“I wanted to be back in time to help prepare dinner.” She smiled too, though it didn’t feel as effortless as Libby’s looked. “And there was much fussing, as anticipated.” A few too many tears in her mam’s eyes, too, and Tas had threatened not to allow her to leave again as he held her tight to his chest in an embrace as strong as a bear’s. She’d not struggled free either. Just closed her eyes and breathed him in—salt and sea and sawdust. For a moment, she’d actually entertained the notion of letting him convince her of coming home. Staying home. Going into his shop again to watch him craft the vessels that connected the islands. Helping Mam weave her silver and stones and the occasional gem into jewelry to sell to the tourists.

Running into Wearnes every time she turned a corner.

No, the memory of the hour she’d spent in Casek’s boat had been enough to remind her why she’d left to begin with.

“I came back with other holiday-goers staying here on St. Mary’s.” Not with the obnoxious headmaster of the National School. She turned, aiming a smile at where Oliver still stood. “You know what would make the trip faster? If the locals would invest in a few of those motorboats to run the tourists around.”

Oliver snorted his opinion of that. “Right. And we should all bring automobiles over from the mainland too and string electricity.”

“My next suggestion.”

He shook his head. But any levity the idea brought faded as his gaze caught on the basket in her hands. He met them halfway into the sitting room and took it from her, reaching with a frown to pull out a book. Specifically, a well-worn Bible. Mabena couldn’t readily recall if it was Beth’s or not, but Oliver clearly recognized it. He set the basket onto the low table before the sofa and stood there, flipping through it.

Libby put her microscope and slides onto the table, which left Mabena with little to do other than examine the strange collection. Some of the items made perfect sense for Beth to have brought here—books, paper, clothes. But others made her frown. A small concretion. A ragged edge of parchment. From the basket, a piece of driftwood that looked like it came from a board rather than a branch.

Items Beth had collected over the years as she explored the islands. Of sentimental value, yes . . . but why bring them here just for the summer?

Oliver set the Bible down, holding up in its place a piece of paper. Perhaps it had been tucked into the pages. He flipped it over to check the back, revealing the front to her. Oliver, written on it in Beth’s hand.