“Of course. I would appreciate some time in the garden while I compose my sermon.” Sometimes it was still odd to realize everyone had accepted him in place of his uncle behind the pulpit of St. Nicholas’s—that he was their official vicar instead of just a lad who always listened to their woes.

Enyon slammed into his shoulder with a victory whoop, nearly knocking him back into the surf.

And Casek Wearne sneered at him. “Luck. Nothing but luck. If that one wave hadn’t—”

“Stow it, Caz.” Matthew Hart nudged Casek out of the way—one of the only fellows on the islands big enough to successfully pull that off. But then, the two burly men were cousins. “They beat us fair and square. Today.” He winked over in the general direction of Oliver and his team. “But we’ll take them next week.”

“Especially if Enyon shows up so ragged again.” Enyon’s mother frowned at him, even as her younger son—on Team Wearne—handed her his discarded cap to hold while he wrestled his shirt over his sweaty arms. “Were you up all night carousing, Enny? It isn’t like you.”

It wasn’t, at that. Oliver frowned at his friend too, awaiting his answer. Usually nothing could interfere with Enyon’s sleep. He wasn’t one to stay out too late at the pub, and the allure of a good book never fazed him a bit, though that was something that had kept Oliver up too late a time or two . . . hundred.

Enyon ran his fingers through his black hair, smoothing the damp locks away from his forehead, and yawned. “Of course not. It was—” He stopped, cutting a glance at Oliver.

Why at him? His frown dug in deeper, even as his hands accepted by rote the mug of piping hot tea someone passed him. Old Mrs. Gillis always had it ready for the racers when they got back. “What?”

“It’s nothing. Probably. Just . . .” Enyon shrugged and cast his glance out at sea. “I couldn’t sleep. Kept hearing . . . things. Not sure what, but it was coming from the direction of Piper’s Hole. Reminded me of those old ghost stories.” Though he laughed, it was rusty. And the gaze he sent back to Oliver said he knew very well how that sounded. “You probably think I’m mad.”

Casek snorted a laugh. “Well, if anyone knows mad, it’s him.”

Oliver’s muscles tightened across his shoulders, as did his fingers around his mug. It had been seven long years since he’d last plowed his fist into Casek Wearne’s nose. He recited “The vicar oughtn’t to get in tussles” so often it had become a silent mantra marching through his mind whenever he was near him. But if Casek kept insulting Mamm-wynn, wisdom may yet lose the battle. “Watch yourself, Wearne.”