of seawater, salt, and fresh fish. The smell of her makes his stomach rumble and his mouth water, though he is not hungry. Still, he wants to taste her.

“I’m English, yes. I’m from the north.”

She jerks her head sideways to look at him. “How north?”

“Yorkshire.”

“Pfft,” she says, “that is not north. We’re from the north. From the islands.”

He laughs. “You win then, I guess. What are you doing here?”

“It’s tradition. On the summer solstice we party on the beach. Every year. Different place each time.”

“Long way to travel, though, isn’t it? All the way to Cleethorpes?”

“We always travel. That is also tradition.”