‘Is that what they’re saying?’ The silky edge to his voice had gone. ‘I’ve talked to Noah over and again,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t believe me. He’s stuck in the old ways and doesn’t trust me unless I say exactly the same as Aaron. It’s like a test. Every time.’

‘Aaron doesn’t want the balance of power tipped.’

‘He’s going to have to let them come into the modern world. Does he think he can keep them in some sort of ancestor museum?’

‘Of course not. But if you bring lamps and radios and he doesn’t, it stirs things up. They want a dinghy. He can’t afford that.’

‘That’s why they should grow vanilla.’ His voice was silken again. He looked at Martha and smiled. ‘It’s compact. It’s high yield, they can grow it in the gardens. It grows well here.’ And then, a note of sadness, everything amplified out there on the water, he said, more to himself than to her, ‘Does Aaron think I want trouble down here?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Martha said. ‘I spoke out of turn.’

‘Maski.’ Never mind. But he did mind. Martha saw it on his face; she saw it in the hunch of his shoulders, the darkening of his eyes.

They’d turned into the next fjord, no longer gliding towards the rising sun, instead facing the cliffs. They passed a small waterfall with a garden above it, gliding on until Jacob brought the canoe in under the cliff, where a high ledge jutted out above and vines hung down like a veil.

‘Shall we swim?’ he said, throwing a rope to a low branch of a tree. He let himself over the edge of the canoe, lithe, practised, the water barely making a splash. Martha plopped over after him.

Beneath the line of the water, the reef curved out in a series of ledges dropping deep below them. Jacob dived down, scattering small fish that darted out of his way and reassembled in their coloured squadrons to continue along the reef. On the surface, Martha held her breath, face in the water, watching as he swam along the edge of the reef, fluid as a sea creature. He picked up a brilliant blue starfish and rose up to let her touch its rough, rubbery arms. He grinned, pushed his hair away from his face, breathed deep and dived down again, returning the creature to its ledge. She knew that he knew how attractive she found him, and when he broke through the surface, she turned from him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

The golden light had gone. A canoe full of small children on their way to school paddled up; they were standing, ready to come in and swim with Jacob. ‘School,’ he said, in a voice that might have been Aaron’s. ‘You have much to learn. You go to school now,’ and they paddled slowly away, into the sun, a silhouette of reluctance.

‘We must go too,’ Jacob said, heaving himself up into the canoe and leaning over to help Martha. He grasped her under the arm, and hauled her in. ‘The dinghy’s coming at eight.’