A few simple sentences, a task to do—strange how it made her feel warmer.

Fifteen minutes later, all the cups had been filled, distributed, and some refilled, and the chill air had replaced the warmth of acceptance again, though it couldn’t wipe the smile from her lips. She claimed a cup for herself and wrapped grateful fingers around it.

Something soft blanketed her shoulders, supplying a few degrees of relief. She looked first at the wool—purple, soft as a cloud, skillfully knitted—and then to the small, gnarled hands still positioning it over her arms for her. “Mamm-wynn! I didn’t expect to see you out here this morning.”

She looked from the old woman’s smiling face to the space over her head—had she sneaked away again?

But a frazzled-looking Mrs. Dawe was a few steps behind, looking none too at home on the beach, a shawl of her own wrapped tightly around her.

Mrs. Tremayne chuckled. “I knew you’d be chilly, dearest. You never do remember a wrap.”

True—but how did the lady know it? And how had she even known she’d be down here? Perhaps she’d spotted her from her house or garden as she and Mabena had walked by. “Well. Thank you.” Holding her steaming tea in one hand, she ran the other over the lacework. “It’s beautiful. Did you make it?”

“For you. It’s your best color, I’d say.” With a critical eye, she reached out once more to straighten it on Libby’s shoulders. “Not like our Beth—she does better in blues and greens. But then, those spark color in her eyes, which are the loveliest grey. Yours, now—I have a string of amber beads just that color.”

Libby didn’t quite know what to say. She’d always liked purples—but the lady couldn’t have made a shawl for her before they met, and she certainly didn’t whip it up since yesterday afternoon.

Perhaps Mabena read her mind. She appeared before them, eyes wide and admiring. “Mrs. Tremayne! Another of your masterpieces! I’d thought you’d given them all away already.”

Mamm-wynn chuckled. “I’ve a few stashed away yet, just waiting for their rightful recipients to come along.” She flexed a hand with a sigh. “I certainly can’t make them at the rate I used to do. I’ll be lucky to finish my current one before autumn comes.”

Ah. That made more sense. But she couldn’t mean for Libby to keep such a work of art, could she?

Mabena must have thought so, given the weighty smile she directed to Libby. “Now you’ll always have something to remember your first gig race by, my lady.”

Mrs. Tremayne tucked her arm around Libby’s and motioned toward Mr. Gibson. “Fitz is just getting warmed up, I see. Let’s go and listen, dearest.”