Their gazes locked again and she had it again – that sensation of falling, far scarier than anything she’d ever known on a rope; a tension seemed to exist between them that paid no heed to barriers the factor had warned must keep them apart. She couldn’t seem to ignore it. Avoiding his eye didn’t work, and the way he was looking at her now, it felt so private. Was he going to kiss her? Gravity seemed to be pushing them towards one another. Or was it fate? Or just the wind?

. . . I shall need to find him later and discuss the rent arrears . . . The factor’s words echoed through her mind, pressing for her attention. You wouldn’t want to embarrass Sir John, would you? She couldn’t risk angering him further than she already had.

‘We should go,’ she said briskly, pulling back and putting a distance between them.

‘Effie—’

‘Will your father want an egg?’

It was an abrupt switch back to the mundane, the territory they must publicly occupy. It wasn’t even a question she wanted to ask; like the fork-tailed petrels, a mating pair of puffins only laid one egg per season. But she felt an obligation to provide some sort of trophy for the experience, if she was to earn her two shillings.

But Sholto shook his head, seeing how she withdrew. ‘He has some already. It’s the snaring he’s interested in today.’

‘Ah. Well, then, we’ll climb back up and explain to him what we saw.’ And before he could stop her, she scrambled back up at a dizzying speed, leaving him watching after her.

To be fair, he was a fine climber himself. He was tall and strong, with an instinct for the right handholds in the rocks as he pulled himself up. She had moved quickly, even by her standards, but Sholto climbed over the ledge less than twenty seconds after her.

‘What happened? Weren’t there any?’ the earl asked them with evident disappointment, seeing them return empty-handed. Poppit ran around her legs excitedly, pleased to have her mistress back.

‘It wasn’t that, sir,’ Effie faltered as she watched Sholto untie the rope around his torso; his gaze was fixed determinedly downwards. She looked back at his father. ‘It was just that I . . . observed a behaviour which I don’t think has been recorded before – at least, not as far as I’m aware.’

‘What sort of behaviour?’

‘The puffin used a stick to scratch its own back. It used the stick as a tool.’

The earl looked gratifyingly surprised. ‘A tool?’

‘Aye, sir. It’s not a behaviour associated with sea birds.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I hope you understand it didn’t feel right in this instance to kill the bird, just for the sake of a demonstration as to how to kill the bird.’

‘I do. Miss Gillies, you have the astute instincts of a scholar.’

‘Of a what?’