“All right.” But first she turned to find Mrs. Gillis with her gaze. “Do you need anything else, ma’am?”

Mrs. Gillis smiled and shooed her away. “Get on with you, my lady. And thank you for helping.”

“My pleasure, I assure you.” It had earned her plentiful smiles and afforded her the chance to slip her contribution into the jar.

Mabena and Mamm-wynn led her toward a cluster of rocks the locals were perched on like so many terns, all listening with half-smiles and rapt eyes to Mr. Gibson, who stood before them, waving his arms in a way that made her hope the mug he held was nearly empty.

“There was no question about it,” he boomed. “It was the pirate prince himself!”

“Pirate prince?” she whispered.

Mamm-wynn patted her arm. “Prince Rupert of the Rhine,” she murmured back. “One of the Scillies’s most famous temporary residents—during the Civil War and Cromwellian era. Though a nephew of the king, he served under Admiral Mucknell himself and was part of the pirate fleet.”

A pirate fleet? She didn’t recall learning about that in her lessons of the Civil War and the Parliamentarian era—that brief span when England’s king had been exiled and the Roundheads were in control of the government. But then, history had never been her best subject.

Not that Mr. Gibson seemed to be relying too much on an understanding of Scillonian history—unless Prince Rupert the Pirate really still walked the shores as a skeleton in the light of a full moon. She shivered and tugged her shawl closer. Skeletons couldn’t do much walking without muscles and tendons and flesh to give them power, but that knowledge did little to detract from the story.

She was beginning to see Oliver Tremayne’s point about a simple truth not always being as compelling as an interesting fabrication.

“There they come!” The shout came from closer to the waterline, where a lad in knee breeches had been keeping watch.

Mr. Gibson broke off and spun about. “Who’s in the lead, Yorrick?”

“Wearne—no, wait! The Tremayne team’s overtaking them!”

Mr. Gibson led the charge back into the sand, shouting, “Come on, lads! I’ve a fruit pie riding on your win! Put your back into it!”

Libby wandered onto the beach with Mabena and Mamm-wynn, watching the two crafts skim their way back over the waves. They had to be remarkably evenly matched, because from one stroke to the next she couldn’t be quite sure who was in the lead, or who might be so in the next second. All the islanders were on their feet now, all voices cheering either for Wearne or Tremayne. Even Mabena was shouting the names of each rower on Team Tremayne.