It was all the incentive his team needed to reach farther forward, dip the oars in faster, and then throw themselves back again with all their effort. They would not be losing to Casek Wearne’s team. Not this time.

He didn’t dare look over to glimpse how close the other gig was. He didn’t have to. He knew if he did, if they were in view, he’d see what he least wanted to see: Casek Wearne’s smirking face.

From the shore came cries and pumping arms and an entire choir full of voices shouting for whichever team they’d pinned their hopes on this morning. A few of them always rooted for Oliver’s. A few others, always for Casek’s. Most, however, made a great show of sounding out the rowers’ conditions of a Wednesday morning and deciding on whom they’d wager a pint or a pudding that day.

Thanks to Enyon’s bloodshot eyes, most had bet against Team Tremayne. Which had been all it had taken to wake Enyon up—his old friend hated losing like Oliver hated the blight that had been feasting on Mamm-wynn’s prized roses.

The nearer they drew to shore, the less he could ignore the second gig. He could hear their oars slicing the water, off the beat of his own. He could see their prow when he leaned back. He could feel the tingle of competition in every nerve ending. Not today, lads. Not today.

With a last surge, he and his crossed the line, ahead by only two yards, amid the raucous cheering of half the crowd. Oliver made no attempt to quash his smile as he jumped out into the surf with his teammates and pulled the gig up onto the sand. They’d lost the last two races. High time they set things right.

“Good show today, lads. Good show.” Jowan Menna, esteemed tender of the famous Abbey Gardens, took hold too and helped pull the gig out of the water. His eyes caressed the lines of the boat with nearly as much love as he gave the blooms when counting them in the Gardens each January. Nearly.

Oliver stowed his oars. “You ought to take a turn again soon, Mr. Menna.”

The gardener chuckled. “I think I had better leave that to you young stallions.”

Enyon barked a laugh. “You can outrow all of us, and well you know it, old man.”

Though he demurred, there was no denying the gleam of satisfaction in Mr. Menna’s eyes. Though twice Oliver and Enyon’s age at fifty-two, he was as stalwart as the granite slabs of the island’s cairns. He turned his smile on Oliver. “I’ve pruning to get to so can’t linger long. You’ll drop in later?”