Libby smiled too. There was something about how these islanders addressed her that she couldn’t mind at all. Nothing changed in their gazes when they heard the title, nor in their manner as they nodded a greeting to her the same as they did to everyone else. The Moons, for example, had welcomed her into their home as if she were just one more daughter—they had two besides Mabena, and two sons as well—and had her laughing and relaxed within minutes. When they made her promise a few minutes ago that she’d consider their home her own whenever she came over to visit the Gardens, she’d had no qualms at all about agreeing.

This gent grinned at her as he shook his head. “Not yet, though I’ve heard she was about.” He executed a short bow, more bounce than grace. “Fitzwilliam Gibson, at your service, my lady. You may call me Tas-gwyn Gibson, if you like. Most of the youngsters do.”

Mabena poked him in the side playfully. “He’s the island storyteller. Weaves a yarn that could have even you believing in ghosts and fairies, my lady.”

Doubtful. But she wasn’t above such an experiment, especially when it was an entertaining one. “Perhaps next time we come.” Much as she wanted to spend another full day in the Gardens, they’d decided to sail back to St. Mary’s by noon. According to the ache in Mr. Moon’s big toe, they’d have a bit of a squall move in this afternoon, and they wanted to get home beforehand.

Apparently nothing could tell the weather quite like Jeremiah Moon’s once-broken toe. Knowing that joints—and poorly healed fractures—did indeed respond to air pressure as accurately as a barometer sometimes, she’d seen no reason to argue with the claim.

Mr. Gibson grinned. “I’ll prepare the best tale you’ve ever heard. Perhaps about the pirate admiral who once made his home in the very spot I now call my own.”

“Allegedly.” Mabena shot him a mock-stern look.

“No alleging about it! Why, did I not hear his ghost rattling about just a week ago?”

“I daresay you didn’t. The wind, perhaps. Or rats.”

“Bah.” He poked her back. “You’ve no imagination, Benna girl. I’m telling you, it’s Mucknell himself, his soul tied to the treasure he probably buried under my very floorboards.”

Libby smiled at the banter. And at the allure of pirate treasure—something the Scillies no doubt had scads of stories about, as many buccaneers and smugglers had used the islands as their base over the centuries.

Mr. Gibson lifted a hand to another neighbor emerging from the morning fog. “Ho, Hank! Have you seen the lads yet? Who should get my wager this morning?”

Libby leaned a bit closer to Mabena. “Do they really wager on the races, when the vicar is one of the rowers?”