She was too late. The bird leant towards him, opening its bill aggressively and spewing, in fast succession, several emissions of a foul-smelling oil. Sholto gave a loud yell as he was caught in the face and neck, his hands coming away from the rock as he instinctively recoiled. The rope snapped taut as he spun, his hands smearing the oil that had momentarily blinded him.

Without thinking, Effie gave a small sideways jump and reached over, grabbing the rope to stop him from colliding with the jagged cliff, but she misjudged his weight and was pulled off the cliffs too, spinning and becoming the buffer herself. She gasped as the rough rocks scraped her back. She could feel the rope humming with tension but her foot managed to find a crevice upon which to place her weight, steadying her and taking some of the force.

‘Effie!’ Sholto shouted, reaching out and managing to grab onto a jutting rock with one hand, holding the rope with the other, but he was unable to see as the oil ran into his eyes. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Everything’s fine,’ she called back, managing to balance on both feet now. ‘Just try to get yourself on the rock.’

Blind, his feet reached for the cliff wall. She scaled down a few feet, grabbing one of his legs and helping guide his foot to a small crevice. His other foot found purchase too and she climbed back up to him again as she saw the rope slacken as he bore his own weight.

‘You hold on there. I’ll try to get the oil away from your eyes,’ she said, straining to reach him. She wiped the palms of her hand over his face but there was so much of it and nothing with which to blot her hands – no grass, no leaves, only her own clothes. ‘It’s not toxic, just . . . oily,’ she said, standing on the ledge and balancing with just one hand on the rocks, a sudden strong gust of wind blowing her hair into her face and momentarily blinding her too.

‘It appears attack really is the best form of defence,’ he said, standing patiently as she ran her free hand time and again over his face, the contours quickly becoming familiar.

‘Aye. Although they’re not actually trying to blind you. The point of the oil is to coat the feathers of the bigger seabirds that are their predators. It makes their feathers lose their waterproofing and then the birds, needing to rest at sea, eventually drown.’

‘My God, what a strategy,’ he murmured as her hand repeatedly swept over his face, fingers following the lines of his brow and cheekbone. ‘. . . Merciless, too. It’s a long slow death . . . for a predator just . . . wanting his lunch.’ His speech had slowed.