They sailed in silence for a few minutes, her mind whirling with all her questions. Nothing too terrible could have happened to Beth, surely. If it had, everyone would know it and they’d all be talking. And Casek Wearne would be the first to spout off about any failing of a Tremayne. No, her vanishing must have been quiet. But how? Why?

And why hadn’t Mrs. Pepper gone to Oliver for the next rent payment rather than simply reletting the room? That made precious little sense either.

“I’m in too deep, Benna. The waters are closing over my head.”

Her pulse skittered as the words from Beth’s last letter flitted through her head again. Mabena and Beth had gotten themselves trapped in one of the caves once as the tide came in. They’d been tagging along with the older boys, though they oughtn’t to have been. They’d been trying to stay out of sight and ended up too far into a crevice when the tide turned. They’d screamed and cried as the waters rushed into the crevice, certain they’d drown. Would have, had Oliver and Enyon and Cador not rescued them.

It wasn’t an image Beth would use lightly.

“Aren’t you going to ask?”

She started at Casek’s voice, blinked to refocus her gaze on him. “Ask what?”

The look he sent her probably did wonders for keeping squirming adolescent boys in line. “About Cador.”

The mere sound of his name in her ears—one that hadn’t filled them for over two years—brought her chin up and made her fingers dig into the splintering wood of her bench. “What could I possibly want to know about him?”

He chuckled. “All right, so you’re too proud to ask. But you no doubt want to know.”

No. She didn’t. Though she couldn’t unclench her jaw long enough to tell him so.

“He’s in London now. Says that’s where all the writers of any substance gather. His first book of poetry was published about six months ago.”

So he wasn’t here. No risk, at least, of running into the person she least wanted to see. Or catching a glimpse of him at a pub or in a gig or walking hand in hand with—

She turned her face away, wishing she could unknot her shoulders. Wished she could summon the polite words to her lips that would prove she didn’t care. I wish him well. Or maybe, Your mam must be proud of him. But when she opened her mouth, what came out instead was, “I hope the critics rip him to shreds.”

She never was any good with polite.

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