He let her lead his grandmother inside, but Oliver hung back for a moment more. Turned, scanned the coastline, the water, the smaller isles beyond. So beautiful, this place where the Lord had planted them. The loveliest spot in all the world. He could live out his life here and never regret a day of it.

His gaze snagged on a flutter of something white against the rocks of Samson Island. It looked too random to be a bird—probably just a bit of rubbish that had washed up on the rocks and that the wind was now playing with. Some local would boat over and snag it free, dispose of it properly. They took pride in their islands, did the Scillonians. But for a moment, the way it blew called to mind the stories Tas-gwyn Gibson had used to tell all the children huddled about his knees. No one on all the isles could weave a yarn like his mother’s father. Tales of pirates and ghosts and . . .

He frowned. What sounds had kept Enyon up last night? He wasn’t the kind to be spooked by a piece of snagged rubbish on the rocks . . . though granted, of all the lads on Tresco, he did have the richest imagination. They’d all played no end of jokes of him when they were younger, just to make him run in fright. But that was ages ago, when they were boys. He wasn’t so impressionable now.

Oliver pivoted back to the house, to the bath, to breakfast. He’d add another stop to his outing today, that was all. The Floyds. The Gardens. And then he’d find his best friend before he came home.

3

Home. Mabena Moon stared out the window of their rented house, still not able to believe she was back. Feet once again on the islands she swore they’d never touch until the last whisper of him was gone from them for good. Back once more where everyone would know her name. And her family. And her business. Back where every turn and every step carried a memory.

Her fingers knotted in the heather-blue yarn she’d scooped from Lady Elizabeth’s drawers the day before, even as her eyes stayed on the view of ocean and sky and islands. Mrs. Pepper hadn’t taken the time to recognize her yesterday—but other Scillonians wouldn’t be so oblivious. They wouldn’t all be fooled by the neatly pinned hair that she’d once let fly free in forever-tangled curls. They would look past the prim and proper clothing expected of a lady’s maid that she never would have donned before she left. A wild soul, that’s what her neighbors used to call her.