Maybe Enyon would be here—it was Wednesday, after all. He could well have come over with a fresh supply of painted knickknacks and framed photographs for the tourist shop. Yes, Enyon was likely, and she wouldn’t object to riding home with him. Or with Matty, if it came down to it. Matty went between the islands nearly every day in the summer. Or there’d be a lad or two—too old for school and home already from their morning of fishing—come to get the latest supplies from the ferry. That could be her best option, as the adolescents who clamored for those tasks might not look closely enough to realize they knew her.

She reached the quay, her gaze drifting over her options. Any of the ones she’d named would do, so long as they could take her over now and not make her wait hours on end. She’d just find someone ready to shove off, like whoever was in the little blue sloop far to the right. She picked her way over the smooth rocks and sand, trying to identify the bloke merely by the backside he was presenting her as he leaned over, into his boat, to stow something.

Her lips turned up. A game she and Beth had played a time or two when they were but giggling girls themselves. Though from this distance, all she could tell was that whoever-he-was was a man full-grown, not a slip of a lad yet to come into his breadth. He wore rather standard island garb, though neat enough to make her think he wasn’t a fisherman. Trousers in brown, a crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled up past the elbow—revealing well-muscled forearms, at that—a knitted waistcoat in tan, and a flat cap on his head that wouldn’t be stolen by the first stout breeze. Could be any number of men.

But it wasn’t, she saw as he straightened and turned, once she was too near to find a hiding place. It was, blast her luck, a Wearne.

There was nowhere to hide, unless she wanted to dive into the surf and take shelter behind a boat. Her only option was to pivot on her heel, which she promptly did. Running would only gain his attention—so she would just act like any other half-lost tourist and meander about for a few minutes, until he was on his way. He’d never know her from behind, not with her hair combed flat, pinned neatly, and covered with the hat. Not with this prim gown of dark grey encasing every inch of her. Not with—

“Benna?” A laugh and pounding feet over the rocks and sand. “Mabena Moon!”