There would be a simple, innocent explanation—there always was. And no doubt Mabena would help her determine what said explanation was later, when Libby showed her. But in the meantime, she might as well enjoy the oddity.

The growling of her stomach reminded her that the sun was directly overhead and there were luncheon fixings in the icebox in the cottage. Since she’d no doubt managed to get a sunburn on her nose already, despite her straw hat, she’d be wise to obey her stomach and go inside. At least for a while.

Perhaps tomorrow she’d bring a picnic lunch with her, like some of the other families along the beach had done. For now, she hefted the lead, grunting a bit at its weight. It had to be nearly twenty pounds.

Ten minutes later she was sitting at the little table in the cottage, her lunch on a plate before her. Never had she been gladder that she regularly horrified her sister by slipping down to the manor’s kitchen and helping the cook. When she was little, the sole appeal had been pilfering snacks. But it was rather handy now to know how to take care of herself. Heaven knew if Edith ever found herself alone in a kitchen, she would just stare at the icebox, waiting for it to deliver food on a silver platter.

No, that wasn’t fair. Edith would never allow herself to be alone in a kitchen to begin with.

She’d tucked away half of her sandwich, her nature journal open on the table before her so she could review her morning’s work, when a knock on the door drew her attention up.

It couldn’t be Mabena back already, not if she’d gone over to Tresco. Which meant Mrs. Pepper, probably, or her daughter. Perhaps a temporary neighbor.

She wiped her hands on a napkin—refraining from licking her fingers as a silent nod to Invisible Edith—and moved to the door. When she opened it, however, she didn’t find a woman, as she’d expected. She found a man, this one dressed in the rougher garb of a fisherman.

And he looked her over as if she were the one who didn’t belong in her doorway, his brows knit. “Elizabeth?”

Her brows no doubt mirrored his. “Yes. And you are?”

He started at the question, frown deepening. “Here.” Somehow she didn’t think that was his answer to her question—she’d never heard of Here as a surname, though what did she know? Perhaps it was Cornish. But he held out an innocuous-looking white rectangle, marking the word as command instead of answer.

An envelope, that was all. With Elizabeth scrawled on the front.